I’m instantly sickened. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I groan. “That’s disgusting. Why did you tell me that?”
“Because it’s true. Because Petunia drank the Murphys’ well water her entire life and she was so sick Cal said he’d never seen anything like it. It’s why they started testing the water in the first place.”
“You don’t know that they’re connected.”
“How could they not be? Petunia was just the first of many. And now Cal?”
“What are you saying, Jonathan? Do you think this was intentional? Are the Tates out to get the Murphys?”
I can feel Jonathan clam up. He goes really still, really quiet, just like he used to when we were kids and I pressed him past his breaking point. My brother is all ice when he’s angry, and the air in the cab is suddenly so cold that I reach to close the vents nearest to me. Of course, it’s just the air-conditioning turned up high, but Jonathan’s mood feels like a tangible thing to me.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“We’re here,” Jonathan responds.
Sure enough, we’re on yet another gravel road, pulling onto yet another rural farm where we’re greeted by a muddy black lab and a row of cars and trucks parked neatly in the grass. Suddenly I could scream. If all this is true, why doesn’t anybody care? Why aren’t we raising hell and making changes and transforming the world? I’ve been told all my life that we are the salt of the earth, the quiet, hardworking backbone of a culture that offers life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. This feels like death, bondage, despair. I don’t understand. But when I turn to question Jonathan further, I find that he’s already half-gone, one foot on the running board as he hops out of the truck.
“Wait!” I fumble with my seat belt and slide out of the truck myself, running to catch up with him as he heads toward the field where a pallet fire is burning bright enough to signal space. I grab his arm, spin him to face me. “You can’t just tell me all this and walk off. What are you doing? What are we going to do?”
Jonathan shakes me off. “Don’t worry about it, June. It’s not your problem.”
“If it’s your problem, it’s my problem,” I tell him, linking my pinky with his in a gesture of solidarity. When we were in grade school and kids used to tease us because of our unusual connection, we discovered that we could pass each other in the halls and twine our littlest fingers together for less than a second and no one would be the wiser. It was comforting for both of us to know that no matter what happened, we had each other’s backs. I want Jonathan to know that now—to know that I’m here for him. Always.
But he jerks away. “You’re leaving, June. It’s not your problem at all.”
“You dragged me out here,” I remind him, feeling a nasty little sparkle of anger. “I thought you wanted to talk.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind. Just stay away from Sullivan.” Then he takes off at a lope and the darkness swallows him up.
Stay away from Sullivan. Really? Surely Jonathan knows me better than that. His warning is a challenge, and I have a sudden, perverse desire to find Sullivan and throw myself at him right in front of my brother.
I’m fuming, burning with indignation as I wonder if I should try to snag a ride home or go grab one of the beers that I’m sure is turning lukewarm in a cooler near the fire. When I feel something brush against my hand I startle, but it’s just the dog nudging me for a pat. I oblige and give her a little ear scratch, too, even though she’s filthy and smells like she’s been swimming in a ditch. I’m still petting her when a form takes shape in the shadows and someone calls my name.
“June? June!”
It’s Ashley. She’s stumbling a bit but laughing, and I smile in spite of myself. “I’m here,” I say. “Straight ahead. Keep coming.”
When she’s about ten feet away she can finally make me out, and her face splits into a wide grin. I can see the white glow of her perfectly straight teeth. “There you are!” Ashley wraps me in a boozy hug and gives my cheek a sloppy kiss.
“Seems like you’ve been here a while.”
“I tried to text you,” she accuses, “but you didn’t answer.”
I shrug and allow her to lead me toward the bonfire. Or maybe I’m leading her. Ashley has her arm slung over my shoulder and is hanging on for dear life.
“Good party?” I ask, slipping my arm around her waist when the earth dips below us and she pitches.