If hope is like a ship, thought Vince, my hopes are like the godforsaken Titanic, ripped open by a mucking iceberg! In no time at all, a ship that has everything sinks down, down, down, to the bottom of the sea.
Yeah. Death is real.
He was headed through the canyon to school, but he felt crappy as hell. He turned around in his tracks, back toward the direction he’d just come from.
Did he have a fever? He felt weak and dizzy, needed to lie down. He didn’t want to go back home. Ma was home, sick. Vince stumbled over the roots of a scrub oak tree and that decided him to stay put exactly there. He took off his jacket, pulled it loosely over his shoulders, like a blanket, and lay his head on his back pack.
This was more like it, he thought, as he burrowed his way into the cave of collective dreams.