Vacancies don't last long at Camp Green Lake.
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"I never plan to, you know, steal one," he told them. "But sometimes, you know, I'll be walking past a real nice car, parked in a deserted area, and, you know, I'll just start twitching. If you think I twitch now, you should see me when I'm around a car. The next thing I know, I'm behind the wheel."
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Two days later a new kid was assigned to Group D. His name was Brian, but X-Ray called him Twitch because he was always fidgeting. Twitch was assigned Zero's bed, and Zero's crate.
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Stanley lay on his scratchy sheets. It occurred to him that his cot no longer smelled bad. He wondered if the smell had gone away, or if he had just gotten used to it.
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Twitch had been arrested for stealing a car. He claimed he could break into a car, disconnect the alarm, and hot-wire the engine, all in less than a minute.
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"You get used to it," Stanley told him. "It's the coolest part of the day."
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"Hey, Caveman," said Twitch. "Do we really have to get up at 4:30?"
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He tried not to think about Zero. It was too late. Either he'd made it to Big Thumb, or…
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What worried him the most, however, wasn't that it was too late. What worried him the most, what really ate at his insides, was the fear that it wasn't too late.
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The next morning, out on the lake, Stanley listened as Mr. Sir told Twitch the requirements for his hole: "… as wide and as deep as your shovel."
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Twitch fidgeted. His fingers drummed against the wooden shaft of his shovel, and his neck moved from side to side.
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What if Zero was still alive, desperately crawling across the dirt searching for water?
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He tried to force the image out of his mind.
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"You won't be twitching so much after digging all day," Mr. Sir told him. "You won't have the strength to wiggle your pinkie." He popped some sunflower seeds in his mouth, deftly chewed them, and spat out the shells. "This isn't a Girl Scout camp."
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The water truck came shortly after sunrise. Stanley got in line behind Magnet, ahead of Twitch.
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He watched Mr. Sir fill X-Ray's canteen. The image of Zero crawling across the hot dry dirt remained in his head.
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What if it's not too late?
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He took a deep breath to steady himself and tried to think clearly. He had never driven before.
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But what if it wasn't too late?
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But what could he do about it? Even if Zero was somehow alive after more than four days, how would Stanley ever find him? It would take days. He'd need a car.
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Stanley felt his fingers start to twitch.
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It's too late, he told himself. Zero couldn't have survived.
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Stanley wondered if Mr. Sir had left the keys in the ignition.
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But how hard could it be?
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"Hey!" shouted Mr. Sir.
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He turned the key and stepped on the gas pedal. The engine revved. The truck didn't move.
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This is really crazy, he told himself. Whatever he did, he knew he'd have to do it quickly, before Mr. Sir noticed.
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Or a pickup truck. A pickup truck with a tank of water in the back.
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He slowly backed away from the line, then circled over to the side of the truck. He looked through the window. The keys were there, dangling in the ignition.
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He took another deep breath. Think about this, he told himself, but there wasn't time to think. He flung open the door to the truck and climbed quickly inside.
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He pressed the pedal to the floor. The engine roared, but the truck was motionless.
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Mr. Sir came running around the side of the truck. The door was still open.
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"Put it in gear!" shouted Twitch.
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The gear shift was on the floor next to the seat. Stanley pulled the lever back until the arrow pointed to the letter D, for Drive.
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The truck lurched forward. Stanley jerked back against the seat and tightly gripped the wheel as the truck accelerated. His foot was pressed to the floor.
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He had driven straight into a hole.
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The truck went faster and faster across the dry lake bed. It bounced over a pile of dirt. Suddenly Stanley was slammed forward, then instantly backward as an airbag exploded in his face. He fell out of the open door and onto the ground.
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He lay on the dirt staring at the truck, which stuck lopsided into the ground. He sighed. He couldn't blame his no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather this time. This time it was his own fault, one hundred percent. He had probably just done the stupidest thing he had ever done in his short and miserable life.
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He ran. His canteen was strapped around his neck. It banged against his chest as he ran, and every time it hit against him, it reminded him that it was empty, empty, empty.
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He managed to get to his feet. He was sore but didn't think he had broken any bones. He glanced back at Mr. Sir, who remained where he was, staring at Stanley.
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