The tape, the CCTV tape, black and white and out of focus on the mini TV in the closet-sized office of strip mall security, shows a middle-aged woman talking with her hands to the young sales clerk behind the counter. He looks like she might as well have her hands crushed around his balls. He nervously rolls on his feet. A transaction takes place. She leaves.
The next morning his dad was sitting at the small kitchen table huddled over his coffee, hands shaking, bags under his eyes. He motioned Andy over. Andy's heart raced as he took each fearful step. As he got closer, his father picked up a pocket knife off the table and held it out to Andy.
The house was crooked. Its paint, whatever was left of it, was of mysterious original coloration. The entire thing was made of wood, wood that creaked underfoot, creaked in the wind, creaked when the sounds and reverberations came from within it.
Skate’s body resonated. Whenever music played, her whole body vibrated like a giant organic subwoofer. When a car drove by, buzzing a bass line for the whole neighborhood to enjoy, Skate would rattle more than their rear windshield.