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if he didn't do something fast。
Now maybe Zillah would abandon him on the highway Somewhere； or maybe all three of them would kill him； their teeth and tongues burrowing into the soft parts of his body as he had done to Laine。 Nothing found that he didn't much care。 He had fucked up。 He had tried to have everything he wanted； all at once； and now it was all swirling down the drain。
After a while Zillah propped himself up and stared moodily out at the dusty storefronts； the gas station with its wooden facade and old…fashioned pumps； the psychedelic red…and…blue whirligig in the window of the Whirling Disc record store。 Soon Zillah's head drooped forward onto his knees。 When Nothing tried to hug him； Zillah pulled away。
Nothing had seen his friends back home use such behavior on one another。 When one of Julie's previous boyfriends got her twentieth…row Cure tickets for her birthday instead of the tenth…row ones she had wanted； Julie appeared to undergo a grieving process of major proportions。 She sat in her room reading the poetry of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton。 Six pounds melted from her already skinny frame。 When anyone at school tried to talk to her； she would stand dramatically silent for several seconds； then slowly shake her head and walk away。 In short； she sulked for a week。
Now Zillah was doing the same thing。 Nothing was only a little angry at being manipulated； he deserved it for getting Zillah hurt。 What made him angrier was that it worked。 He was responsible for the pall that had been cast over the day。 Zillah's beautiful face was all torn up； and that alone made Nothing feel as if he'd pissed on the Mona Lisa or something。 No one was tripping anymore； and no one had started drinking yet。 The van's usual air of carnival was gone； and the mood that replaced it was flat； subdued。 Nothing wondered； not for the first time； how old the others were。 He had thought them older and more sophisticated than he； but right now they were acting like a bunch of teenagers who are mad at each other but aren't sure why。
The third time they drove past the record store； Twig slowed the van and pointed out a sign taped to the window。 〃Hey kiddo。 Look at that。〃
Nothing looked。 The sign was a grainy photocopy like the gravestone on the Lost Souls？ tape。 Only this was a picture of a stone angel； wings spread； hand raised in warning or benediction； idiot gaze downcast。 Written across the picture in large curly letters was LOST SOULS？ TONIGHT AT SACRED YEW。
〃Where's the Sacred yew？〃 Molochai wanted to know。 〃Is it in the graveyard？〃
〃It must he a club；〃 Nothing said。 All at once he made up his mind。 Zillah might he glad to get rid of him； if not； then they could kill him here； right in the middle of Missing Mile。 〃You can let me out anywhere；〃 he told Twig。 〃I'm going to see that show。〃
Twig slowed the van。 〃You're leaving？ Just when things were starting to get interesting？〃
〃Let's at least eat him；〃 said Molochai in a loud sotto voce。
Zillah seemed to wake up。 He raised his head and looked at Nothing。 Nothing stared back at him for a long moment； trying to register just what he was seeing。 The torn skin of Zillah's mouth was knitting itself back together； its appearance was already closer to fresh pink scar tissue than raw wound。 The smashed cartilage of his nose was straightening； rebuilding itself。 And his gums were still bleeding…but not from the teeth he had lost。 They bled because new teeth were ing in； poking white and shiny through the tender pink flesh。
〃This is a goddamn pain in the ass；〃 said Zillah。
Nothing lowered his eyes。 〃I know。〃
〃Every second it's growing back is agony。 I can feel each cell stretching itself toward the next one； each nerve end screaming。 And do you know when was the last time I had to be carried out of a place？ DO YOU？〃
〃When？〃
〃1910。 I was about your age。 I'd been picked up by a pretty young artillery officer in Savannah； Georgia。 I made him take me to a pany party…posed as his little brother …where they served a punch you could have embalmed corpses with。 It was made of wine； rum； gin； brandy； whiskey； champagne 。 。 。〃
Nothing thought of a concoction he and Laine had mixed in a Mason jar when they'd been learning to drink…an inch from every bottle in their parents' liquor cabinets。 They had dry…heaved for days。
〃I lost control of myself。 Broke a gentle lady's arm； bit through her left nipple； and put out one of her eyes。 It took five men to knock me out and carry me away。 They hanged me from a live oak； and I cut myself down。 And that was the last time it happened； do you understand？ THE LAST TIME UNTIL TODAY！〃
Zillah's face was an inch from Nothing's now； he could actually see particles of skin forming on Zillah's lips； forming a thin web； then meshing。
〃I understand；〃 he told Zillah。 〃I'm getting out here。〃
Zillah stared at him。 〃No；〃 he whispered。 〃No。 You mustn't。〃 A strange smile played upon his half…healed features。 〃Your friends weren't hurt； were they？ And you've learned your lesson。 Why don't we stay and see the show with you？〃
Then； at last； Zillah stretched out his hands。 The palms were turned up and the fingers were trembling slightly。 Nothing was almost sure the tremor was genuine。 Almost。 He took Zillah's hands in his own and kissed them。
All through the remainder of the afternoon Steve was bored and restless。 Ghost watched him do the Steve Finn equivalent of pacing the floor。 He folded his long body into a hundred positions on the couch。 He pulled the ratty coverlet around him and tried to read。 He picked up his guitar； then his banjo； but put them down without touching the strings。 He got out an old shoebox full of stuff Ann had sent him； letters and notes and postcards with weird little messages on them。 With one finger Steve poked at an envelope； prying at the stamp with his fingernail； slowly peeling it away from the paper。 Then he did the same thing to a second stamp。 When he started on a third； Ghost got up and went to his room。
He took off his clothes and curled up in bed。 For an hour he lay listening to the syrupy dark voices on the gospel radio station； trying not to think about the strangers who had broken into his house。 He was sure he had dreamed about Nothing…for Ghost； having a dream about something he was going to do or somebody he was going to meet was as mon as getting a call from a friend。
A recollection came to him。 Something about the name Zillah。 The flower…seller had mentioned that name； his pale face snapping up eagerly： 〃Have you news of Zillah？〃 That was the connection。 But Ghost still didn't know who they were or what they wanted in Missing Mile。 And three of today's visitors had a look that reminded Ghost of the twins on the hill： a sleek gloss； a well fed but somehow unhealthy look。
Nothing did not have that look； not yet。 But the others were obviously old hands at…at whatever sort of pain and death they dealt。 Ghost only knew that they didn't feel human； though judging from the new bite mark on Steve's hand and the bruises on his wrists and legs where Molochai and Twig had held him down； they were more corporeal than the twins