Ty whistled, moved on to the next thing. Cory focused on breathing.
After watching them browse for another minute, Harvey said, “Rather than go through the discovery process—sorry, that’s a legal term, but you’ll get used to it. Rather than finding out the hard way, I’m going to tell you three things you need to know about me straight up. Number one, I’m a busy man. And I’m about to get busier. So if I come off as abrupt, that’s just me getting down to the issue at hand. Number two, I seek order over chaos. Predictable outcomes over random events. Charlene loves surprises. Not me. So if you have a problem, the sooner I hear about it the better. And number three, I believe in the power of numbers. Charlene calls it my ‘affliction.’ The kids just call me sick. But if you look deep enough, numbers offer truths that others less afflicted do not see.” He looked at his watch, then smiled at them. “That’s enough about me. Do you have any questions so far?”
Ty just shook his head and kept browsing the fishing poles. Cory didn’t know where to start. He wanted to know why Harvey looked so fit. Did he work out? Or was he just born with a runner’s body? He wanted to know how old Harvey was. His square, tanned face was wrinkle-free except around his eyes when he smiled, which was a lot last night with Stellah. The short black hair with gray flecks at the temples put him anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. Cory was used to Benny, who always looked twenty years older than he was. Plus, that whole thing about seeking predictable outcomes didn’t fit with all the equipment in this room; when it came to random events, Cory couldn’t think of an activity more random than fishing.
But Cory chose Ty’s approach and just shook his head.
“Good. In that case, I have a question for you. Gentlemen, what is your plan?”
Ty looked up from a glass case containing three fishing reels filled with green line. “Which plan are you talking about?” He glanced sideways at Cory, as if to say, Hell, yeah, we have a plan but you won’t like it.
Harvey smiled. “You are currently juniors. If I remember your files correctly, something significant happens on June sixth, nominally nineteen months from now.”
“Our birthday,” Cory said.
“Correct. But more germane to this discussion, you turn eighteen, which means you will join the other twenty-three thousand kids in foster care who age out of the system every year. Did Ms. Deshay share that number with you?”
“Not that I remember,” Ty said.
“No,” Cory said.
“I didn’t think so. Here are some more numbers I expect you don’t know.” He watched Ty reach out to touch a fishing pole on a horizontal rack and said, “Please don’t touch anything on display in this room. Some of them are…fragile.” Cory looked around him and wondered, What isn’t on display? Harvey continued, saying, “By age twenty-one, one in seven of your fellow twenty-three thousand will be homeless. Fifty percent will be unemployed. And more germane to my profession, by age twenty-one seventy-seven percent of the males will have a criminal history.” He gave Ty a measured look, as if that number was particularly relevant to him. “After four years on the bench in juvie court, I’d say that seventy percent figure is closer to eighty. So with those numbers in mind, I ask you again: What’s your plan?”
Cory thought about breakfast, about those eggs. About Charlene’s offer to teach him how to cook. He wanted to say he had a plan since he frosted that birthday cake. He wanted to own it, commit to it. But he couldn’t get past the first part—that he and Ty would “age out of the system.” A system that two days ago he barely even knew existed. But he had to answer before Ty did, because Ty’s plan involved flashlights and stuffing his pockets with convenience store contraband. “We’re working on it,” Cory said.
Harvey nodded, checked his watch again. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen too many youths such as yourselves make bad decisions that led them to very dark places. That’s why a plan—”
“Such as ourselves?” Ty said, his focus no longer on the fishing gear.
“That’s correct.”
“You don’t know anything about us.”
“Oh, I might know a little more than you think.” Harvey took a key from his pocket and opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out two file folders. One was much thicker than the other.
Harvey opened the thicker file, lifted a couple pages, pulled one, and read, “ ‘Tyler Bic was the only shining light in an otherwise listless defense. His four sacks and three picks kept the Tornadoes in the game long enough to win. If it weren’t for his late hit on QB Stenson with ten seconds remaining in the—’ ”
“Okay, big deal,” Ty said. “So you know I play football.”
“I also know that your father, Benjamin T. Bic, and I shared a common interest. He was imbued with the entrepreneurial spirit.”
Ty glanced at Cory.
“Let’s assume from this point on that I rarely make decisions based on gut instinct alone. As stated earlier, I’m not a fan of surprises.” Harvey returned the sheet to the folder, put both files in the drawer, closed, and locked it. While he was doing this Cory wondered what Harvey had in the second file and if he would ever know.
Harvey said, “I’m sorry about your father. It’s a horrible way to die. And your mother leaving you is another challenge. But this discussion isn’t about your past. What I want to do is look ahead. What I’m—” His cell phone rang. Harvey answered, said, “It’s about time. We’ll meet you outside,” and pocketed the phone. He stepped out from behind his desk. “What I’m proposing is this—let’s make today day one of your new plan. A plan that elevates you above the perilous future of your fellow thirty thousand. Does that work for you?”
“Yes,” Cory said. Ty waited a few seconds before nodding his head.
“Good. Are you familiar with the term ‘milestones’?”
“Yeah. They live next to the Flintstones,” Ty said.
Harvey laughed. It was warm and deep and filled the room. “I’m surprised someone your age is familiar with that cartoon.” So he does get surprised, Cory thought. “Milestones originates from the ancient Romans. They carved blocks of granite into milestones and placed them on their roads at regular intervals to indicate a unit of distance traveled.”
“Why do we care about old rocks?” Ty asked.
“Do you know how to drive?” The question was directed at both of them.
“Yes,” they said.
“Follow me.”
Harvey walked across the room, unlocked the dead bolt, and opened the second door. Cory blinked at the sunlight, then gratefully stepped out into cool, fresh air. It took a moment to see the porch, then recognize where they were. Harvey’s man cave was next to the garage. They were standing in the upper driveway and had just exited the same door that Kayla, the former babysitter, used last night. Harvey walked to the car with the cover over it. He pulled it off, revealing a Volvo station wagon. It was black, although there was so much dust on it that the paint had a grayish tint. The front passenger tire was flat and there was a sizable dent in the front passenger door. “This is milestone number two. She doesn’t look like much now, but her engine purrs and she’s built like a tank. After you demonstrate safe driving skills, and perform well at milestone number one, this will be your car to drive while you’re here.”
“I’m liking this plan,” Ty said.
Cory said, “I don’t have my driver’s license.”
“Why not?”
“I lost it in the fire.”
“That’s unfortunate. But you have yours?” Harvey said, looking at Ty.
“Yes.”
“Birth certificates?”
They answered with silence.
“All right. Tell Charlene. She’ll get that worked out.” He paused at the sound of a car with a sketchy muffler coming up the driveway. “Your escort is here. Before I go, do you have any questions for me?”
“What’s milestone number one?” Cory asked.
A green car pulled into the circular drive and rolled to a stop.
“I’ll leave that up to Tony. Let’s get to work on that plan. Have an excellent day!” Harvey disappeared into his man cave. Cory heard the dead bolt click.
Cory looked at Ty. “Flintstones? Really?”
The horn honked.
“Shotgun,” Ty said.
STUMPTOWN
NOW
29
Her eyes finally open. Slow to start, just narrow slits showing blue. Then wide enough to focus on me sitting in my long underwear on the old chest staring down at her. She tries to sit up, winces, lowers herself slowly to the floor.
“Careful,” I say, my breath clouding around me. “You’ll need to take it slow for a while.”
She looks at the gauze taped around her wrist.
“I bandaged the cuts. And I resplinted your arm.”
Her eyes zero in on the sleeve of the shirt she’s wearing; then she lifts the sleeping bag and peers inside, gives me a troubled look. I explain what I did. She stares at me for a beat, then closes her eyes and nods. Good. Now for the real test. “How’s your arm?”
Her eyes fly open. She shakes her head.
“It hurts?”
Her eyes narrow on me, as if to say, What kind of a dumbass question is that?
“What’s the pain like on a scale of one to ten?”
She shows me five fingers, then four.
A nine. I was hoping for a six or seven. I show her the bottle of ibuprofen. “Would you like some?”
A big nod this time.
I shake out four pills, lean forward, and give them to her. She puts the pills in her mouth while I uncap the water bottle. I hand it to her and say, “Easy on this. We need it to last.” She washes the pills down with two short swallows. I take one myself then recap the bottle, feel her watching my every move. As if it’s just a matter of time before I do some other thing to hurt her. I risk a quick look into those eyes. I don’t see full-blown anger. But it’s clearly in the neighborhood.
It’s time to say what I’ve been avoiding.
“Do you remember what happened outside?”
She nods slowly. I think this is as hard for her as it is for me.
“Do you remember when you ran and fell and I picked you up?”
I get the narrow-eyed glare. For a second I think she’s going to rise up and hit me. If that happens I won’t stop her. In fact, I’d welcome it. She no doubt has a different take on what happened—that I chased her, maybe even knocked her down. She probably hates me and I can’t blame her. I press on anyway. “Do you remember what happened after I picked you up?”
A pause. Astrid shakes her head, licks her lips. I give her another sip of water. Her eyes close tight from the obvious pain. “I screwed up, Astrid. I should have told you the truth about this place and let you decide.”
She blinks, then nods. That could mean anything from Yes, asshole, you did screw up to Don’t stop now, asshole, you’re on a roll. Either way it’s pretty clear what she thinks of me.
“While you were unconscious, I made a promise to myself that when you woke up I would never lie to you again. So from now on it’s the truth, no matter what.” I take a deep breath. “I broke your arm, Astrid. It was so bad there was bone sticking out of skin. You collapsed in my arms.” I pause. “The wound got pretty messed up. I did the best I could to clean it, but we didn’t have a lot of water.” Tears are streaming from her eyes. I’m struggling to hold mine back. “So here’s the deal now. This is all the water we have.” I show her the remaining bottle, which is less than half. “It isn’t enough for two people for two days, especially if I have to clean your wound again.”
She shakes her head, like she really doesn’t want that to happen.
“I’m worried about infection, Astrid. And…full disclosure here…there was a dead coyote behind the stove and I got some of it on my hands. That’s the bad smell.” Her eyes widen in surprise—or maybe alarm. “Don’t worry about this being a coyote den. It had been shot. I think it just crawled in here to die.” Her eyes go even wider. Oh shit! Did I just really say that? Words start geysering from my mouth. “Forget what I just said. That was seriously stupid. You’re not going to die. It’s just a broken arm. People break arms all the time. Ty’s broken both of his, and he’s—” I stop myself before I go down that road. “You’ll be okay. And don’t worry about the driver dude. He’ll never find us here. It’s all good, Astrid. It really is.” I smile, as if I believe all the shit I just said. “So you stay here and relax. I’m going to get more water. The good news is, it’s raining, so our tracks in the snow are almost gone. I’ll be back in an hour.” I begin to stand.
She shakes her head.
“What’s wrong?”
Astrid points to the door, shakes her head again.
“You want me to stay?”
She points at me, then the wooden chest.
I sit.
She nods, her eyelids drifting down.
I may be wrong here, but my guess is it’s not that she wants my company specifically—she just doesn’t want to be alone. I listen to her breaths, watch the small puffs of vapor rise and fade. She settles into a wheezy but regular rhythm. I lean in for a quick look. Her skin has a pinkish color, which I hope is a good sign. That means she’s warming up. After a few minutes, I’m pretty confident that she’s asleep. With her situation stable I’m tempted to get water now. It’s really what I should do. She would never know that I was gone—other than the fact that we would magically have more water. I shake that thought away. She asked me to stay and that’s what I will do. Besides, I need to sleep. That need is like a heavy hand on my spirit pushing me down.
Before I collapse I look out both porthole windows—still gray and raining softly. Our tracks are pretty much gone. I make sure the ceiling vent is open and blow out all but one candle, slip the headlamp over my head in case the candle goes out; then I slide my sleeping bag off hers, zip myself inside, and hope that sleep comes fast and easy.
But sleep does not come fast or easy. I was afraid it would be the terror of the driver’s flashlight coming down the slope, or Ty leaving, or even the gut-emptying sight of blood-tipped bone through skin that would haunt me in the almost dark.
It’s none of those visions.
As I listen to the sound of her breathing and feel the steady rhythm pull me closer to my own personal oblivion, all I see are those bruises. I hope that whatever violences she endured are behind her and that this hole in the ground is what I promised it would be: a refuge and not a grave.
LUSTER, OR.
ELEVEN MONTHS AGO
30
Tony Tanaka, their caseworker and self-appointed first cool friend in Luster, downshifted his Jeep to third to miss a squirrel crossing the road. As the gears shrieked on their way back to fourth, Tony growled between gritted teeth, “If that creature cost me a new transmission, I’ll road-kill the next one and all its bucktoothed kin.” He backfired through a blinking yellow light, crossed a two-lane without checking for traffic, and the tour of their new domain continued.
“This isn’t the way we came in,” Cory said from his spot behind Ty. His backseat companions were a Trail Blazers desk lamp, a mesh bag of basketballs, and a box of dusty books by Louis L’Amour and Danielle Steel. Cory wondered if Tony had just been to a garage sale, or was on his way to one.
Tony said, “This way is faster. Less traffic.”
“What traffic?” Ty asked. “It’s like the apocalypse here compared to Portland.”
“Tractors and combines. I hate ’em. Almost as much as squirrels.”
“Where are you taking us?” Cory asked.
“Harvey didn’t say?”
“All he said is something about milestone one.”
“And the Romans,” Ty said.
Tony laughed. “I got the same talk back in the day.”
“How long ago was that?” Cory asked.
“My senior year.” They passed a sign welcoming them to the town of Luster. Tony slowed from fifty to twenty-five
. “Harvey gave me my first job.”
“What job was that?”
Tony glanced at Cory in the rearview. “One that sucked.”
Two blocks later he turned left, then right into a car dealership. Tony parked two spots from the entrance in front of a sign that read T. Tanaka. He opened his door and said, “Welcome to Mott’s Lot. Aka milestone one.”
Tony didn’t introduce them to their future coworkers because there wasn’t time. They were meeting Mrs. M in an hour at Walmart for the shopping spree and he had two more stops to squeeze in before then—one of them being lunch and caffeine. He told them Harvey believed time and blood were of equal value, and to waste either was a sin in the Book of Mott. To repeat that error of being late again today would put him on the shit list, “and trust me, my new friends,” he said on their way through the lobby door, “that is a deep dark place you do not want to be.”
He led them past the showroom floor, past the waiting room, past a door with H. Mott on it, past an office with a big whiteboard next to the door with lots of numbers and names, and above it all in big black letters: NOVEMBER MILESTONE 200 UNITS.
Tony led them through the service department into a noisy concrete room that smelled like steam and soap. There were three cars in stalls, two dripping wet and being wiped down by guys with big towels. One guy had gray hair and looked to be in his sixties, the other was in his teens. They waved to Tony, then returned to their task. The third car had all the doors open. A black hose ran from the ceiling to the front seat, where a guy on his knees was vacuuming the interior of the shining SUV.
Tony said over the noise, “This is the detail shop. It’s where we make the old cars look new again. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the smell.”
Ty said, “I’ve smelled worse.” He gave Cory a look that said like a rotting pig in a crack house oven.
Tony pointed at the guy with the vacuum. He was so deep into the car the only visible part of him were the bottoms of his Nikes. “That was me when I started. My skills with a crevice tool remain legendary to this day.”
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