“That’s gorgeous,” she said. She took a pull from her bottle. “Seriously.”

“You gonna share that?” I held out my hand. I took several swallows. The sunset was gorgeous, but that didn’t matter.  I sighed.

“Mr. Sourpuss,” she said. “So you got fired. Big deal. You’ll get another job.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I don’t want one. Maybe I’m no good.”

She took back the bottle. “Good. Self-pity. That’s a great strategy.”

“Look, I’m just venting. Don’t you be angry at me too.”

Her eyes flared. “Angry? Me? Why would I be angry?”

I didn’t answer. She got up, walked away.

 

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He got it in his head, so. It was a fever. No amount of lickings could discourage him. The old man whupped him so bad the last time he like to have died. As it was, he got laid up for almost a week before he got back to it.

I reckon he did find it, though. Them stones was all took apart, piled neat by a hole as big as a breadbox, square as you please. Of course we never did see him around here again. Whatever he found in that hiding hole was all he ever wanted.

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“My nona used to trap songbirds,” she said. “In Torino. She told me that they used to string nets along the trees. In the morning they would bring ladders and pluck them out by the dozens.”

“That’s cruel,” said the boy.

“They were starving,” she said. “You know how that feels.”

The boy knew. “Can we catch them too?”

“Nobody can eat them now,” she said. “The birds are why everybody got sick.”

“The birds?” It seemed unlikely.

She went to the window. “The flu came from birds. They gave it to the pigs, who gave it to us.”

 

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Ernando heard something scuttling in the ankle-deep water. A rat, maybe. Ships were famous for rats. It was pitch black down in the hold, the air close and fetid.

Boarding this ship had not been planned. He’d seen the freighter and decided right there, rowed the stolen skiff out to the mooring and shimmed hand-over-hand up the the anchor chain to squeeze through the hawse hole high above the waterline. In utter darkness he’d slid down the chain to the unventilated cable tier deep inside the hull.

It was probably day by now. He wondered if he’d made a mistake.

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Even when they know I am out here, even when they are certain, I can outwait their certainty.

I am as patient as a stone.

As the sky.

If a man is certain or suspicious, he will be wary.

He will watch himself, prepare.

His wariness will act as a shield.

Killing a wary man does not have the same effect.

If a man is prepared, when he dies it is as though he dies in battle.

It is better, then, to strike seemingly out of nowhere.

To become the hand of fate or the wrath of an offended creator.

 

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I don’t know who dared it, but the rule was the rule.

Dare me, I’ll do it.

Anyway, it was me drew the short straw.

I squeezed through the loose board and snuck up through the weedy underbrush.

Near the the edge of the property there were a lot of broken bottles and trash people sometimes pitched over the fence, but by the house there was nothing but dead weeds.

I went to the open window you could see from the alley, black like the mouth of a corpse.

I stood under it for a minute to work up courage.

 

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“We were so worried. Papa heard shots.”

He removed his coat. It was always a surprise, how thin he had become. I suppose we all had. “I’m fine, ma. Don’t worry. I’m always careful.”

“Were you able to get it?” Papa asked him. I could see he was trying to guard his eagerness. To shield himself from disappointment.

He reached into his pocket with a look of triumph and pulled out a muslin-wrapped parcel. “A whole loaf!”

Papa got to his feet, clapping. “Splendid! A feast! I’ll get the knife.”

I knew we should save it, but I said nothing.

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Two days outside Sidewinder his horse stepped into a gopher hole and busted the right fetlock. Much as it pained him, he’d been obliged to put a bullet in its head.

He’d left the horse lying there without cutting off any of the haunch to take with him. He couldn’t bring himself to butcher such a faithful animal. It seemed wrong. Now he regretted his scruples. This barren country was an endless vista of rock and scrub. Not a critter to be seen.

There was nothing to do but cinch his belt tight across his empty belly and trudge onward.

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I guess it started with that ghost hunting show. You know the one where that bodybuilder dude goes into some abandoned asylum or hospital and shouts into the dark while the infrared cameras are rolling? She loved that shit. Had all the gear, too. Laser thermometer, EMF reader, night vision glasses. It was cute.

She talked me into going. We hung around until after midnight, then went down to the ruin. I brought wire cutters for the fence. We slipped in and started exploring. It was pretty creepy.

Somehow we got separated. I found her stuff.  No trace of her.

 

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My old man was an original member of the Jackpine Gypsies. They called him The Kid back then, since he was only fifteen in ’38. After the war, he rode a  surplus Chief he bobbed himself. All seasons except February, he’d say.

I tell you, if he seen Sturgis now he’d up and die. All these fat, rich lawyer types towing their fancy Harleys behind RVs and dressing up in three grand’s worth of Schott leathers, pretending to be bikers.

It makes me sick.

There used to be ethics. Honor. Being a biker wasn’t for everybody.

That was the goddamn point.

 

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