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ger in charge。 The guy had filled out the form wrong when making an order； and they received a huge shipment of Ray Stevens albums。 When he got back； Terry started playing the records all the time as punishment。 Twenty times a day or more they were treated to the annoying country singer performing classic numbers like 〃The Mississippi Squirrel Revival〃 or 〃Everything Is Beautiful （In Its Own Way）。〃
He told Ann these things and made her laugh a little。 He didn't tell her how much Steve was drinking； or that he had started robbing Coke machines again。 She didn't ask how Steve was either。 But when he hugged her goodbye on the porch and rode his bike away； he thought she looked a little happier； a little less pale and drawn。 Not much； but a little。
A little worm of worry for her had already begun to gnaw in Ghost's heart。 He didn't count it as a premonition。 Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between them and his ordinary feelings。 But any friend of Ann's would be worried about her； seeing how she was now。 If the worm kept gnawing； he would pay more attention to it。
He pointed his bike toward home。 By the time he got there； the ugliest image he had picked up from Ann…Steve on top of her； shoving her down into the mattress…had almost faded from his mind。
Chapter 13
Nothing fingered the colored glass bubbles in the partition between diner booths of torn maroon vinyl。 The Greyhound had taken him down through Maryland and northern Virginia suburbs； down along anonymous highways flanked by chemical processing plants； cigarette mills； housing developments and the dull blue and green aluminum walls meant to protect them from the noise and smell of the highway。
The scenery was boring and oppressive at first。 It made Nothing wonder whether be might be travelling deeper and deeper into the dead world populated by his parents and teachers and the sad； desperate friends he had left behind。 Surely these couldn't be the roads that led to home。
But now； deep in Virginia； the roadsides were lush and green； even in the middle of September。 He was sitting in a truck…stop diner somewhere south of nowhere； watching the afternoon light fade； staring at the ripped vinyl and the greasy tables and the flashy jukebox that didn't have the decency to play green and mournful country music； but played the pop top twenty over and over by the hour。 Nothing held his backpack close to him。 The place reeked of hamburger grease and cardboard…flavored coffee。 But the colored glass bubbles in the divider were as beautiful as anything back home in his room。 He wished he could somehow steal just one of them。 By this time he wished he could have put his whole room in his backpack and carried it away with him。
He glanced through the window at the bus station across the parking lot； lit a Lucky； tapped it； and rubbed ash absently into the thin torn cloth of his jeans。 The jeans were soft and forting； decorated with black ballpoint swirls； a chain of safety pins； artistic rips。 His hightop sneakers chafed each other； tapped together impatiently； wanting to get back out on the road。 There was a hole in one sneaker； over his little toe。
He found the Lost Souls？ cassette in the pocket of his raincoat； opened the plastic case； and took out the paper liner。 The liner was a grainy photocopy； a picture of an old gravestone dappled with shadow and sunlight； surrounded by pine needles and twining kudzu vines。 Across the gravestone the words LOST SOULS？ were printed in rainbow crayon。 All five hundred copies were supposed to have been lettered by the band。 He pictured the guitarist； hunched tall and awkward on the floor； pressing down too hard with the crayons and breaking them； cussing and turning the whole project over to the singer。 The singer was surely in charge of the color yellow and with his fingers would have touched this paper； would have swirled in the question mark that kept the name from being stupid。
Nothing looked at the other side of the paper liner； at the photo of the two musicians。 Steve Finn； sitting with his guitar between his knees； grinning with a certain easy cynicism； his messy dark hair shoved behind his ears and a can of Budweiser not quite concealed behind the pointy toe of his left boot。 And the other one； the one who slid his eyes away from the camera； whose knobby wrists lay crossed in his lap。 Whose patchwork clothes were too big and whose hair fell from under his straw hat as pale as tangled rain； half…hiding his face； obscuring him。
All Nothing knew about the duo came from this picture and the cryptic liner notes （〃I like to drink my watercolor water〃）； those things and the long train whistle music and the spooky； wistful words of the songs。 But he imagined personalities for them； felt as if he knew them。 Lost Souls？ belonged to the crowd of spirits inside his head； the ones he used to wish he was squeezed against on Saturday nights when Jack's car went too fast around a curve and the others screamed for another hardcore tape。 Those； his old friends…with their leather jackets and their skull bongs； their Marlboro hard packs and their thwarted dreams…those were teenagers。 Nothing knew he was either a child or an ancient soul； he had never been sure which。
He tugged at the drop of onyx and the tiny silver razor blade that dangled from his earlobe。 He fingered a ballpoint pen in his pocket。 Then he unzipped his backpack； dug for his notebook； and pulled a postcard from between the scribbled； singed； softly ragged pages。 It was the postcard he had written while drinking his parents' whiskey； but he had not yet mailed it。 The gold leaf caught the light as he laid the card on the table。
GHOST； he had addressed it； c/o LOST SOULS？ 14 BURNT CHURCH ROAD； MISSING MILE； NORTH CAROLINA。 He wrote no zip code…they hadn't included one on the tape case。 Maybe Missing Mile was too small to have a zip code。 But； thank whatever gods watched over him； he had remembered to put a stamp on it。 He could hardly afford to buy one now。
He finished his cigarette； lit another； tried to make out the time through the layer of grease on the wall clock； glanced over at the bus station again。 But it was no good。 He couldn't get back on a bus even if he wanted to。 The money from his mother's jewelry box had run out two towns ago。 His stomach hurt； and he had thought of spending his one remaining dollar on a burger or some pancakes。 But what if it was the last dollar he ever got？ He had to save it for something he really wanted： a new notebook； a cup of expensive coffee； a black slouch hat in a thrift shop somewhere。 He could always steal cigarettes。 You had to spend your last dollar on something important。
He was going to have to start hitching。 He'd never done it before…he'd tried to catch rides to Skittle's or the record store back home； but the young townie matrons only eyed his long raincoat； his lank black hair； and stepped on the gas。 And hitching out on the highway； with the wide flat sky stretching away overhead and the great trucks like dragons screaming by…well； that was a different affair。 Anyone might stop。 Anything might happen。
He kissed the postcard and dropped it into a ma