Threnody (018).

(This is a 500-word-a-day novel project.)

Ryan rubbed at the dirt on the car’s windshield, squinting to see what was inside.

Can we try to talk? Maddy asked, her expression pained. Calmly?

What do you want to talk about? He saw no danger so lifted the handle, swinging the door open as stale air wafted against him. The compartments were all empty; a Diet Coke can sat in the arm rest. Its label said it was canned under the authority of the Coca-Cola Company in Atlanta, Georgia, but he didn’t that that place existed anymore.

Us, Maddy said. So you can stop hating me. So we can be nice to each other again.

I thought I was real nice when I found out about you and Tom, he said, looking over his shoulder. God, he wanted to shake her very badly. I must be the nicest guy in the whole world because I didn’t say nothing about it, just like I never said a word every time you ran around with one of my buddies and made me into a damned fool.

You’re unbelievable. She wiped her eyes. Does that stuff really matter now?

It does matter. He slammed the door. I got you a ring. I took you to the lake to ask you to be my wife, and that should mean something whether it’s the end of the world or not.

She leveled her gaze at him; Ryan could see her winding up, getting ready to let him have it right in the heart. You shot me, she said. That does mean something. It means a lot.

He roared and punched the side of the car, leaving a considerable dent in the panel. She did not even flinch, turning away and crossing the yard out of sight around the side of the house. Humiliated, he stumbled to the garage, fuming; when he was himself again he went to the narrow side door, guessing from the sloppy construction that the garage had once been a carport since enclosed. The door was swelled stuck; he turned a shoulder into it, popping it open. Frosted skylights allowed just enough illumination inside to create a dreary murk. Like most garages it was ruled by chaos, and there was no way to tell if it was the family’s doing or what later ate them: stacked containers, disused furniture, metal shelves overflowing with athletic equipment and holiday decorations – he let his fingers drift, relishing the feel of things from his old world. There was an aluminum baseball bat leaned up against the wall. With reluctance he picked it up, recoiling from the feel of the machined cold metal. There was no way to stop remembering the shock that traveled up his arm when he had connected to the back of Tim’s head, ending him.

He paused to slide open a roll-top desk. There was paper stacked on a blotter, the real kind with lines and binder holes, made in a factory in another world out of trees that were vegetarian.