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“Your bro don’t talk much, does he?” Pete says. His hand, the one not holding the bowling bag (if that’s what it is), is still on Billy’s shoulder.

“Usually you can’t keep him quiet,” Mary says. “His tongue is hung in the middle and runs at both ends, that’s what Granpop says.”

“Maybe he saw something that scared him quiet,” Galen says. “Woodchuck or fox. Or something else.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Billy says. He thinks he might start crying and tells himself he can’t, he can’t.

“Well, come on,” Galen says. He takes Mary’s hand—this she allows—and they start down the overgrown driveway. Pete walks beside Billy with his hand still on Billy’s shoulder. It’s not gripping, but Billy has an idea it would grip if he tried to run. He’s pretty sure the men saw him looking into that water-filled cellar hole. He has an idea they are in bad trouble here.

“Hey, guys! Hello, ma’am!” Galen sounds as cheerful as a day in July. “Looks like you got a little trouble here. Want a hand?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Corinne says.

“Terrific,” Frank says. “Damn road went out from under the car while I was turning around.”

“Cut it too tight,” Granpop says.

Frank gives him an ugly look, then turns back to the newcomers and gets up a grin. “I bet with you two men, we could push it right out of there.”

“No doubt,” says Pete.

Frank holds out his hand. “Frank Brown. This is my wife, Corinne, and my father, Donald.”

“Pete Smith,” says the fat young man.

“Galen Prentice,” says the redhead.

There are handshakes all around. Granpop mutters “Meetcha,” but hardly gives them a glance. He’s looking at Billy.

“Ma’am,” Galen says, “why don’t you take the wheel? Me and Pete and your handsome hubby here can push while you steer.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Corinne says.

“I could do it,” Granpop says. “It’s my car. From back in the old days. They really knew how to make em back then.” He sounds sulky, and Billy’s heart, which had risen a little, now sinks. He thought Granpop might have an idea about these men, but now guesses he doesn’t.

“Gramps, I need you to do the heavy looking-on. I’m sure Frank’s missus can do the driving. Can’t you?”

“I suppose…” Corinne trails off.

Galen gives her a thumbs-up. “Sure you can! Kids, you stand aside with your gramps.”

“He’s Granpop,” Mary says. “Not Gramps.”

Galen grins. “Why sure,” he says. “Granpop it is. Granpop goes the weasel.”

Corinne gets behind the wheel of the Buick and adjusts the seat forward. Billy can’t stop thinking of that leg sticking up out of the murky water in the cellar hole. The blue sneaker.

Galen and Pete take spots on the left and right of the Buick’s canted rear deck. Frank is in the middle.

“Start her up, missus!” Galen calls, and when she does, the three men lean forward, brace their feet, and place their hands on the station wagon’s flat back. “Okay! Give it some gas! Not a lot, just easy!”

The motor revs. Granpop bends toward Billy. His breath is as sour as ever, but it’s Granpop’s breath and Billy doesn’t mind. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Dead lady,” Billy whispers back, and now the tears come. “Dead lady in that hole up there.”

“Little more!” Fat Pete yells. “Goose the bitch!”

Corinne gives it more gas and the men push. The Buick’s rear tires start to spin, then take hold. The Estate Wagon comes up onto the road.