Page 8 of Trailer Park Billionaire

“No, I don’t know the drill!” a surprisingly high voice answers with a rather strong Russian accent. “We don’t have an emergency drill!”

Mr. Lyon pushes—who I assume to be his driver—into the seat, buckling the belt around him with a snap. “It’s an emergency! The drill is universal! It’s to go fast!” He presses a button that makes the giant RV turn back on. Then he puts his phone into a holder next to the steering wheel.

His driver grabs Mr. Lyon by the lapels and yanks him close. “What the fuck is this? What’s the emergency?” he snarls quietly. His eyes dart past Mr. Lyon’s shoulder—to me—then back. “And why is it crying?”

“This is my new friend: Helena,” Mr. Lyon says, lowering his voice. “Something seems to be wrong with her grandpa, so we’re taking her to him.” He points at his phone, which is set to navigation. “And she’s crying because you’re arguing instead of going fast like one is supposed to in an EMERGENCY!”

His driver grunts once, murmurs something under his breath, lets go of the lapels, and grabs the wheel. “Don’t worry, little girl,” his voice softens instantly. “We will get you to your dedushka.”

Not a second later, the wheels are squeaking, I am pressed full force into my seat, and Mr. Lyon is flying into the back of the RV. His driver chuckles as we whip around a corner at full speed.I think the wheels actually lift off the ground under me. “Better put on a seatbelt, boss,” he calls into the back. “It’s universal. Emergency or not.” He chuckles again as I grab onto the armrest for dear life.

Another of Grandpa’s paintings comes to mind—a swirl of fragmented shapes, all angled wrong, each one desperate to break free but never quite making it. Almost as if you can hear the sound of the canvas ripping.

A voice pulls me back. “What is your deda called?” it asks.

One hand fused with the armrest, the other on my seatbelt, I look over to the guy driving. He’s huge. His eyes are fixed on the road.

“Edward,” I answer.

He nods, passes a line of cars waiting for a green light on the shoulder, and makes another hard left. “I’m Alexei.” He honks and swerves a little to overtake an SUV in front of us. “I hope he will be fine.”

Still somewhat unable to speak, I simply nod and try to focus on my breathing.

“I hopewewill be too,” Mr. Lyon grunts from the back.

He will be.

He will be fine.

He has to be.

He hasn’t had so much as a health scare since he was diagnosed with diabetes.

And that was more of a startle than a scare.

“He’ll be fine,” Alexei assures, and follows up with some explicit-sounding words in Russian when a cab holds us up at a traffic light that’s just turned green.

I glance back at Ben, who’s looking a lot more disheveled than before—presumably from being tossed around the RV. By now he is buckled in in the back and gives me a sympathetic smile.

A fewsukasand even moreblyatslater, we arrive at my grandpa’s apartment complex with squealing wheels. An ambulance is parked in the driveway. I look up to where my grandpa lives, but can’t see anything from down here.

Deep breaths.

He will be fine.

He has to be.

He’s not going to leave me too.

I inhale once, twice, then unbuckle my belt and turn to Mr. Lyon and Alexei. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

Before they can reply, I throw open the door, jump out, and hurry through the entrance.

When he sees me coming, Paul Bearer—the building’s receptionist—shoots up and rushes over to the elevator. I didn’t know he could move that fast, considering he probably has a decade on my grandpa. He holds the elevator doors open and gives me a quick nod as I step in.

Twenty seconds later, I arrive on the sixth floor and know that I’m too late.

It’s quiet.