When Mr. Davy parks the car at Rockhill Lake, Nathan promptly opens the car door and pukes.
“You couldn’t have made it to the bathroom?” Mr. Davy says. He opens his water bottle and pours it over the small pool of throw up, and chunks of bologna sandwich run in rivulets across the asphalt. He offers the water bottle to Nathan, who takes a swig, swishes, and spits it onto the ground.
“Sorry,” Nathan says.
“Nathan, honey, wipe your mouth,” Mrs. Davey says, “and put on some sunscreen.”
She squirts a palmful of SPF 70 into Nathan’s hand, and he smears it over his face and across his ghost-white torso. Against his neon orange swim trunks, he has the appearance of a reflective traffic cone.
If you wanna know why I did it, first you gotta know everything I know about death. It’s not a lot, really. Everything I know comes down to one moment. It’s the moment I call “the last look.” People know nothing ‘bout dying ‘til they know about the last look. This is how you know if your mortician’s up to snuff. Ask him ‘bout the last look, and if he looks back at you with blank, glazed over eyes, close your wallet and book it out of there, cause that guy may be a real businessman, but he don’t know squat about dying.