What Makes a River by Deborah Coates

Author:Deborah Coates
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group
Published: 2010-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

***

Beth has three questions.

First, why Amy? Second, how does the Thing call her? Third, what happens when she goes to it, why does it keep letting her go, how close are they to the final time, the time Amy doesn’t return? Technically, the last question is three questions in one, but since Beth isn’t doing this—any of this—anymore, isn’t following Amy, isn’t carrying a shotgun, isn’t looking for Things anymore, ever, the exact number of questions doesn’t matter. The answers don’t matter. It isn’t her problem—really, really isn’t her problem—anymore.

It’s past one in the morning when she and Amy get back to the house. Their other roommates are out with their boyfriends or at least somewhere other than at the house. Amy hasn’t said anything since the lake, hasn’t yelled or cursed or done anything except sit in the passenger seat and stare out the window. At the house, Beth tells her to take a shower and put on some dry clothes. Beth makes coffee, and the two of them sit for a while in the kitchen, Beth in wet boots and slowly drying jeans, Amy in a tank top and boxers and a fluffy pink bathrobe.

Beth knows she should say something, but her hands won’t stop shaking and she’s pretty sure her teeth would chatter like a rumble strip if she started talking.

“Maybe I’ll go see my mom,” Amy finally says.

“Hmmm,” Beth says, because she really, seriously, doesn’t have anything to say.

“Yeah,” Amy says. She gets up, puts her coffee mug in the sink, and leaves. Beth can hear the old wooden stairs creak as she walks upstairs.

Beth closes her eyes and rubs her hand across her face. She pulls herself out of the chair, feeling like she’s 102. Upstairs, she sits at her computer and writes an email to Paul telling him everything—what’s happening to Amy, what she saw, everything she’s done, everything she’s thought, how she feels right this minute, which is like her bones have turned to jelly, like she’s all alone in the world, like she wants to cry. Before she can think too much, she sends it. You can fix this, Paul, she thinks. You have to fix this.

Five minutes later, she gets a reply: addressee unknown; no such user on this server.

There are not enough swear words in the world.

She gets up, strips off her boots and her jeans and her T-shirt and only realizes once she’s shed them how really, really cold she actually is. She pulls on an old pair of sweatpants, another T-shirt, a flannel shirt gone faded and soft. She shoves her feet into a pair of shoes, doesn’t even know which ones, grabs her keys and she’s out of there, so out of there.

Lighting out for territory.

She doesn’t know exactly what that means, but she’s pretty sure it’s what she’s doing. Lighting out. Taking off. Getting the hell out of Dodge.

She takes the interstate north, driving as fast as she can, which is damn fast. She doesn’t care about police radar, would be grateful in some perverse way if the police stopped her.

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