It looked like a child’s drawing of a skeleton rising up out of the ground.
My shoulder hurt. I worried the cancer had spread from my lungs.
I imagined the tumor metastasizing into my own bones, boring holes into my skeleton, a slithering eel of insidious intent.
“Funky Bones,” Augustus said. “Created by Joep Van Lieshout.”
“Sounds Dutch.” “He is,” Gus said. “So is Rik Smits. So are tulips.”
Gus stopped in the middle of the clearing with the bones right in front of us and slipped his backpack off one shoulder, then the other.
He unzipped it, producing an orange blanket, a pint of orange juice,
and some sandwiches wrapped in plastic wrap with the crusts cut off.
“What’s with all the orange?” I asked, still not wanting to let myself imagine that all this would lead to Amsterdam.
“National color of the Netherlands, of course. You remember William of Orange and everything?”
“He wasn’t on the GED test.” I smiled, trying to contain my excitement. “Sandwich?” he asked.
Let me guess,” I said. “Dutch cheese. And tomato. The tomatoes are from Mexico. Sorry.”
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