On the end of the worktable is a mayonnaise jar half filled with gasoline. Brring! Brring! Brring! Out of thin air. He looks past the heat-shimmering stove, down the aisle where Beaver's hungover father is now making a listless What's in my head isn't quite a memory, not that, but a true ghost in the machine.
Mr Gray cast back farther yet, and discovered more pursuers. Then his feet begin to move again, leaving big red tracks behind him. He had never expected them to do anything but stay put, clamoring for due process right up to the point where they were barbecued. He rolls and he rolls, hands clutching at his swollen hip, eyes bulging, mouth pulled back in a vast rictus, and he knows what has happened, all right: Mr Gray.
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