I fled the mountain with my bags half packed and did not retrieve

anything that was left behind. I went to Salt Lake and spent the rest of
the holidays with Drew.

I tried to forget that night. For the first time in fifteen years, I closed
my journal and put it away. Journaling is contemplative, and I didn’t
want to contemplate anything.

After the New Year I returned to Cambridge, but I withdrew from my
friends. I had seen the earth tremble, felt the preliminary shock; now I
waited for the seismic event that would transform the landsape. I knew
how it would begin. Shawn would think about what Dad had told him
on the phone, and sooner or later he would realize that my denial—my
claim that Dad had misunderstood me—was a lie. When he realized the
truth, he would despise himself for perhaps an hour. Then he would
transfer his loathing to me.

It was early March when it happened. Shawn sent me an email. It
contained no greeting, no message whatsoever. Just a chapter from the
Bible, from Matthew, with a single verse set apart in bold: O
generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? It
froze my blood.

Shawn called an hour later. His tone was casual, and we talked for
twenty minutes about Peter, about how his lungs were developing.
Then he said, “I have a decision to make, and I’d like your advice.”

“Sure.”
“I can’t decide,” he said. He paused, and I thought perhaps the
connection had failed. “Whether I should kill you myself, or hire an
assassin.” There was a static-filled silence. “It might be cheaper to hire
someone, when you figure in the cost of the flight.”