Free The Suburb Beyond the Stars by M. T. Anderson

chin and her pantsuit. She didn’t seem to mind, however. She told the kids to get ready for bed.
    “You have to keep them inside, ma’am,” said Brian. “It’s really dangerous out there. Did you see the car? Hooked up to the horses?”
    “People speed,” said the woman, pressing down her mud-spattered hair. “They go so fast. Where are they trying to get to? Or what are they trying to get away from? Sometimes I wonder.”
    Brian looked at her oddly. He said, “Mrs. Drake, did you fall down?”
    She raised her eyebrow. “What are you suggesting?” She smiled tightly. “Anyway, thank you for sending the kids in. I hope you had a good time playing.”
    And then she closed the door.
    By three in the morning, the neighborhood was silent and mostly dark. No one stirred on the streets and culs-de-sac, the lanes and ways, except one child walking in desolate circles, his bike confiscated, his eyes half closed. In the houses, people lay in their beds, some asleep, dreaming of jobs, others staring at the closet door or the blinking of the time. Dogs sighed at the foot of quilts. The mountain rose above them all.
    In one house, a boy was awake and pacing. Brian could not sleep. He was too worried. He felt invasion in his chest, the stealthy disruption of rest by anxieties. His unease was physical, and kept him roaming about the living room and kitchen. His hands ached from where he’d hit the solidifying monster. His knuckles were bruised. He couldn’t believe that his best friend could sleep at a time like this.
    At five, he sat down on the sofa to rest for a minute. He stared at the scrolls framed on the wall. They made no sense, a cavalcade of men in hats. He stared at them until his eyes closed. He tilted his head backward, and at last, was asleep.
    In nearby houses, men and women prepared for work.

ELEVEN
    T he scud of running shoes on pavement woke Gregory up. It was seven thirty — or at least the clock said it was — and a jogger was going past. It was the same man they’d met the day before in the construction zone, who’d told them about the chariot.
    Gregory looked around the room. He wished Prudence were there. For one thing, she would have fixed them breakfast. For another, it would have been fun to tell her about the night before. She would have been proud of him, walloping the monster with a rake.
Brave,
she might have called him.
    Gregory found Brian asleep in the living room. “Hey, Slumberina.”
    Brian stirred and looked around, reaching clumsily for his glasses.
    “If you weren’t going to sleep in the bed,” Gregory said, “why didn’t you let me use it? The floor was completely uncomfortable.”
    “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I came out here.”
    “I see that.”
    They ate stale cereal without milk. They didn’t speak while they ate. They just pulled cat hair out of their mouths.
    They left the house about fifteen minutes later. People were just setting off for their jobs.
    “So we’re going back to the sales office,” said Gregory.
    “To meet Milton Deatley,” Brian agreed.
    “Deceased.”
    Brian nodded.
    Mrs. Drake, no longer dirt covered, was talking to a girl who was about Brian and Gregory’s age. “Don’t let them watch too much TV,” she said. “Unless they’re watching those ‘Little Achiever’ videos. Send them outside to play. There’s a lot of kids their age in the neighborhood.” She saw Brian and Gregory and waved. “Hi, boys!” she said. “Thanks again for bringing the kids home last night!”
    “No problem,” said Gregory.
    Brian went over to her. “Um, ma’am,” he said. “You might want to, you know, keep them with you. More. It really isn’t very safe around here. I don’t think people understand what’s going on.”
    “What do you mean?”
    The babysitter girl was goggling at Brian.
    Brian shrugged nervously. “I think that this isn’t a normal development. I think there’s something wrong here. Someone is watching you and is confusing