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Next you head into the freezer, propping a milk crate behind you so you don’t get locked in, which Sony said happened to him four times his first week and Wayne had to tape a chicken thigh on the door to keep it ajar.
A medical device that went no faster than eight miles an hour, the model was called the SpitFire 2, the fire part spelled out with flaming letters. It was like calling a catheter the Eternal Spring, Hai thought.
Somebody goes ahead and dies and all of a sudden you become a box for them, he thought, you store these things that no one has ever seen and you go on living like that, your head a coffin to keep memories of the dead alive. But what do you do with that kind of box? Where do you put it down?
“You’re—” she gestured at him, “a liggabit. Boy and boy, girl and girl. I see them in newspapers. Liggabit community.”
“Where are we?” Sony asked, rubbing his eyes. “Sign back there said Nowhere, Massachusetts,” said Grazina, pulling the scarf around her head.
Maureen started swaying gently, cooing to the headrest in her arms, the whole scene so weird and heartbreaking Hai bent down and retied his boots just to do something.
“Big Night. Every spring, when it starts to get warm, they all run together into a pool of water to make babies. We’re standing on highway to sex party.”
He wanted to tell Maureen about this. That the reptilians, when they weren’t eating our bad energy, were fucking in puddles outside of shitty diners by the highway.
“Do you remember your orders?” “To kill anything that moves.” She picked up a comb from the coffee table and held it up like a weapon. “No, to get to America at all costs.
