The Cost of Knowing: Chapters 5–9

When I saw Shaun’s end—watched the accident in that red haze—I didn’t know what to do. All I could think about was avoiding being in the car when the fateful moment happened.

And then she looked over at me, with her dark hair soaking wet, stuck to her forehead and cheeks, and her huge brown eyes, and her face slightly flushed red amid the panic of almost drowning.

“I mean, no!” I say suddenly, as if I’ve been snapped from a stupor.

I see his impish face over me, all smiles.

“Sleeping and eating are what I’m best at. And mowing lawns.”
Oh God, the pandering.

The woman whose front lawn I mow every other week has no idea who I am or what I dream about, and I guess in the name of professionalism, she probably never should. “Uneasy?” I ask coyly. That’s it, Alex, I think, play coy.

“I try not to be afraid of anything, Mrs. Zaccari,” I say, being as diplomatic as possible. “But I understand your concerns about having it so close.”

“I’m worried about security after the event, when all those drunk, high, strung-out people come back to the homes they might have rented for the weekend, many of which could be right here in Santiam Estates. I just think the homeowners association could use a vetting process for out-of-towners, especially when events like this come around.”

She’s made the leap from flustered bystander to exasperated guardian in less than a second, but all I feel is relief.

“I know they’re good. My husband eats them every once in a while, but four boxes? How long did it take you to get through those?”
“I haven’t been keeping track,” says Isaiah, his grin suddenly sheepish.

The silence is tangible.

First, that no matter what I do, Scoop’s is going under at an already predetermined time. Second, no matter what I do, Isaiah is going to leave this earth at an already predetermined time.

I don’t know whether to feel hurt or angry, but these heart palpitations tell me it’s probably some combination of both.

“Hey, I have another question.” Oh God, what now? I nod for him to go ahead and ask, bracing for whatever. But I’m still not prepared for this one.

Before I can cut in, he’s off the bed and pacing and jumping headlong into this discussion, a light flickering in his eyes.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice faltering. Because what else am I going to tell him?

It’s rash, it’s probably irresponsible, and it’s...brave?

What if he chokes on his food and no one’s around to help? What if he has a seizure?

Scoop sometimes lets us dishwashers turn it on back here, on the one condition that we leave the sound off. Seems counterintuitive to me, since the only way to enjoy the show is to at least have closed captions on, and does he really want us reading the screen instead of just listening to what's happening?

I think of Talia, and I wonder if sherbet and s’mores are really that bad of a combo and why I’ve always been too squeamish to try it and whether she thinks I’m less of a man because I’m squeamish, and if I’ve been giving her other clues into the fact that I’m a spineless—

I watch the camera pan from that house with the yellow door—the gray one that Talia loves so much, with the pink flowers in the front—to Mr. and Mrs. Zaccari's house with the black door, and down the street to a slew of caution tape and blue and red flashing lights.

I glance from Scoop to the man who’s so engrossed in whatever’s on his phone screen that he’s not even paying attention to what we’re saying.

I wonder if I’m looking into the eyes of a man so desperately in denial of his company’s demise that he’s resorted to threatening his only dependable worker into staying.

A husband and wife sit at their dining room table one evening, watching a crime report on the news, sipping tea, and lamenting the violent state of the world. They’re thankful they live in a neighborhood where crime is rare.

It’s weird to be driving through the suburbs toward a dozen flashing police cars parked haphazardly down the block without a trace of fear.

Confusion settles into my head like a cold salve, a welcome reprieve from the guilt and dread that was once there.

Confusion settles into my head like a cold salve, a welcome reprieve from the guilt and dread that was once there.

The last time Talia had a surprise for me—well, besides her recent blue hair—she bought a new sky-blue bathing suit...and I’m hoping for the sake of all my sanity that this surprise is nothing in that vein, especially right after that apology.

If Aunt Mackie sees that he was eating these greasy pizza bites in here again and getting crumbs all up in her sofa, there’s going to be a tiff.

Joy in the midst of oppression is its own kind of bravery.

All I have are pictures of Grandpa Harold holding me at the hospital, and Grandpa Jack holding me at my christening, which he and Grandma Georgina insisted my parents go through with regardless of their lack of religious affiliation.

Dad’s dad—his whole lineage, apparently—had whatever curse Isaiah and I have.

“It was a treacherous climb,” says Isaiah. “Falling rocks were a constant danger.”

A huge boulder slams into the ledge just a few feet in front of us, sending two men careening off the side, with rocks and mud falling behind them.

I spot the perfect segue into a new subject that won’t upset him so much, and I take it.