At the top of Buckingham Mountain is a crooked flagstone church. We’d pass it on days when Henry’s dad drove us to school. Holding our breaths, as we would at any graveyard: a time-honored childhood ritual.
Years later we drive ourselves here, park in front of the cemetery, kill the lights.
Henry wants to challenge the Devil to a footrace.
“What happens if we beat him?” I ask.
“Fifteen years of good luck.”
“If we lose?”
He marks out fifty paces towards a blind curve in the road. White light gleams against the guardrail.
We take position and hold our breaths.