Free The Country Ahead of Us, the Country Behind by David Guterson

really exist, that everything was in reality something else we didn’t know about.
    After a while we gave up on the useless things and watched for the points of light that were satellites among the forever-fixed stars. We watched them hurtling slowly to the horizon, gravity tugging them always toward the earth so that they moved in a relentless straight line out of vision. Gary said that, if need be, a satellite could take a close-up photograph of us in our sleeping bags, as soon as the sky became light enough.
    “But it doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s beautiful up here. I’m glad we came. I’m glad we’re here.”
    I heard him, minutes later, moving toward sleep, and I began to feel alone among all those mountains. And then I couldn’t fall asleep that night; I felt ashamed of myself. Butlater on I found that Gary was awake too, and then we passed the dark hours talking.
    “Two insomniacs,” he said after a while. “Crazy, Bud. Insane.”
    “At least we’ve got someone to talk to,” I said.
    “At least we’ve got that,” said Gary.

Piranhas
    T he door of Paul’s bedroom opened one evening and his parents and their dinner guests came in.
    “Paul’s room,” his mother announced. “And Paul.”
    “And is this connected to the intercom system?”
    “Certainly it is. The whole house is.”
    “So you can call him for dinner. How convenient.”
    “If there were such a thing as dinner,” said Paul’s mother. “If dinner existed, yes.”
    She laughed, airily, at her own words.
    The guests fanned out, looking at things with calm detachment, absorbed by the walls, the floor. Paul, his hands in his lap, sat on the edge of his bed and watched them silently.
    “He has his own television,” someone pointed out.
    “He has his own television, yes,” said Paul’s mother.
    “Strictly regulated,” added his father. “The homework has to get done right before the television comes on at night.”
    The guests eyed Paul with curiosity now. He thought heknew what they were thinking, though—was he the sort of boy who had trouble at school? Was his homework a family problem?
    “What grade are you in, Paul?” somebody asked.
    “Seventh,” his mother said. “We started him early.”
    “Look at this,” one of the guests insisted. “The dial on this intercom’s turned all the way down. How can he hear anything?”
    “He can’t,” said Paul’s mother. “We never use that, really. It’s just there.”
    “I’ve always thought that about intercoms. You can’t justify the expense.”
    “Oh, come on,” answered Paul’s mother. “Let me tell you something. It came in handy when Paul was a baby. We could monitor his crying from upstairs.”
    “Well how much is an intercom system? Let’s hear some figures on this.”
    “I don’t remember,” Paul’s mother answered.
    “It came with the house,” said Paul’s father.
    “Well, what good is it if you don’t use it?” said the guest. “It’s just a lot of useless wires running through the walls.”
    “That’s it,” said Paul’s mother. “Useless wires.”
    For some reason everybody laughed at these words. Then, as if by some unspoken agreement, it was time for the house tour to move on.
    “Hey, Paul,” somebody said. “You’re one lucky guy living in a place like this. And I bet you don’t even appreciate it.”
    Once again, everybody stared at Paul. They stood together in a group near the doorway, drinks in their hands, bored.
    “He’s the silent type,” explained Paul’s mother. “Say goodbye to everybody, Paul.”
    “Good-bye,” Paul said. “See you.”
    They went out. He could hear them in the hall. “Let me show you my new hot tub,” his mother was saying. “It’s wonderful.”
    Walking home in the rain on Monday afternoon, Paul slipped into the pet shop on Sixty-fifth Street.
    “Wet out,” the man at the counter said in greeting. “You know what I’m saying? Wet.”
    The man wore a square mustache and black