HIS VIEW IS BLOCKED by someone’s face—which fills the c***k in the door, trains an empty eye socket upon him. In the space of an instant it is gone—d**g away by a group of snarling animals (which look for all the world like velociraptors out of Jurassic World). He jolts away, staring dumbly, then bolts from the snack bar, shoving through the glass door with both hands, turning and wheeling on the boardwalk, looking for his brother. Surely he could not have gone far; surely he must still be visible, walking toward the truck, his stupid white pants glowing, his feathered hair trailing, his clam-shell necklace glinting. He looks at the screen and sees poor Mrs. Skinner—who reminds him of his mother now that his mother wears only baggy shirts and sweats and has lost most her hair; now that she
