The Seer

By Grant Palmquist

The first time Nick Northfield saw a demon was the summer of 1988 in Houston, Texas, when he was nine years old. It wouldn’t be the last...

On the outside, Nick has everything a kid could want: a Nintendo with plenty of games, two good friends, and an unrequited crush whose interest in him might be growing. His mom always told him, “Count your friends on one hand and call yourself lucky,” and Nick always listened. But something is wrong on the inside, for he’s having haunting visions, nightmares that cause him to wake up screaming, and thoughts that he’s different than other kids and very much alone. And not long after his first sighting of a demon, he sees another...

On the opposite side of town, Sal Burke helps operate his family’s candy store by day, and by night embarks upon a vicious killing spree, eager to watch his fame around town grow. And it does, as the town soon grows wary of the vicious murderer known only as the Pied Piper. Now Sal is opening a new candy store in Nick’s part of town...and horror will soon follow.

Beware, the Pied Piper is coming to town, and he’s bringing his lust for murder and mayhem with him.

The Seer is a terrifying novel that will keep you on the edge of your seat...and up till morning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Palmquist
• Release date: Aug 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310509162

Grant Palmquist

Grant Palmquist is the author of the science-fiction novel Azure and four horror novels: A Song After Dark, Permanent Winter, Dirge, and The Seer. His short stories have appeared in Chizine, Dogmatika, and Underground Voices.

Book preview

1988

The first time Nick Northfield saw a demon he was nine years old.

He was on his way to the local Walgreens on his Redline bicycle, pedaling furiously through Swan Harbour to escape the sweltering summer heat that always descended upon Houston, Texas, as soon as June rolled around, and sometimes earlier. He’d saved up nearly two dollars’ worth of pennies and put them in a Ziploc bag, and when he’d grown tired of watching cartoons, and playing Nintendo, and sitting in his neighbor’s oak tree spying on passing cars, he’d decided it was time to go on a shopping spree. Of course, there wasn’t much one could buy with two dollars, but to Nick it was the whole world, and as he rode along the lone sound he heard was that of pennies jangling in the bulging pocket of his shorts.

He hopped a curb and pedaled through the tall grass of the nearby park, which had numerous signs threatening litterers with up to two hundred and fifty dollars in fines. Nevertheless, he spotted McDonald’s and Taco Bell wrappers being brushed by the occasional balmy breeze. He passed by a youthful couple playing Frisbee together, the man shirtless. Across the street from the park, a couple of men sat in the grass in grease-covered shirts and smoked cigarettes and worked on catching fish in the dark water of Clear Lake.

He popped back onto the blacktop and rode along, his latest favorite song—Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me—playing in his head. He wished he’d called one of his friends—Mark Mantel or Jason Pepper—to ride with him. It was always more fun when one of his buddies was with him, and those were his only buddies. Well, aside from Kelly Whirley, but she wasn’t really a buddy, more of an unrequited crush, one whom he often thought of kissing beneath the shade of his neighbor’s oak tree. The day would come sooner or later, once she got past the port-wine stain birthmark that spread like an island around his right eye and eyebrow and dropped into the center of his cheek like a map of Florida. He knew it made him different the day he became conscious of his image in the mirror, and remembered searching for someone, anyone in school, who had the same mark, but there was nobody.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he rode along Upper Bay Road and hopped the curb into the parking lot of the strip mall that housed Walgreens, a small sandwich shop named L&M Deli, Wyland’s Market, and a few vacant storefronts. He set his bike against the wall outside and rushed inside Walgreens to escape the heat. A bell rang when he walked inside, and the air-conditioning enveloped him like a cold glove that sent gooseflesh up his arms and legs for a moment before he became acclimated to the cooler climate, the smell of his sweat commingling with the antiseptic scent that permeated the store.

It didn’t take him long to find what he wanted; he’d known before he ever arrived at the store. He grabbed a Milky Way candy bar and then went to the refrigerated drinks and pulled out a Coca-Cola, the can freezing cold against his palm. He rushed to the cash register, where an old lady with a perm and deep wrinkles in her brow looked over his purchases, and him, with a squinty eye.

Sugar time, huh, kiddo?

Oh, yeah, Nick said. I’ve been dreaming about the taste of a Coke for, like, an hour now.

She gave him the total, and he reached in his pocket and dumped the pennies on the counter, a waterfall of change rattling into a mound before her.

Dear Lord, the old lady said, then rolled her eyes and commenced to count the change.

Soon enough Nick was outside and had already downed the Milky Way, the saccharine taste of chocolate sticking to his teeth and aching a bit, and sat on the curb and was just starting on the Coca-Cola, the sweet fizz filling up his mouth and cooling his throat, when he heard the sound of a car rattling up beside him. He eyed the car while he sipped his soda: it was a burnt-orange Ford Pinto with tinted windows. It slowed to a stop right in front of Nick and he looked to either side to see if there was anyone else around. Only a few men and women pushing carts to their cars in the grocery parking lot. Nobody close by, though.

The driver’s-side window to the Pinto rolled down, and that was when he saw a demon for the very first time. The man had crinkly gray skin with patches of red here and there and sharp teeth like double-edged knives, yet he spoke with a sweet, hushed voice. Spikes shot out randomly from his neck and head. One of his hands rested on the windowsill, only it wasn’t a hand, more of a claw. Nick’s eyes went wide at the sight of him, and he thought of screaming, but then thought that maybe it was just him, that all the sugar had made him go crazy. But the man was asking him something, something his mother had always told him to refuse.

You sure you don’t need a ride, little guy? the man asked again. Sure is hot out today. I got nice air conditioning in here. He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. I live right around the corner.

Nick shook his head, shuddering inside. My mom’s inside. I’m just waiting for her.

The man’s voice changed from sweet to menacing when he said, It’s not good to lie to your elders.

I’m not lying. Nick almost yelled it.

That was when the man’s red-tinged eyes trailed to the exit of Walgreens, where another customer—a skinny, thirty-something woman—walked outside. Immediately, the man rolled up his window and drove off. The lady, seemingly reflexively, as if she sensed something, looked at Nick and asked if he was okay. He nodded and thanked her.

On the way home, though, he kept thinking that burnt-orange Ford Pinto was following him, and he kept wondering whether the man inside it was wearing a monster suit, or whether the monster had been some kind of vision he’d had, or even if the whole thing had been a dream. But Nick couldn’t have dreamt it because when he got home, most of his pennies were gone. He had spent them. So what was wrong with the man in the Pinto?

Even as his mom, Katherine, was tucking him into bed, he wanted to ask her if there were people like that in the world, if demons existed, but he was afraid to know the answer. He just wanted to forget what he’d seen, wanted to go back to the world before today, when all was good and he was just a regular boy because now he couldn’t sleep because every time he closed his eyes he kept imagining the man’s demon face peering in at him from the window to the side of his bed, yet when he looked there was only moonlight leaking into the room. Finally he got up, looked out into the empty night, and closed the venetian blinds.

Only one thing was worse than the man’s face, something Nick knew deep inside but didn’t want to acknowledge: today was the first time he’d seen a demon, but it wouldn’t be the last.

2

Sal Burke was twenty-eight around the time he finally gave up on trying to work in the real world and decided he’d let his father groom him to take over the family business, a candy shop located in the Heights called Cosmo’s Candies, named after his father’s sobriquet.

It was ’88 and Sal knew his youth was slipping away. He’d tried to do something about it, tried to get girls while he was a janitor at the local high school the previous year, winking at them when they went to use the bathroom, saying hi when they came back out. Always the girls tucked into themselves, giving him a fake smile, and moved rapidly back to their classes. All he wanted was to talk. Couldn’t they see he was lonely?

All through his twenties Sal had tried this job and that with little to no success: car and insurance salesman, dishwasher, welder, fast-food cook, and so forth. Either he wasn’t very good at the job, as in welding, or he hated it with a burning passion and resented being there in the first place, as in car and insurance salesman. He’d gotten fired from his job as a car salesman for cussing out his manager, who made him come in every Saturday. Every Saturday? And sometimes Sunday, too. The guy had to be kidding, only he wasn’t. So Sal went out with a bang there. He knew how to burn a bridge.

His path in life led straight back to Cosmo’s Candies, which he supposed he knew would happen deep in his heart and mind. He was twenty-eight now and had to find some kind of niche in the world, and it was here, amid the candy canes, lollipops, taffy, jawbreakers, jelly beans, licorice, gummies, gumballs, and chocolates, that he would have to find it.

One thing he did love about working here was the smell of the place in the morning. All the sweets mixed together to form an intoxicating aroma. One thing he hated was the way his father Dean, otherwise known as Cosmo, bossed him around. His mother, Sally, was rarely at the shop, only coming in when Dean had somewhere to go or something to do, as he didn’t trust Sal fully yet, just loved barking orders at him. Mop the floor, or Stock these licorice whips, or Wipe down the countertops, or any other number of inane commands. Sal knew his father just liked to keep him busy, hated to see him standing around when the store was empty. When customers came in, however, his father put on a fake smile and was the kindest old man anyone had ever met, and Sal put on an even faker smile and became the nicest son anyone had ever met. It was amazing to see how the old man could change at a moment’s notice, but it taught Sal a valuable lesson: you wear the mask society requires at any given time. He had never done it before, but it made everything easier. He could become anyone at the flick of a switch in his brain.

But deep down Sal wondered who he really was, wondered what he was put on this earth to do. He had his own key to Cosmo’s Candies and sometimes left his apartment and went there late at night and sat in the shop, puffing on a candy cigarette, pretending he was a boy again, that he could do it all over, make things the way he wanted. He loved the boys and girls that rode their bikes to the candy store and wandered around as if they were in heaven, but at the same time he hated them too, for having that innocence, that wonder still lurking inside them, a wonder that had already died off in him. But maybe there was some way to get it back. Maybe he could make friends with the children, become their savior of sorts.

In July, he began to try to make friends with some of the local kids who rode their bikes to the store regularly, giving them free candy and attempting to make conversation with them.

Hey, little buddy, he’d say, or What’s your favorite kind of candy?

They’d give him sidewise glances and nod their heads with a soft Hey or answer his question with a curt Jawbreakers or Laffy Taffy or whatever their favorite candy was. He’d grab the mop and pretend to clean the floor nearby and eavesdrop on their conversations, but it was nothing but talk of baseball cards and movies and Nintendo, all things he had little interest in, but he could pretend. And so he did, and became better at talking with the children, speaking of Willow and Super Mario Bros., but still he had trouble connecting with them, for he spoke of these things from a distance, with no real passion, and it seemed the boys could sense it.

The girls were an enigma he couldn’t crack, so he didn’t try. He just eyed them dispassionately, like they were some alien race. In the past he’d tried to love women. God knew he had. He’d even visited hookers and paid them to pleasure him, but he always found the experience lacking, like a motorcycle enthusiast being forced to drive a station wagon.

The teens who came in were, by comparison, even harder to connect with. They had already reached that jaded stage where every adult was an enemy or potential enemy, and Sal had no luck getting anywhere beyond How you doing today?

Then everything changed.

It was around mid-July when Sal met Wayne Rose, and he knew right away it would blossom into a beautiful friendship. It was the first night his father had let him close the candy shop alone, and just around the time he was counting the money in the register Wayne walked in wearing an AC/DC T-shirt, his long brown hair pushed behind his ears, swinging his rangy arms as he walked up the far aisle, his eyes pink slits he could barely hold open. Sal guessed he was sixteen or seventeen.

Sal watched him through the corner of his eye, The Entertainer playing on the cheap sound system in the store. He was tired and just wanted to close up and now this young punk was wasting his time, strolling along and checking out every different type of chocolate and bubblegum. Finally, the young man walked over to him and said something. Sal was so startled by it he had to ask what he’d said once more.

You smoke?

Smoke what? Sal asked.

The young man smiled, revealing crooked yellow teeth. Weed, man.

Sal had actually never smoked, but this was his big chance to make a young friend, to become cool. Yeah, of course, he said, but it’s been a while.

Listen, I don’t have any money, but if you give me some candy I’ll smoke a joint with you.

Sal had already made up his mind as soon as the question was asked, yet he pretended to ponder it before agreeing. The young man stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Wayne Rose. Sal took Wayne’s limp hand in his own and lightly shook it, then Wayne went and filled up a baggie with dark-chocolate-covered almonds, taffy, and bubblegum.

Afterward, they went behind the store and Wayne lit up a joint. They stood in silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth, blowing hazy streams of smoke into the humid air, the only sound that of mosquitoes buzzing through the air, trying to settle on their skin and suck the blood from them before being slapped away. A sliver of moon hung in the sky, a dark cloud blotting out its center. Stars razored through the black dome cloaking the night.

A few tokes caused Sal’s thoughts to spin out of control, and his head grew dizzy. His knees buckled, and he spread his hands to either side to keep his balance.

Whoa, Wayne said, laughing. You sure you’ve smoked before?

Sal nodded. It’s just been a while. Have you been in the store before?

Yeah, I’ve been in there. I just keep a low profile.

You go to the high school nearby?

Yeah… well, sort of anyway. He shrugged, tapping ash off the end of the joint. I’m not the best at attendance. Thinking about dropping out, really. School’s a drag.

Sal slipped his hands in his pants pockets. Despite the warmth and humidity, chills ran up his spine and down his arms and legs. So what do you do? I mean, are you into girls and stuff?

The young man let out a loud laugh. Of course I like girls. What do you think?

Sal’s face flushed, and he ground his teeth together, offered a fake smile. Just trying to make conversation. A vision flashed through his mind then: him wrapping his hands around the young man’s neck and strangling him right here in the alley. Nobody would be around to see. Nobody would ever know. He would choke the smile right off Wayne’s face. A frisson of excitement whirled through him at the thought, a desire almost like yearning for sex. But no, this could be his friend, his introduction to a bevy of young boys and girls. He could be the cool adult they all hung around and told their friends about, then they’d all come to the candy store and hang around him. He added, You never know these days.

Wayne angled his head to the side. Nah, you don’t. Everyone’s got their secrets, hiding something from the world.

What are you hiding?

The teen lowered his eyes. I don’t know. Lots of stuff, I guess.

Like what?

This isn’t a heart-to-heart, you know. I’m just saying, everyone’s got their skeletons.

Sal had his own special skeleton. He’d even kept it from himself for the most part, had hidden it for a few years, for he had done it at the age of twenty-five, which felt so long ago now, but he still had the headlines, had saved them all these long years. But he could see the bold print in his head even now. One read: Local Boy Disappears Without a Trace. And a week or so later: Missing Boy Found Dead Near Buffalo Bayou. The personal touch he had left at the scene was taking a small stick and tracing a devil’s smiley face into the mud beside the body. It seemed so long ago, something he’d blocked out of his mind, something he’d almost convinced himself someone else had done, but now, under the power of this mind-altering substance, he remembered, remembered the power that flowed through his veins, the orgasmic rush that seized him in its fury, and the thought made him want to revisit it, but not now, not with this budding friendship that could open a whole new world to him.

Everyone’s got their skeletons, he said. It’s true.

Yeah, what have you done?

Things, Sal said. Some good, some bad.

Sal toked on the joint, down to a roach now, and looked to the sky and swore he saw a smiley devil face forming amid the stars, a celestial body forming a satanic visage. He laughed to himself. Maybe it was a message of some sort from a god he’d never spoken to, never known.

What’s so funny?

You know what’s funny, Wayne? he asked. Life. Life is hysterical. We’re all being played for fools.

Wayne nodded his head in that slow, falsely perceptive way that only a stoner could, and said, I know what you mean.

You don’t, Sal thought. You don’t know a thing yet, but you will. You will soon enough.

Back inside the store, they hung out for a while, sucking on lollipops like two toddlers who had just made friends. Sal had it in his head to ask him for a favor, but he could wait a while, wait till they were closer, till he was certain Wayne wouldn’t run to the cops or tell his parents, till he had him under his thumb. This was the type of happenstance he’d been waiting on for years, and he didn’t want to jeopardize that by being impatient.

He could see himself asking Wayne the question and offering money, and Wayne would agree: If I asked you to get something for me, anything, and I gave you, say, two hundred dollars, would you do it? And if Wayne said it depended on what it was, Sal would have an answer for that, too: Well, it’s just that I like to hang out with younger people, and I thought you could help me out there, could introduce me to some young folks.

It would work. He was sure of it.

Sal had a hook to keep him coming back, told him, Anytime you’re stoned and want some candy, just come in here when I’m around, I’ll help you out.

Wayne gave him a lopsided smile and a goofy laugh. All right.

That was the beginning of their friendship, an overture by a teen that led to a moment of clarity for Sal, a remembrance of something he’d pushed from his mind, a memory that was like a distant dream seen through a filmy haze, almost as if someone else had done it, but he knew it was nobody but him, and that sometimes it felt good to do evil and bad to do good.

3

At first Wayne was wondering whether he really had any use for Sal beyond free candy when he was stoned, but you never could tell how much someone was worth till you really needed them, and staring at him through the thin haze of smoke, the stars lighting the night above him, he knew he would come back to see this guy again, if not for free candy, then because the man had some weird magnetic pull that made Wayne curious.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what that pull was, not even when Sal said they were being played for fools, that life was somehow funny. Wayne looked at him when he said that, trying to size up whether he was for real, but he saw no irony in the man’s face, no duplicity.

Just looking at him, really, made Wayne feel a little uneasy. There was something a bit off, something not quite right, as though the man could come unhinged at any moment, could grab Wayne by the shoulders and shake him and tell him what life was really about beyond hilarity, but hell, Wayne had wanted to know the unvarnished truth for a long time. In some ways he thought he’d found it in the dark at high school parties, touching and kissing drunken girls who didn’t know any better, but there was something else lurking beneath the surface of that momentary thrill, something deeper, and he sensed that in this strange man he’d found the key to some other way of life.

They came back inside after they’d finished the joint and sat there in an all-consuming silence, the sound system inside the candy shop no longer playing any music, but Wayne could still hear the tune that was playing earlier cycling through his head. Sal told him to come back anytime, that he’d give him free candy.

Maybe he just wants a friend, Wayne thought. I could use one of those, too.

Wayne had a few people he might be able to call friends, but truthfully, he wondered whether they’d call him a friend in return, whether he was just someone they talked to and hung out with once in a while, because there was always some distance there, like a wall had been erected between him and just about everyone, and no matter how he tried he couldn’t break it down, couldn’t really connect with anyone. Plus, there were things an older friend had access to that younger people didn’t. Money, for one. Alcohol, for another.

"What is so funny about life?" Wayne asked him.

Just the way everyone is. Sal offered a wan smile, his eyelids weighing heavily on the pink slits that had become his eyes. Everyone’s playing this game, trying to be important, but it doesn’t matter in the end. See, we all die sooner or later, and whether you have a mansion or a shack, a Mercedes or a Ford, what does it matter?

I don’t need to have some depressing lecture, Wayne thought. I thought it would be funny. Like you said: Life is funny.

You think you’re immune to their judgments? Sal asked.

Whose?

People out there. He nodded toward the front door. All those people out there, thinking they’re better than everyone else. See, you’re at that age where you don’t think about all that yet.

Wayne lowered his eyes. Yeah, I guess.

I tried to be one of them, Wayne, but I’m more like you, like people your age. I don’t care about all that, and lucky me, this candy shop will be mine after a while, and all the children will love me. I’ll be the Candy Man, you know?

The guy was starting to sound weird, but Wayne went with it. It sort of made sense. He was never going to be rich, he knew that much. And maybe this guy could teach him about life in some way, become a mentor of sorts, and who knew, maybe he’d eventually give him a decent job at the candy shop, manager or assistant manager or whatever. Pretty soon, he was going to drop out of high school anyway. He was seventeen and fed up with school and stupid teachers who thought they knew everything.

He studied Sal, his sharp nose and slicked-back brown hair, that strange smile of his that looked more like a scowl, those fathomless dark eyes. It gave Wayne goosebumps looking at him for too long, and when Sal tried to meet his eyes, Wayne turned away.

It’s all right to look at someone, Sal said. You own your eyes, and you’re curious, and I’m curious. He shrugged. And we’re both stoned.

Wayne laughed a little and then told him he had to get going.

Sal nodded without saying a word, leaned his elbows on the countertop, and folded his hands together. Your folks’ll probably worry if you get back too late, right?

Something like that.

Outside, Wayne hopped onto the rusty Schwinn bike his dad had bought him from a garage sale years ago. He could hear the chain rattling in the sprockets as he rode along, the humid air causing a sheen of sweat to break out across his brow. He gripped the handlebars tightly, thinking of the man he’d just met, knowing somehow they would end up great friends, friends who knew each other more deeply than most people ever know each other.

4

Summer was coming to an end, and soon they’d be back in school, the last place Nick wanted to be.

Nick wanted to tell his buddies, Jason Pepper and Mark Mantel, about the demon, but it was as though a hand suppressed the words and kept him from telling them. And even if they believed him, there’d be no way he could prove it, so when they hung out he kept it tucked deep inside, trying to convince himself it had never happened at all.

They ran through the fields behind Swan Harbour till they reached the dark strip of water that wound around the back of the neighborhood. A water moccasin twisted through the water, its head bobbing just above the surface. Mark picked up a small stone, tossed it at the snake, and missed. The stone went skipping across the dark surface of the creek then sank beneath it. They sat there for a while, shaded from the sun by oaks and pines, taking turns tossing stones, mosquitoes buzzing around them.

I wish summer lasted all year round, Jason said.

Everyone does, Nick said, that’s why it’s called summer.

Jason laughed. Good point.

Mark pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. What do y’all think it would be like getting bit by a snake?

Jason looked toward the snake, which was swimming away from them now. It would hurt.

Probably swell up, Nick added. Might get infected, too, or worse.

Mark squinted and rested his hands on his knees. What if you had super blood that rejected the poison?

Then you’d be a superhero, Nick said.

That’s what I want, Mark said. I don’t want to go back to school. I want to—

You’d have to go to school even as a superhero. Jason shook his head.

Would you? Mark asked.

Yeah, Nick said. Even Clark Kent went to school, right? You can’t be dumb and save the world.

I wish my bike could fly, then, Mark said. I’d go to some other world. I’m tired of this one.

That would be awesome. Jason put his hand over his eyes like a visor and looked to the sky. I can see it now. You could even get a Martian girlfriend. She’d be perfect for you.

Screw you, Mark said.

Jason nudged Mark’s shoulder with his fist. Joke.

Mark was always wishing he could escape, probably because everyone made fun of him for his thick lenses, skinny frame, and overbite. He didn’t do himself any favors by picking his nose at random times either, like back in second grade while Ms. Calhoun gave math lessons or in the middle of her famous spelling bees. If there was a cool one in the group, it was Jason. He didn’t even ride the bus because his mom drove him to and from school. Nick and Mark both envied that, for they hated the bus. Also, he was the one who’d originally told them about sex as they looked on in a mixture of disbelief and wonder, was the one who’d brought a cigarette he’d stolen from his grandma out here to share with them, was also the one girls seemed to like even though he teased them incessantly. Or maybe it was because he teased them incessantly. Nick wasn’t sure, but it seemed like he had something figured out that the rest of them didn’t quite understand yet. Jason had told the story of his first kiss at age seven enough times now that it had turned into an urban legend, a legend Nick and Mark sometimes questioned between games of Super Mario Bros. and Metroid when they were alone.

You think it really happened like that? Mark would ask.

Why would Jason lie? Nick would say.

To show off.

But he told us what it felt like and how to do it right and all that.

Still, Mark would say, I wonder.

He wasn’t lying about the cigarettes, right?

Mark nodded, conceding that fact as true. It’s gross, though, huh? Sticking his tongue in a girl’s mouth?

Jason had said he rode his bike to Jessica Miller’s house and set it down beside the curb and waited on a wooden bench by the pond. Ducks swam up and down in the golden-tinged water, setting the mood perfectly when she appeared beside him, almost like an apparition but for the fact they had planned it, or at least he had, telling her again and again he was going to show up outside her townhouse, and then, as he told Mark and Nick, I just went for it. They, of course, said how gross and nasty it was and then asked for elaboration, and he said, I just did it. They nodded as if that explained everything.

The other thing that Nick loved about his two friends was they never judged him for his port-wine stain, not like some of the other kids at school who acted as if it was a contagious disease. Jason dismissed it as no big deal and even said Girls probably dig it, but Nick had no evidence to support that claim. Mark didn’t even seem to notice it unless it was pointed out directly by Nick when he was in low spirits. Who cares? Mark would say. It’s not like it’s your fault you have it. But sometimes it did feel to Nick like he’d done something wrong to earn the red badge of ugliness, or so he called it at times. His mother, a thirty-two-year-old homemaker, said God had marked him to show the world how special he was, which was something just like a mom would say, and his dad, Frank, a thirty-five-year-old mechanical engineer, hardly said anything about it at all. And truth be told, it only bothered Nick at times, like when he saw Kelly Whirley and felt like that was all she could see when she looked at him, like the redness had spread across the rest of his face like a virus, spurred on by her mere presence, and subsumed all of it. Still, the most scarring of all memories was when he was six and his mother took him to the dermatologist, Dr. Steele, who looked over the red stain, gazed into Nick’s eyes, and said, It’s something you’re going to have to learn to accept and live with. It was bad because that was exactly what he didn’t want to do, but it was good because he tried to do it anyway, as best he could, but there were many times when he still struggled with it, when it occupied his mind more than he would have liked.

Nick and Jason had waded into the water shin deep. It was warm in the water and the sun beat down on them, and above them crows circled through the clear blue sky.

You guys shouldn’t be doing that, Mark said. What if a snake’s floating around right by your legs?

Then I guess you’ll have to suck out the poison if it bites one of us, Jason said.

"I’m not going to. Mark crossed his arms over his chest. Y’all need to get out of there."

Nick was laughing incessantly. He loved being with his friends.

Jason submerged his hand in the water, pulled it out, and hid it behind his back. All right, let’s get out of the water. Come on, Nick.

Nick waded to shore with him and saw what Jason was planning: he held a frog in the hand hidden behind his back. He laughed to himself at the sight of it.

Jason strolled up to Mark, who was itching the base of his neck and watching Jason carefully, and then sprung the frog on him. Mark shrieked, then danced about, brushing his arms and legs with his hands as if to rid himself of invading insects.

"Not funny, Mark said. I thought that was a snake, asshole."

But it’s only a frog. Jason squatted and set it down, and it hopped away. And a frog can’t hurt you.

It can give you warts, though.

Chill out, Mark. It’s no big deal. Nick had reached them now, and could see the goosebumps studding Mark’s skin and the shivers that kept his body convulsing slightly. He knew the feeling—the heebie-jeebies—and started to get it himself just by witnessing it, but soon it went away.

They walked home together beneath the setting sun. He was glad to be with his friends. Count your friends on one hand and call yourself lucky, his mom had always told him. He couldn’t quite count them using all the fingers of one hand, for he had too few friends, but he was thankful anyway.

5

A couple days before school started, Jason’s mom let them camp out in her backyard. It was a small backyard with yellow spots in places, and patches of tall grass here and there, and a single pine tree that reached for the