cly, you remember when it was us and the boys                     and mom and dad and we all drove up to                     chincoteague for the summer and the car just—collapsed—                     —just broke down, and dad took the hood up                     and put his head in the engine and hollered                     for mom to keep turning the key and the sky——like fire—                     —record heat, air-con kaput with the rest                     and the sun crushing down like a mouthful                     of lemon peels, like the inside of a deer's gut——and castor wouldn't—                     —wouldn't get out of the car, he was afraid                     of the snakes, you remember the snakes,                     buckets of them wiggling around the trees——rising up—                     —leaping up to strike, and i said momma don't                     you see what's happening, but that's when dad                     all punked on motor oil snatched up a rock——a boulder—                     —biggest one he could find, and he smashed                     that thing down on the engine so hard i thought                     the earth had split, sound like a plane crash——like a death—                     —but damned if that engine didn't roll right                     over for him, just spread its legs and purred,                     and there was nothing sweeter than pulling out——past the trucks—                     —past the men, none of whom had stopped                     to help, and castor, poor kid, didn't he throw up?                     all over the back seat, smelled like milk and rot——all the way to virginia—                     —all the way to the big house, you remember                     the hurricane? you remember the hydrangeas,                     how they looked so bright inside the storm?