“Yes, Tom,” said Gabe, gesturing at him.
“What’s for dinner?” asked Tom, amiably enough, though perhaps he was laughing at Gabe at the same time, testing the waters.
“Typically, they post that information on a little stand in front of the tent—and the menu changes every day—but the cooks are still gearing up. Today we are having tacos with all the fixings, and cinnamon sugar churros for dessert.”
The men eyed each other again, and Gabe knew he’d not made the meal sound very exciting. But food was food, and, besides, he knew that what they would be receiving at the hands of cooks who proved their mettle at a high-end guest ranch would be a far cry from what they were used to in prison.
“Let’s introduce ourselves, or rather, since you might all know each other, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Gabe Westwell.” Gabe pressed his thumb in the middle of his breastbone. “That’s short for Gabriele, but I prefer Gabe. And you’re Kurt, Tom, Wayne, and Orlando.” Gabe pointed to each one in turn.
“Blaze,” said Orlando, unexpectedly.
“Excuse me?” asked Gabe.
Blaze shook his head and raised his hand, like he was trying to be the most well-behaved student in class.
“I don’t go by Orlando,” he said. “I mean, my parents thought it was funny to name their sons after actual locations, but me and my brother didn’t. That’s why he goes by Alex instead of Alexandria, and I go by Blaze. I did go by Landry when I was a kid, but then I changed it.”
The little speech came at Gabe like a freshet of wind and he almost laughed at the eagerness of the patter.
“That’s a lot of names,” said Gabe, aiming for lightness. “How many do you have?”
“As many as I need,” said Blaze, and in that moment he sounded a tad defensive, as if he expected Gabe was going to tell him that he could only have one name at a time.
“If you prefer Blaze,” said Gabe, speaking with more seriousness now. “Then Blaze it is.” Then he said, “Let me go over the rules first, and then we’ll take that tour.”
The four men looked up at Gabe, the traces of prison living making their faces a little ragged, their postures stiff, their expressions wary.
Tom was distracted by the phone, as he kept looking at the old-fashioned landline at the six foot long table near the entrance to the tent. Kurt kept looking at the far end of the tent, where the skeleton of the buffet was sitting silently in place. Wayne was biting his nails to the quick, almost mumbling to himself while he did it.
As for Blaze, he was slumped with his hands dangling between his thighs, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and staring at his faded orange canvas slip-on sneakers that looked uncomfortable as well as unstable.
In fact, all the men were wearing clothes that looked as though they’d been donated and not something they’d pick out for themselves. Well, Gabe had the answer for that.
“In your tents you’ll find new gear, including boots and hats, and anything you need. Maddy—she’s the admin for the guest ranch—she’s got your sizes and ordered everything, but if something doesn’t fit, just let me know around dinnertime and we’ll get you something that does.”
He waited for acknowledgement or agreement or something, but it never came. Which, as might be expected, was due to the training, or rather conditioning, they received in prison. Theirs was not to wonder or question, but only to follow orders.
It was up to him, then, to make them understand that yes, they needed to follow orders, but that did not mean they couldn’t ask questions, or make suggestions, or even object, when the occasion warranted it.
“I know this is all new,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. “But you’ve done your time, and now you have a shot at a new chance, a new beginning. It might take a while for you to adjust, but this program is designed to help you reenter society with some skills and experience in your pocket.”
“Is it true—” Tom stopped and raised his hand, then, when Gabe nodded at him, he spoke. “Is it true we get paperwork at the end of it to show we’ve done the work?”
“It’s true, Tom,” said Gabe. “Certificate of completion, resume, job placement assistance—”
“Do we get any money?” asked Kurt, blurting again.
“Excuse me, Kurt?” asked Gabe, arching a brow. Then he waited and saw Tom giving Kurt a good hard shove with his elbow.
Kurt raised his hand, scowling as if begrudging the whole exchange.
“Yes, Kurt.”
“Do we get any money?” asked Kurt, his voice surly and testing.
“Yes, you do,” said Gabe. “I’m not sure of the rate, but you do get paid. You won’t be able to buy a mansion with it, but it’s probably more than you have in your bank account or pockets at the moment.”
Maybe he shouldn’t have come across as chiding them or pulling them low, but he knew that this program wasn’t like others he’d read about during his two-week training period, and then on his own, while waiting for the program to start. The way the program had been set up, courtesy of Leland, was better than the others, in that the men were going to be treated humanely, comfortably housed, and well fed.
