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Explosion
!
Concussion
!
Illumination
!
Delight
!
You
laugh
,
you
dance
around
,
you
shout
.
But
,
not
long
after
,
the
sun
goes
out
.
Snow
falls
,
but
no
one
sees
it
,
on
an
August
noon
.
At
the
cowboy
matinee
last
Saturday
a
man
had
dropped
down
dead
on
the
white
-
hot
screen
.
Douglas
had
cried
out
.
For
years
he
had
seen
billions
of
cowboys
shot
,
hung
,
burned
,
destroyed
.
But
now
,
this
one
particular
man
.
.
.
He
’
ll
never
walk
,
run
,
sit
,
laugh
,
cry
,
won
’
t
do
anything
ever
,
thought
Douglas
.
Now
he
’
s
turning
cold
.
Douglas
’
s
teeth
chattered
,
his
heart
pumped
sludge
in
his
chest
.
He
shut
his
eyes
and
let
the
convulsion
shake
him
.
He
had
to
get
away
from
these
other
boys
because
they
weren
’
t
thinking
about
death
,
they
just
laughed
and
yelled
at
the
dead
man
as
if
he
still
lived
.
Douglas
and
the
dead
man
were
on
a
boat
pulling
away
,
with
all
the
others
left
behind
on
the
bright
shore
,
running
,
jumping
,
hilarious
with
motion
,
not
knowing
that
the
boat
,
the
dead
man
and
Douglas
were
going
,
going
,
and
now
gone
into
darkness
.
Weeping
,
Douglas
ran
to
the
lemon
-
smelling
men
’
s
room
where
,
sick
,
it
seemed
a
fire
hydrant
churned
three
times
from
his
throat
.
And
waiting
for
the
sickness
to
pass
he
thought
:
All
the
people
I
know
who
died
this
summer
!
Colonel
Freeleigh
,
dead
!
I
didn
’
t
know
it
before
;
why
?
Great
-
grandma
,
dead
,
too
.
Really
-
truly
.
Not
only
that
but
.
.
.
He
paused
.
Me
!
No
,
they
can
’
t
kill
me
!
Yes
,
said
a
voice
,
yes
,
any
time
they
want
to
they
can
,
no
matter
how
you
kick
or
scream
,
they
just
put
a
big
hand
over
you
and
you
’
re
still
.
.
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
die
!
Douglas
screamed
,
without
a
sound
.
You
’
ll
have
to
anyway
,
said
the
voice
,
you
’
ll
have
to
anyway
.
.
.
The
sunlight
outside
the
theater
blazed
down
upon
unreal
street
,
unreal
buildings
,
and
people
moving
slowly
,
as
if
under
a
bright
and
heavy
ocean
of
pure
burning
gas
and
him
thinking
that
now
,
now
at
last
he
must
go
home
and
finish
out
the
final
line
in
his
nickel
tablet
:
SOME
DAY
,
I
,
DOUGLAS
SPAULDING
,
MUST
DIE
.
.
.
It
had
taken
him
ten
minutes
to
get
up
enough
courage
to
cross
the
street
,
his
heart
slowing
,
and
there
was
the
arcade
and
he
saw
the
strange
wax
witch
back
where
she
had
always
hidden
in
cool
dusty
shadow
with
the
Fates
and
Furies
tucked
under
her
fingernails
.
A
car
passing
flashed
an
explosion
of
light
through
the
arcade
,
jumping
the
shadows
,
making
it
seem
that
the
wax
woman
nodded
swiftly
for
him
to
enter
.
And
he
had
gone
in
at
the
witch
’
s
summoning
and
come
forth
five
minutes
later
,
certain
of
survival
.
Now
,
he
must
show
Tom
.
.
.
