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And what does that have to do with me?(Disinterested gaze)
Well, that sounds brilliant, and you are the most amazing person on the whole planet! (Wagging tail, adoring eyes focused on the food in my hand, rather than my face)
What did you say? I was busy paying attention to something that’s actually interesting.(Looking off into the distance)
Right now he’s in the suck-up phase that rolls around right before a meal, and as soon as we get inside I indulge him. I get our fire going and settle in next to it, chewing a pickled pearl onion, savoring the flavor.
I wish I could actually have a conversation with Bo. I love him, but it’s not like having people around. Especially here, back in a house with four walls and a roof, I feel achingly alone. I wonder if Will is having dinner. Maybe he’s on a date with the nurse he was always sneaking looks at. Maybe he’s hanging out with his cat, Brutus.
And Scott? Scott could be on a date, too, I guess. I mean, Mom is dead, I’m gone, he’s got to be moving on with his life, right? I know he wasn’t seeing anyone when the accident happened, but it’s been months since then. He thinks I’m safe. He thinks I’m off with my dad getting started on a new life. If he thinks about me at all. I was just a kid that didn’t end up being his, after all. He was just a guy that didn’t end up being my father.
Or does he think that? Maybe not. Maybe he knows I’m missing.
The idea is startling. It hasn’t really occurred to me that people must be worried about me. I mean, I was supposed to check in with my caseworker and Dad was supposed to do a bunch of stuff to get the custody sorted out completely.
Maybe they’re looking for me. Not that they’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding me, of course, but I do like the notion. Makes me feel not so... forgotten. I’m spending all this time thinking about other people, but I’ve never really expected that they’re thinking about me. Forgotten is the most alone you can get.
So maybe I’m not that alone.
Bo rests his head in my lap. I scratch him behind the ears and he huffs contentedly. Night sounds shimmer outside; the fire hisses and pops.
I try to remember if this is what it feels like to be happy.
SIX BULLETS. I keep recounting them.
It isn’t much, but it isn’t all I have, either. I have secrecy and surprise. I know more about Raph than he knows about me. But I need to know more.
I bring all the gear up from the lake, along with as much water as I have containers to carry. As I walk I think about how to open the crate.
The knives are out—I need those intact, and it would be too easy to slip and cut myself. There are a few saws, a couple of hammers, and a chisel I think could probably work if I whack hard enough and get the right angle. It’s not until I’m actually in the shed that I spot the holy grail, though: bolt cutters.
I prop the crate between my legs and set the bolt cutters against the padlock. I squeeze with all my might. The blades chop into the padlock and start to bite, but I have to let go before they’re even halfway through. I shake my hands out, shift foot to foot, then try again.
It takes me four rounds before I finally clip through the metal. I toss the bolt cutters aside and kneel. This is it. Whatever my dad died for is in this box.
I twist the padlock off and lift the crate lid.
A duffel is stuffed inside, crammed next to a cardboard box. I unzip the duffel first and blink. Money. Lots of money. Canadian and US dollars in neat, bound stacks. If they had all this money, why were they angry with my dad for not having different money?
I guess it wasn’t that they needed it. Just that he’d taken it.
It doesn’t do me a damn bit of good out here. I toss the duffel aside, not caring that some of the money spills out onto the ground. Maybe I can burn it later. The duffel will be useful, at least; I can finally replace the ripped one.
With the duffel gone, two round shapes are revealed in the bottom of the box. I blink at them a moment before I recognize them.
Grenades.
I almost throw myself backward, but I stop myself. They’re just sitting there. I can see the pins in them—you have to pull those to make them explode, right?
They sit there so casually. Like they were tossed in as an afterthought.
I pick one up, hands shaking. I turn it over. I can’t believe that it’s safe, not really. I’m half-expecting it to go off in my hands and kill me.
I take the other one out, too, and walk slowly into the trees, to a white rock the height of my knee. Easy to spot. I settle them next to the rock and back away. I’ll deal with them later. Right now I don’t want them anywhere near me.
I pull the lid off the cardboard box next. A row of files stand on end, and a fat manila envelope has been wedged in with them. I pull the envelope out, and a bunch of little booklets slide onto the ground. Passports. I pick one up. Canadian, but it’s blank. No name, no photo. The others are blank, too—and from all over. US, Germany, the UK. Mostly US.
However these guys started out, they weren’t just hunting buddies anymore.
