You can see where the truck hit. The bark’s scraped off. There’s broken glass all over the ground. Otherwise you’d never know that something bad had happened here. I had to come see it for myself, to see if I could, I don’t know … believe what’s happened. I mean, I know he’s dead. I’ve seen his truck. But it’s like knowing the world’s just hanging in space. You can’t fit the thought in your head. It’s too big. Ten hours ago we were at Logan’s party and I told Gabe, “I’ll drive you home.” “The hell you will!” He freaked out. “Get away from me!” He has this thing about his truck; it’s like his wife or something, and nobody else is taking it for a spin. “Give me the keys, man.” I grabbed at his pocket. He whipped around and tried to kick me. People laughed; they thought we were kidding. Most people can’t tell when he’s wrecked; he hides it. Gabe always had a bad case of pride. He called me a few choice names and split. It didn’t mean nothing; we’ve had worse fights than that.
