Something was gone; the shotgun shell. Something had been put in its place: a piece of stiff paper.
Something was gone; the shotgun shell.
Something had been put in its place: a piece of stiff paper.
“David?” Steve called from the open window of the truck. “Something wrong?”
He shook his head, opening the car door with one hand and taking the folded paper from his pocket with the other. It was blue. And there was something familiar about it, although he couldn’t remember having a paper like this in his pocket yesterday. There was a ragged hole in it, as if it had been punched onto something. As if—
Leave your pass.
It was the last thing the voice had said on that day last fall when he had prayed for God to make Brian better. He hadn’t understood, but he had obeyed, had hung the blue pass on a nailhead. The next time he’d shown up at the Viet Cong Lookout—a week later? two?—it had been gone.
Taken by some kid who wanted to write down a girl’s telephone number, maybe, or blown off by the wind. Except . . . here it was.
All I want is lovin’, all I need is lovin’.
Felix Cavaliere on vocal, most severely cool.
No, he thought. This can’t be.
“David?” Mary. Far away. “David, what is it?”
Can’t be, he thought again, but when he unfolded it, the words printed at the top were completely familiar:
WEST WENTWORTH MIDDLE SCHOOL
100 Viland Avenue
Then, in big black tabloid type:
EXCUSED EARLY
And, last of all:
Parent of excused student must sign this pass.
Pass must be returned to attendance office.
