As Galen walked away, back into the woods toward the main compound, Bede thought he saw a hitch in Galen’s shoulders, as if he’d snorted laughter at the odd comment.
Turning his attention to the box, Bede pulled out book after book. The titles were all the ones from his list and included a whole bunch of books he’d not asked for. Which meant that Galen had thought about it, too, and ordered anything he thought might be enjoyable to read.
Bede reached in and pulled outThe Road,The Water is Wide, The Shining, andDemon Copperhead, and took those to his shelf in the tent. Coming back out, he pulled on his socks and the blood-red boots and, packing the remaining books back in the box, he made his way to the mess tent, the books getting heavier with every step.
The lights were on when he got there, with everyone milling around the crock-pot of nacho cheese and laughing at someone’s antics in taking too much, waiting for the movie to be set up.
Ducking down, Bede quickly put the books on the shelf, rearranging them to suit himself, rather than anyone else, and left the box for someone else to dispose of.
By the time he’d put the books away, he stood up and realized that nobody was paying him any mind and that all the good seats in front were full.
So he sat in the back row, enjoying the press of the inside of his new boots against his toes and realized he could see Galen’s profile.
Galen was smiling as he was talking to someone, Gabe, probably. And he was lovely to look at. So pretty.
Bede shifted in his seat, and rocked his booted feet, taking a long slow draw of breath.
Knowing that he didn’t want to watch a movie, not all stirred up like he was, he slipped away. Trotting down the steps, he thought he smelled something dark and rich in the air. It sure wasn’t the odor of woodsmoke from the sanctioned campfire, that Bede knew for certain. No, it was pot, and the good stuff too. Freshly flown in.
He followed the scent all the way to the first aid hut and then went around it.
There, an autolight on the side of the roof illuminated a young man with sloppy dark hair, and a five o’clock shadow that looked too perfect not to be carefully groomed. Around his wrist he wore a bracelet that looked like it was made of thin strips of braided leather.
He was slouched against the wall, one booted foot propping him up as he spun a spiral of smoke from his mouth. He pulled the joint away from his pursed mouth, looked at Bede, and winked at him.
“Is that pot?” asked Bede. He’d never gotten high a lot, his business had required him to be too much on the ball for that, but it’d been ages since he’d had any, and he needed something to relax him, just now.
At the young man’s nod, Bed asked, “Can I get some?”
Wordlessly, the young man handed over the joint, the moisture from his mouth still on the tip as Bede pulled in a long, slow draw.
Yes, the stuff was fresh, the smoke smooth around the edges. It was as good as Bede would have sold, back in the day, before he’d gotten into dealing cocaine. And the effect, rather than feeling like a clap upside the head, like cocaine tended to give him, the few times he’d taken it, was a gentle ease into relaxation, the aftertaste holding only the slightest trace of bitterness.
“Thank you,” said Bede, holding the joint out.
“Take another,” said the young man. “I got plenty.” He pulled out a battered Sucrets box, held it up, and pulled out a stubby white joint.
Bede bent and touched the smoking end of the joint he held and waited till the joint in the young man’s hand caught and began to smoke.
As the young man drew in a lungful, the smoke swirled above their heads, limned by the auto light as it blended with the spicy pine scent all around them, both of them looked up to watch the moths dance in the autolight.
“Share your troubles, man,” said the young man.
“There’s this guy,” said Bede.
“There’s always a guy,” the young man said with a low laugh that sounded rueful.
“I’ve been here a week.” Bede paused, taking a draw from his joint, pausing to lick his lips as his sense of relaxation deepened. “Never thought I’d make it even this far. But this guy.”
Bede paused, not quite sure what to do with all the feelings let loose inside of him.
“This guy,” prompted the young man.
“He’s so annoying.” Bede let out the smoke, swirling it on his tongue as he turned this thought over. “But kind of sweet, too. And so fucking pretty.”
Maybe his attention shouldn’t be turned by a pretty face. Maybe he should still be mourning Winston, clamping back his sorrow. Not moving on. Being faithful. Maybe he should. But it’d been five years. How long was long enough?
“How pretty?” asked the young man.
