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He slept with the note under his pillow that night and dreamed of a place where the buildings were gay with scrolled ironwork and the river flowed darkly past and soft laughter went on all night； every night。 He roamed the streets and the alleyways and courtyards； a sweet； rotten； coppery taste on his tongue。
The next day he put the note back in the drawer in case Mother ever looked there； but when he was alone in the house he took it out and read it again and again； holding the paper to his face； pressing it against his mouth； trying to catch the scent of the place it had e from。 For that was where he had been born。 He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the hand that had shaped those spindling black words； for that hand belonged to someone who knew him； who had held him。 In the veins of that hand； his blood might flow。
And he ceased to be Jason。 He became Nothing； for that was what the note named him。 He still answered to Jason； but the name was like an echo of a half…forgotten life。 I am Nothing his mind whispered。 I am Nothing。 He liked the name。 It did not make him feel worthless； on the contrary； he began to think of himself as a blank slate upon which anything could be written。 The words he inscribed on his soul were up to him。
He grew taller； and some of the flesh of childhood melted from his bones。 He was truly Nothing now； he knew it。 When in junior high school he finally made friends…not friends who could share his soul； but friends who understood a little better than anyone else ever had； other skinny pale kids； hippie and punk kids； kids in black T…shirts and leather jackets and smudgy makeup shoplifted from the drugstore at the mall…he told them to call him by that name。
The house was cold tonight。 His room was the coldest of all。 He shivered again； then threw off the quilt and pulled on gray sweatpants and an old black sweater with holes at the elbows。 The Tom Waits album had finished playing and turned itself off。 The hiss of the empty speakers filled the room； too loud here in the dark。
Nothing rummaged through his backpack and found the cassette Julie had given him。 It came from far away down south； and only five hundred copies of it had been printed…it was numbered on the liner； 217 of 500。 But somehow one copy had ended up in a record store in Silver Spring； a nearby town； where Julie had picked it up。
He put it on now。 The singer's voice wove in and out of the jangly guitar line； now losing itself in the music； now as strong and golden…green as some Appalachian summer mountain stream。
Does your road go no place？
Does it go someplace where you can't see？
If you follow it anyway
It just might lead you here to me 。 。 。
Nothing sat on the edge of the bed and hummed the words under his breath； his head tilted back； his eyes searching the stars and planets on the ceiling。 He thought of Julie taking the tape from her purse and handing it to him； he thought of Laine； sucking him off with innocent abandon。
Somewhere in the music； perhaps outside the window in the cold night； somewhere above the melody and under the moon； those lonely little ghosts started whispering to him again： You've got to get out of here。 You've got to find flour place； your family； before you rot and die。
〃All right；〃 he said after listening for a while。 〃All right。〃 All at once he knew he had to leave。 It was inevitable； and he wondered what he had been waiting for。 He would go south； looking for what he wanted； hopefully knowing it when he found it。 Maybe he would even hook up with the musicians from Lost Souls？ The name of their town was fascinating： he pictured it as a mysterious southern crossroads； a hamlet where the ordinary became exotic。 He had found it on a map of North Carolina； a tiny dot between the mountains and the sea； a town whose streets Nothing pictured as dusty and strange； whose shops were crammed with dark secondhand treasures； whose graveyards were haunted； whose moon rose full and honeyed behind the lacework of towering pines。
He said the name to himself and shivered： Missing Mile。
Nothing crossed his dark room and let himself into the hall。 His parents were out somewhere…a consciousness…raising group； a holistic health class； an expensive dinner with other people like themselves。 Their bedroom door was ajar； and the room within smelled of perfumed soap and after…shave。 The odors struck him as stinging and chemical。 They said his room smelled bad。
His fingers searched the bottom of the dresser drawer； familiar by now； and found the note at once。 Its presence in his hand was forting； its ink faded； its edges soft and ragged from all the times he had held it over the past three years。 He slipped it into his pocket。 He considered the collection of crystals on top of the dresser； then picked up the one he liked best； a piece of rose quartz。 He curled his hand around it。 No； he decided； it was too tainted with Mother's touch； with her antimagic。 After a few minutes of hunting he found Mother's cache of emergency money in her jewelry box and took that instead。 A hundred dollars。 It wouldn't last until he got where he was going； but it would help。 After that …Well； after that I'll find something else； he told himself。
Next he used the phone。 Jack wasn't home； but Nothing called around and found him at Skittle's； the pizza shop downtown where his friends hung out at night。 〃Can you drive me to Columbia？〃 he asked。
〃Gas isn't free； dude。〃 Jack was eighteen； had a fake ID that got him served at the liquor store； and considered himself the lord of the local scene。
〃I can pay you。 I have to catch a bus。 I'm getting the hell out of here。〃
〃Folks giving you too much shit； huh？〃 Jack didn't wait for an answer。 〃Okay； I can take you tonight。 Five bucks for the gas if you got it。 Meet me here at midnight。〃
How far could you ride a Greyhound for ninety…five dollars？ Far enough to start with。 〃Thanks； Jack；〃 ha said。 〃See you at midnight。〃
〃Hey； Laine wants to talk to you；〃 Jack said； but Nothing was already hanging up。
Back in his room he huddled under the quilt。 It was only nine o'clock； he could sleep for a couple of hours before walking into town to meet Jack and the others。 But his mind would not shut down。 His eyes would not stay closed。 Even the whiskey didn't help； he realized he was maddeningly sober。
He rolled over； hugged himself； then felt under his mattress and pulled out a single…edged razor blade。 Gently； lovingly； he pulled the edge across his wrist。 A thin line of crimson welled up； beading and running； bright against the pale tracery of old scars。 Nothing lay under his charred quilt in his own safe room for the last time； and he sucked at his own blood because that was what forted him； what he had always done when he grew too lonely； too hungry for something he did not know。 He lay there with his mouth tight against his wrist； praying to the juju in his room： e with me。 Stay with me on the road until I find what I'm looking for； because now I'm going to be more alone than ever。
At last； when his lips were stained red and a thin pink line of blood and spit trickled from the corner of