Morgan wondered what they’d thought when they found out Jack had left town. And what they’d think now, if they saw him taking a temporarily disabled man like Morgan on errands. Andwhat they’d say if they knew he didn’t like girls. What they’d feel if they ever found out what they were missing. Courageous, high-spirited, kind-hearted Jack, with his laughing eyes and wide mouth.
With a cough, Morgan waited until Jack was settled in the driver’s seat, seat belt securely fastened, and then had his phone start the directions to the army surplus store.
It was a quick drive from the library. The store was a single-level block, decorated with blue-and-red banners, and there was parking everywhere.
“I don’t need anything,” Jack groused as he parked up close so Morgan wouldn’t have to walk far. Both of which were typical of him.
Morgan smiled. “We’re here,” he said. “We might as well go in.”
Inside was rack upon rack upon shelf of clutter, from authentic army backpacks made of green canvas to boxes of blue canteens, camouflage jackets, and hats. Everything smelled like mothballs and dust.
Toward the front were new goods, tuques and scarves and mittens and gloves, as well as sage green parkas with synthetic fur around the hood. A little farther back were the socks and T-shirts and briefs that Jack needed so badly.
Morgan could tell just by looking at him that Jack, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, did not want Morgan to buy him anything. That, in his mind, this was charity of the worst, most insulting kind.
“Too bad,” Morgan said in response to Jack’s imaginary tirade of protest. “You need ’em, and we’re here. If you like, I can take the cost out of your salary.”
He planned to do no such thing, and he could tell by the way Jack tightened his mouth that it was nothing to him if Morgan only gave him five hundred dollars instead of the promisedthousand. That Jack could go on digging for leftovers other people had thrown away.
That he could stand the cold just fine, and a little frostbite meant nothing to him. Neither did the threat of lockjaw from rusty ladders, or hearing damage from the noise of the train. He was young, after all, and was prepared to take whatever life threw at him. Little did he know.
A clerk approached them, taking in Morgan’s purple cane. “Thank you for your service,” he said. “Can I help you at all?”
“No,” Morgan said quickly. “I mean, I wasn’t in the military. This is from a car accident. But yes, we could use the help.”
Jack shook his head no, but Morgan nodded, and the clerk grabbed a shopping cart and walked with them up and down the aisles. Morgan pointed at a pair of mink-brown Thorogood boots made of sturdy oiled leather. At thick socks, packets of briefs, and packets of white T-shirts. New flannel shirts of blue-and-black plaid, green-and-black plaid. Pairs of new jeans so blue they rivaled the bluest skies of Montana. Gloves and scarf and knit hat. And lastly, at one of the sage green parkas.
“I don’t needthat,” Jack sputtered.
“It’s good to forty below,” the clerk said, ever helpful and on Morgan’s side as they pushed the overflowing cart to the checkout. “It was designed for Arctic conditions.”
“I don’t need those, either,” Jack said as the clerk held up a packet containing a set of gray silk thermal underwear.
“We’ll take it all,” Morgan said, pulling out his wallet. “Can you help us load it into the truck?”
The surplus store had giant black plastic shopping bags, and the clerk was only too happy to oblige them.
Morgan handed the scarf and the gloves to Jack and glared until Jack put them on. Jack scowled as he wrapped the scarf around his neck, though there was a smile in his eyes.
“The hat, too,” Morgan said.
“What, so you can laugh at me in it?” But Jack did as Morgan asked, pulling the tuque onto his head, squashing his hair, all the way to his dark brows. It framed his eyes, making them an even more brilliant green.
“Yes,” Morgan said. “Quite simply, yes. I’ve bought all this so I can laugh at you while you don’t freeze.”
Outside, the clerk tucked the plastic bags into the bed of the truck, and Morgan secured them with bungee cords he found poking up from beneath the packed snow.
“We might get some lunch before we head back,” Morgan said, shaking the clerk’s hand and slipping him a ten. “Do you know of a good place? Pizza, maybe?”
“Where you coming from?” the clerk asked.
“Hysham,” Morgan said. “About an hour northeast of here.”
“I know it,” the clerk said. “But you don’t want to stop for lunch.”
“What?” Morgan asked. “Why?”
“We usually get a bit of snow this time of year,” the clerk said. “But this is some crazy-assed weather. There’s another storm on its way.” He pointed to the sky.
