Adam was flying now, pedal to the metal, pedal to the motherfucking metal, screaming down his track like a bobsled. The Hispanic guy, Bentas, put the little canister thingy up to Adam’s nose and said

“C’mon, kid take another hit another hit just one more hit”

And so he snorted it again and felt the top of his head blast wide-open. His face was burning, superheated like flames four thousand degrees hot racing across the surface of the sun. How fast his heartbeat? 10,000 mph. Mach five, no, in miles per hour? Go Speed Racer, go!

There was the roar of an infinite snare-drum roll, no, not the sound, it was inside him, in his chest, his heart, 10,000 per hour.

Overhead the sky was black and a thousand stars points of light in the black, turning to streaks as he made the jump to light speed. At this speed how long would it take to reach a star? He could make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.

In front of him, the crop covers were bright rays, sunbursting out from his feet to connect the darkness where he stood to the gilded rim of the highway.

Now Tarver was snorting from the little canister too, throwing his head back and whinnying, the sound like the squeal of horses when they fall, like the whistle of a screaming rabbit.

There was a WHOMP! in Adam’s chest and he staggered he’d been shot no not that no that was a skip of his drumroll heart. WHOMP! again.

He moved forward now, stumbling a bit, falling in between the humps of two rows. And then it went backward and he was standing upright again, Bentas yanking him up by the back of his shirt, as if he were a yo-yo.

Bentas said, “Hey, here, drink this,” and held up a bottle of wine. Wine. He wanted him to drink the wine so Adam thought yes okay I’ll drink that.

Then the top was off the bottle and Tarver was behind him, clutching him around his chest in a bear hug, locking him down in case his heart exploded and Tarver had a nose bleed, and Bentas had the purple gloves with the wine bottle. The label on the bottle said the wine came from California, smooth green glass and wine. 2002. No, 2007. No, 2002, 2002, 2002. He giggled. Red red wine.

Tarver was pulling Adam’s forehead back, and Bentas’s purple fingers wrapped around the label 2002, tipping the bottle up, the red spilling onto Adam’s chest and gushing into his mouth and he glugged it down as fast as he could, but Bentas was pouring it too much and it WHOMP! was horrible, tasted like acid rust-water peed out of a radiator, it was black and battery acid in his mouth on fire, the spit pouring out.

“Let him go,” said Bentas and Tarver let him go and Adam staggered forward into the field

retching and spitting red

red red wine

“Follow him. He’s almost done now.”

And Adam stumble-shuffled between the strawberries, his dark horizon ahead, the dark screw-toothed line of trees bouncing as he fell forward onto his legs as they rose to meet him.

He began to trot, a teetering, wide gait, a toddler’s stambling run.

Bentas and Tarver sauntered behind, Tarver pressing a paper napkin to his bleeding nose. Tarver was saying they should just shoot Adam, and Bentas was saying that Brodie wanted it to look like the kid was tweaking and died from doing too much speed, and Brodie also said if he didn’t fall out pretty quick, they could let him have a swig of the insecticide to get him over.

And to not mess him up. They’d leave him where he fell, they’d find him when everyone came back, and by then he’d probably be rotted. But still don’t mess him up.

Tarver stopped and threw his head back to stare up at the night, pressing the napkin hard to his nose.

“Vucking theng won’t stob bleeding.”

“Press it harder, asshole.” Bentas snorted. “Ever occur to you maybe you shouldn’t do so much meth?”

Bentas looked back to the truck and was surprised at how far they’d come. His head snapped back and he stared at the boy making his hurried, waddling way across the field.

“Christ—that fucker’s going to make the highway…Come on!”

Bentas ran.

Adam tottered out from the rows of strawberry plants, staggered across the rind of bare earth at the edge, then into the surrounding drainage ditch, squishing forward through the black ooze to clamber up the other side. Shrubs whipped at his skin as he moved past, but he reached the low wire fence and leaned over, the top wire sagging as he toppled over and fell onto the grass by the shoulder of the road.

He heard the splash as Bentas went into the water, and dragged himself forward onto the blacktop, crawling now.

Adam was on the road.

Behind him he saw Bentas at the fence, hesitating.

Then Adam began to vomit.

Bentas was slipping over the fence and walking toward him, hesitantly, glancing left and right for traffic.

Adam watched him slowly moving closer; Bentas was being so careful now it was funny, like he was making that tinkling piano noise when Sylvester tiptoes across the living room to get Tweety.

Adam snorted (blood now): Bentas was standing on the shoulder of the road, staring at him as if Adam were Poppin’ Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy, as if he wanted to poke Adam’s tummy to see if he was done yet. Lying on the highway, tears pouring from his eyes, blood streaming from his nose, Adam started to laugh: Poppin’ Fresh!

But the sound didn’t come. Now Adam couldn’t move, his breathing was ragged, his chest tight as if a house had fallen on it. He vomited again and felt the sweat pouring from his burning face.

Bentas had stopped on the grass. This had to be it: the kid was dying now.

Adam’s scalded mouth filled with spit, the rattling scrape of his breathing harsh in his ears.

Then there was light on the highway, and he saw Bentas turn to shadow as he raced quickly back to the cover of the fence and the bushes behind. Adam laid his head back on the tarmac, then turned his face to look at the bright monster light bombing toward him and suddenly thousands of diamonds glittered on the blacktop around him, and Adam breathed rubies into the diamonds, and then he closed his eyes, and then the impact.