“Pat told you to go to the exchange. What are you trading?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Does your sister’s treatment cost a lot?”
“Do you think maybe I don’t want to talk about thiswith you?” I whirl towards him. “That maybe this is personal and has nothing to do with you?”
A muscle strains in his neck as, for a beat, we engage in a staring contest. I don’t know why I want to push back against everything he says, but I can’t help it. The people I want to lash out at, like Tom, are far away, but this poor sucker is here and so,soeasy to yell at.
Right now, he’s not so much menacing as confused, as if I’m a bit of sap stuck to his fingers that he can’t rub off. I notice new details—like how neatly his pale hair is combed backward and the fact he’s clean shaven. It’s a style I’ve seen in pre-Quake magazines more often than on real men. My father always wore a beard. It’s as if Sid Charles is trying to resemble the respectable gentlemen of yesteryear, but it’s not a look he can pull off. He’s too hulking. His nose is too crooked. No matter how perfectly he tucks his shirt, he radiates wildness. Something about his earnest attempt to appear unthreatening, coupled with such abject failure, makes my chest hitch with pity.
I wonder what he sees when he stares back at me.Look at her, Tom. What about looking at me did he think would change Tom’s mind? My unbrushed curls? A body that is unavoidably female?
He clears his throat, and I blink, unsure how long we’ve been glowering at each other. “The exchange,” he says slowly, “will give you the government rate for any items you want to trade. It’s a decent option, but they always take a cut. You might have better luck using other channels, if you’re trying to get the best value for whatever you’re trading.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“But… well, we can talk about how legal those buyers are when we get home. Just please, stop walking so close to the bikes. You’re freaking me out.”
“Really? You scare easy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Turn here. I need to grab my bike before we head to the bus.”
“Bus? Where are we—”
“A few kilometres outside town. On an acreage. Most people do.”
“Do what?”
“Live.”
Acreage. Living on an acreage. It sounds pleasant. Unbelievably so.
It’s probably more cult propaganda. Though I have to admit, this place doesn’t look like a cult. I haven’t seen any signs with slogans plastered on them. And since leaving the hospital, no one has been openly carrying firearms. Not even Sid.
“Hey. Where’s your gun?” I ask.
“Back at the ferry terminal.”
“You—you justleftit?” I can’t imagine having the power of a gun—or ever giving it up if I did.
He laughs. “It belongs to the base. Whoever’s on guard duty will be using it.”
“Then how is—where…” As I continue to look around, I still don’t see any signs of surveillance. In fairness, I can’t imagine it’s easy to keep everyone under constant supervision here like they did in Astolia. The compound there was small enough that we were never out of sight of one of the watchtowers. What do the people here do with all this space? What do they do while no one is looking?
“Everything okay?”
“I… sure.” I force myself to walk normally. “Everything’s great.”
I follow Sid east, and a view of the ocean opens up in front of us. Wisps of this morning’s clouds blow overhead, taking their rain to a distant island. It must be another of the Gulf Islands, though I don’t know which one.
At the centre of town is a long, narrow harbor. Numerous sail boats are anchored along the pier and beyond them, massive iron barges have been rafted together to block the entrance to the inlet. Along one, the words BC FERRIES are
written in faded blue paint. The stockade must pick up somewhere beyond there, but the walls are so far away, it’s tempting to forget they exist.
“If you want, you can check the rate at the exchange tomorrow,” he says suddenly. “Then I’ll see what my guys can find for you, and you can pick your best option.”
“You don’t have to solve this for me. I can take care of myself.”
