After America (75 page)

“All gone. All gone,” Maive whimpered. “All gone.”

“I know, honey. I know,” Trudi Jessup said as she rocked and stroked the woman like a child. “I know.”

Sofia placed her arms around the Mormon lady and hugged her fiercely, repeating over and over again, “I’m sorry.”

Miguel thought for a second that he might lose his humble dinner, but the wave of nausea and self-loathing that washed over him passed with surprising speed.

He could not bring this woman’s husband and friends back.

But he could do what he had promised to do in the first place.

Get them safely to their destination and his. To Kansas City.

“In the morning,” he said softly, “we shall start again.”

Halfway through writing
After America
I broke my arm. My writin’ arm. That’s why you’re holding this weighty tome about twelve months after I expected to get it to you. The busted wing threw a lot of schedules and deadlines out of alignment. Mega thanks are due to all my editing and publishing friends who helped out as I slowly got back to work. Cate Paterson and Joel Naoum in Sydney; Betsy Mitchell in New York; and a whole heap of magazine and newspaper eds along with them. And in the realm of a thousand thank-yous, I dips me propeller beanie to my faithful researcher and occasional co-conspirator S. F. Murphy, of the great state of Missouri.

As I was punching through the deadlines on
After America
, I received invaluable help from an unexpected source. The Cloud. Specifically from my followers on Twitter who were an amazing fount of obscure factoids and information such as the color of the carpet in the Plaza Hotel in 2003. Hundreds of them contributed in one way or another to this book; thousands of them if you count the people who stood on the electronic sidelines each day cheering me on. Extra special mention must go to my regulars and lurkers over at cheeseburgergothic.com, my personal blog. They know who they are and what they contribute. Nuff said.

And as always, my poor, poor family. Goddamn they put up with some shit.

JOHN
BIRMINGHAM
is the author of
Without Warning, Final Impact, Designated Targets, Weapons of Choice, He Died With a Felafel in His Hand, The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco, How to Be a Man, The Search for Savage Henry
, and
Leviathan
, which won the National Award for Nonfiction at Australia’s Adelaide Festival of the Arts. He has written for
The Sydney Morning Herald, Rolling Stone, Penthouse, Playboy
, and numerous other magazines. He lives at the beach with his wife, daughter, son, and two cats.