I Knew You'd Be Lovely Read Online Free Page B

from the car that he hadn’t noticed while in it.
    â€œTime to do your business,” he said, not hearing until the words had left his mouth that this was language usually reserved for dogs. Derek continued to stare angrily at nothing. “I’m going to use the men’s room,” Fetterman said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “This may be our last chance for a while. Care to take advantage?” Derek yanked the door shut.
    Outside the men’s room there was a warning sign about poisonous snakes and insects; the drawing pictured a coiled rattler and a scorpion. An oddly placed reminder that there was no escaping danger, even during the most banal activities. When he was reading up on campgrounds, Fetterman had learned how to deal with an aggressive mountain lion—wave your arms, throw rocks, but
never run
—and that kangaroo rats were so efficient at recycling the fluid in their bodies that they sometimes urinated crystals. What exactly was a kangaroo rat? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The tone of some of thewriting had surprised him. In addition to the vermilion cliffs and house-sized boulders described at Toroweap, it also said that the Colorado River was only thirty seconds away—“a 30-second, 1,200-foot free fall, that is!” Ah, the old gleefully-awaiting-the-Apocalypse approach. Fetterman marveled that he had once found this attitude amusing.
    When he returned to the car, the door handle lifted flimsily; the door remained shut. Derek had locked him out. “Unlock the car, Derek,” he said, sighing heavily, regretting that he’d left the keys in the ignition in case his son needed some air. Without making eye contact, Derek gave him the finger. You’d think they’d beaten him as a child, or made him shovel feces in a hundred-degree factory from dawn to midnight. Instead he’d had the most comfortable middle-class upbringing imaginable. Where did it come from, the sea of rage within? “I’m serious,” Fetterman said, pulling repeatedly on the impotent handle. “We need to get going so we can make it before dark.” As it was, it was unclear how much time he’d need to pitch the tent and set up camp. Fetterman had been ready to leave at two, but Carla, a physician’s assistant, had insisted on putting together a homemade first-aid kit, and spent twenty minutes showing him how to make a proper tourniquet.
    Aside from giving him the finger, Derek was unresponsive. Fetterman gathered his thoughts and tried to keep a lid on his frustration. He knew from tech support that solutions always presented themselves sooner or later; the trick was not to lose your head. Instead of supplying Derek with whatever reaction the child was trying to provoke,he’d just wait him out. He sat down on the pavement, not a good idea—that must be what fiery brimstone felt like—and immediately stood up. It was so hot the soles of his sneakers were tacky against the asphalt. “Open the door!” he yelled, just as a mother heaved herself out of a Buick station wagon that had pulled in beside him. She had a gaggle of kids in the back; there must have been five or six, all under the age of sixteen.
    â€œHe lock you out?” the woman said. Fetterman nodded, and her face curled as if the act of defiance had been performed by one of her own brood. “I tell you, what that child needs is a good whupping. Open the door, you little shit!” she said, slapping the window. Her kids gathered around the car with their bruised shins and neon flip-flops. “Open the car, you little shit!” one of the girls shouted. She kicked a tire while one of the older boys hit Derek’s window again. Then a different boy slapped the rear bumper, and before Fetterman knew what was happening, they’d all joined in, chanting: “Open the car! Open the car! Open the car!” while they rocked the vehicle and pounded on the