Even though we were at least all in our twenties, I and the cousins were placed at the kitchen table, the kids' table, while my grandparents, mother, uncles, and aunts all sat at the long dining table. This new cousin put down her copy of From a Buick 8 on the kitchen table, beside the side dishes.
"What's that?" I said.
"Stephen King," she said.
I asked if I could hold the book. I didn't flip open any of the pages. I just turned to the back and peered at the dust jacket, where the author's photo was. There was Stephen King, positioned in the corner at a cream-colored wall, bearded, his head cocked upward, his eyes toward the ceiling. Seemed typically creepy. What one would expect from a horror author. Head up, away from camera. Adam's apple exposed.



