Free The Little Sleep by Paul Tremblay

I can see why your buddy lets you talk.” They both have their cell phones in their ears. Maybe they’re surgical implants. I point and add, “Those phones will give you cancer. Be careful.”
    “Thanks for the tip,” the redhead says. “What are you doing down on the Cape? For a retard who can’t drive, you sure do get around.” He laughs. It’s forced and goofy.
    I don’t say anything. The goons go all sit-and-stare on me, dogs pointing at some dead animal floating in the water.
    The library is in the visible distance. The clouds part a bit, a tear in the overcast fabric, and the sun shines on the library’s white flagpole. I’m on a main road, middle of the day. I convince myself that I’m safe, so I decide to keep up the chatter.
    I say, “I like the Cape this time of year. Think I’ll play a little mini-golf later. Take advantage of the off-season touristy stuff. Want to play? Five bucks a hole until the windmill. Then it’s ten.”
    Baldy says, “We’ll pass, Mushface.” He’s breathing heavy, practically frothing. His chin juts out, a thick slab of granite, a section of the Great Wall of China. It seems to be growing bigger with each breath.
    I say, “Now, now. No need to get personal, boys. This has been fun, but I think I’ll continue on my afternoon constitutional, if you don’t mind.”
    I resume my walk. I have goons from the DA’s office tailing me in a red car, Sullivan’s surveying red car. Nothing is coincidence. Everything is connected.
    They follow me. The engine revs, mechanical authority, a thousand angry voices. Clouds of exhaust punctuate the vehicular threats. The roars fill me, then pool in the back of my head. I want to turn to see how close they are, but I won’t.
    They pull up next to me again, but we all keep moving. Nobody is the leader. The car creeps farther onto the sidewalk, cutting into my path. There’s a chest-high stone wall to my left. I might run out of space soon, sandwiched between metal and rock, that proverbial hard place.
    Redhead says, “We weren’t done talking yet. Leaving us like that was kind of rude, Genevich.”
    “Yeah, well, Miss Manners I ain’t.”
    Their car edges closer. Heat from the engine block turns loose my sweat. I’m going to keep walking. I won’t be the one to flinch in this game of chicken. No way. Not after that retard crack.
    Redhead says, “I hope you didn’t come all the way down here to talk to Brendan Sullivan.”
    Baldy finishes the thought. “Yeah, wasted trip, Genevich. He’s got nothing to say. Never did.”
    I’m not safe. I never was. Safety is the big disguise. I keep walking. Straight line. That’s what courage is: dumbass perseverance. The library flagpole is my bearing, my shining beacon. I’m done talking. Just walking.
    Redhead says, “I can make this simple for you, Genevich. You can make us go away by giving us those photos.”
    My eyes stay on the flagpole. It’s covered in white vines and white roses.
    “Yeah, give us the photos, and then you can have a little nap.”
    “Or a big one.”
    “It’s time to be smart, here.”
    “We don’t play games.”
    “Ask Brendan.”
    Baldy says, “Oh, wait a minute, he can’t ask Brendan.”
    The negatives are still in my desk but the manila envelope and photos are inside my jacket. I wanted to make Sullivan look at them again. I wanted to see his eyes seeing the photos. I can’t explain what information it would’ve given me, but it would’ve been something. Maybe everything.
    Redhead says, “Be a smart retard, Genevich. Give us the photos.”
    I can pretend the photos are inside my library book and, when Redhead reaches for it, smack him in the face with it, knock him silly. Maybe it’ll buy me enough time to get to the library. Maybe it won’t. I wouldn’t mind paying the missing book fee if it worked.
    I don’t give them anything, feet on pavement, playing it cool when everything is too hot. Their engine revs loud enough to crack the