“It’s fuckin’ Walter,” Scott said. “Shit-eatin’ bastard psycho fuckhead. He’s known for weeks, but he kept it from us. Even from my goddamn mother.” “Knew what? Where are you going?” Scott groaned into the phone. “Can you come down here?” “It’ll take awhile.” “I’m not going anywhere. Not till I go to Texas.” “Texas? Jeez! Okay, I’m coming.” He dropped the phone and ran downstairs, through Ryan’s room, its white walls now covered with sports posters and pennants, the visible portions scuffed by sneakers and imprinted with the pentagonal patterns of a soccer ball Ryan kicked around when no adults were home. TV sounds blasted up the spiral steps. Mike yelled down the stairwell: “Ryan! I’m going to Scott’s! Tell Mom!” A muted yell answered him. He hurried back upstairs, ducking into his room for his skateboard, his backpack and a windbreaker. Outside, he climbed steep streets toward the highest ridge in Shangri-La, passing the vacant lot where he’d hid in the grass his first night up here, then a huge round water storage tank he hadn’t noticed in the dark that night, and which he hardly noticed now.
