About Wishing For Simple (From: The Mere Valley)

Post 1716:

The Mere Valley: A Novel

Chapter One: Welcome

            It was the end of an era, Tim supposed. People in town would talk about it, but they’d been watching the story play out a long time. Not much left to say. Big happenings in small towns tended toward anti-climaxes, idle eyes ever-open and tight mouths ever-whispering. When did the downfall start? Tracing origins was tricky. Best to move forward. Look ahead. Consider the future. Advice of his remaining true friends. Verbal pats on the back. Comforting nudges out the door, soft injunctions to get on with it.  

Tim Semple was a grown man, after all. Thirty-five next week. Where had it gone? How did he get here? Had he always thought in tired clichés?

            Herm Burns placed a roll of bills into Tim’s reluctant hand and said something about it being hot. Yes, Herm, it’s much hotter down here in town. Up on the mountain where you live, the wind blows cooler. The air is spread nice and thin and rare, up where you live. “It is, Herm. It’s hot.”

            Herm Burns was an okay guy, pudgy and polite. Some folks in town didn’t like him at all and probably never could. Some thought he was fantastic. Tim thought he was okay. Watching Herm and his translucent son Rory fighting to hoist his grandfather’s work bench into the bed of their pickup would’ve been funny on another occasion. But that was the last of it. Semple’s Hardware was empty space.

            “That thing is really heavy,” Herm said, squinting at the sky and stretching his sweaty back. Tim smiled a little. He remembered moving the bench just a few feet with his dad when he was a kid younger than Rory. Herm wasn’t lying.

            “Are we done here?” asked the teenager, sliding off the tailgate to begin playing with his phone and his bangs in a sudden parallel reality.

            “I’m sorry, Tim.” Herm looked at sidewalk, stretching his back differently.

            “Nothing to be sorry about, man.” He gave a casual salute with the money roll still in his hand. A wink and a smile. Father and son were gone a few seconds later, leaving Tim under the Semple’s Hardware sign to wonder what exactly Herm was sorry about. Having to sell the work bench, maybe. Losing the family business, more likely. Could’ve even been a simple acknowledgement that the son he’d raised was an unpleasant flimsy caricature.

            Tim stuffed the cash in his jeans and went back toward the store to lock up. It was on the corner, nothing fancy. Built solid out of red brick, just before The Great Crash. His great grandfather had some tools and figured on selling them to make a living. The store survived The Depression, The War, all the highs and lows. The times he wasn’t around.

Not knowing how it would feel, Tim sat down in the middle of the empty space, letting memories surround him. He saw old timers wagging long wrinkled fingers, arguing about trifles when things were good, issues when things were bad. As soon as he could walk Tim learned to love the regulars, ones who’d proudly mosey in smelling of chewing tobacco to buy a single washer or nut; pretexts to wile away daylight telling the same stories with different embellishments. He felt it now, looking down at the indestructible hardwood floor. No more supposing. Truly.

The end of an era.

            “Are you Timothy Semple?” He blinked away the fog to see a young woman struggling with a box by the door.

            “That’s me,” he said, standing up quickly, eager to hide any lingering emotions on exhibit. 

            “I’m Reny Davies. Dru Davies’ niece.”

            “Of course.”

            “Okay,” she said, grunting to set down her belongings. “You’re confused, and I can’t explain with all this—ah, better. Stuff in my hands.”

            As she sprang upright, unburdened with a smile, Tim returned the expression and opened his eyes accidentally too wide. He’d been abducted from sentimental reveries and set down before a remarkable beauty. Maybe it was the somber situation and the shabbiness of the store making her stand out in contrast. No, he thought, catching his breath. She’s something else, alright. Almost as tall as him, and he was a little over six feet. Golden-haired, cheeks full with a little red. A face and figure so pretty you just sort of end up standing there.

            “I guess I’ll just keep, talking.” Tim realized he was being inscrutable and weird by the time she continued. “Dru Davies is the painter that’s going to be using this space for the next six months. Until they—”

“Tear it down,” Tim said, the delivery too firm. She winced a bit. “Sorry. Damn. I wasn’t even planning on being here. Met a guy to sell the last of the—last.”

            She made a kind face and said, “It’s not your fault, Mr. Semple.”

            It was the phrase Tim probably wanted to hear more than any other in English or any other language. But not the way she meant it. How did she mean it? “How’s that, ma’am?”

            “Tomorrow’s the first of the month. I popped in before getting to the hotel. Thought I’d take a chance, give the space an early look and drop a few things off.”

            Finally, he understood. A just-arrived Transplant. One who made more sense in the New Mere Valley. “Tim,” he said, holding out a hand and slowly stepping her way. “Good to meet you, Ms. Davies.”

            Moving beyond their clunky introductions, he helped her with some more boxes as she talked freely about finishing up art degrees in London, England, how this was the perfect situation, how lucky she was to be able to have an aunt as commercially and critically revered as Dru Davies.

            “What happens in six months?” Tim asked.

            “What happens—oh, I get it. The new studio is being built. This is sort of a place to get established in the area while it gets finished.”

            It made sense. Smart. With all the money moving into the area, expensive paintings would be in serious demand. Miles of fresh walls to decorate. “That sounds like a good plan. I should’ve been an artist.”    

“Feels like you’re being way too nice. And that I’m horrible.”

            Tim didn’t know exactly how well informed she was. How long he had struggled against the inevitable closing of the store. It would be impossible to explain in a short conversation and things were growing more and more pleasant. He’d always have sadness and regret.

Later for all that.

Did they have rapport? A spark, even? No way. She was simply a nice person who happened to know zero other people in town, and he could carry boxes as well as the next guy.

            “I’m glad we met,” she said. “I hope everyone in Mere Valley is as cool as you. I might never leave.”

            Reny’s eyes were deep green and slightly downturned, a hint of sadness shading her singular appearance. Tim wanted to keep talking, but he figured on doing the polite thing. “Good luck setting up shop. I’m sure things will go well.”

            He was surprised by a hug. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to fully lift him from the epochal melancholy of the day.

            “Well,” he said. “Ok. Thanks for that.”

            They stared at each other for a few quiet seconds, faces still close after the hug. She didn’t seem to mind the silence. Experience told him interrupting the moment with words would be counterproductive at best and ruinous at worst.

            “Come back and see me if you have time.”

            Tim would make time. He couldn’t remember an encounter accelerating to pleasant so quickly. He started to assure her that she’d see him soon, but he was interrupted by a loud sound outside. Rushing out the door, he squinted at two men pointing fingers and speaking over each other, standing next to their vehicles. One was European and fancy and had a front end that would need serious work. The other was a weathered old Bronco with a slight scratch on its steel back bumper.

            The Bronco’s owner saw Tim and disengaged from the argument.

            “Don’t walk away, Alonso,” insisted the owner of the sporty car. Smoke was now billowing from under the crumpled hood. “This is your fault, damn you.”

            “Hey buddy,” Tim said, though he found himself completely ignored. Reny Davies had slipped outside to witness the commotion and was by far the greater draw.

            “My name is Hoyt Alonso, Mr. Semple’s oldest and best friend.” He calmly and confidently shook Reny’s hand with his back to the belligerent Merritt Lennox Jr.

            Tim stepped near the edge of the sidewalk. Something like a buffer, if it came to that. He’d try to be a calming influence. In a way, he felt, this was his fault. “Merritt, you should call the police. Maybe make sure they bring the fire guys. Those electric cars…”

            “You call them, Semple. I’m not done with your buddy over there.”

            Life hadn’t exactly been predictable lately. Clinging onto and ultimately losing the family business, relationship difficulties, certain opportunities, etc. That said, this was an afternoon for the books. He thought about how he’d tell the story to Gable. She loved a good story.

            Tim tried to relay the details of the situation to Mary Lee at the police station. It wasn’t easy. Merritt had pushed by him to continue shouting at his friend. He hoped Hoyt would be the bigger man and deescalate.

            “They’re on the way,” he announced, striding back near Reny and giving her a slight tap on the shoulder. “We should probably move away. Just a little.”

            She casually took Tim’s advice, arms crossed, appearing altogether unintimidated. He was a bit surprised by her lack of concern, though it made more sense as he focused on the style and content of the heated exchange. Merritt Lennox Jr. was making an impassioned plea that rearending a car parked in a legal spot was not his fault. His voice was husky and loud. His face was red. His neck, usually veiny from lifting weights, was veinier. Hoyt Alonso’s arguments were semi-targeted at Lennox’s character. He would start to throw an insult, only to pull it back. And he wasn’t cursing. Tim could tell he really wanted to curse.

            It went on like that for a minute or two. A couple of guys that really didn’t like each other, now with a fresh reason. “Sorry about this,” Tim said to Reny as things got even louder. Police cars pulled up. The fire truck. Good thing, too. Flames were rising from Lennox’s car.

            A tall black policeman approached after telling the other cops to stay put. “What’s going here, fellas?” he asked. His voice was smooth and even, out of place but welcome.

            “Hey, Sheriff,” Tim said, as nonchalant as he could pretend. “I came by to meet Herm Burns over that work bench…”

            “Hold up,” said the lawman, rubbing his goatee and listening to the argument escalate while the hoses started dousing Merritt Lennox’s car. “That’ll be enough,” he said, pulling Hoyt back and getting in his face. “Reverend Alonso. Maybe you should take it easy. An arrest wouldn’t look good to your flock. They might start running off for one of those new outfits. Hear there’s a guy came in last month, says the key to salvation is just about the same as getting rich.”

            “That’s not a very funny joke, Nathaniel.”

            “I wasn’t doing stand-up.”

            Tim had watched these two square up and tussle more times than he could remember. On playgrounds, in backyards, playing sports. The three of them were the same age and had been close friends since first grade.

            “I know what you’re doing, Sheriff Jacobs,” Merritt seethed. “You can’t fool me with this act.”

            “Let him do his job, Lennox,” Tim interjected.  

            “Shut up, Semple.”

            “Sorry, Sheriff.”

            One of the fire guys, Freddie Simon, came over and told them they needed to move farther away. The fumes were nasty, he said. “These frigging things can go on and on burning. We’ll keep it away from your store, Timmy. Already pushed your Bronco away, Rev.”

            “This frigging place,” Merritt said, walking away dialing his phone. He was a formidable character, meticulous about his appearance. Not one of those rich guys that wears the same shirt and sneakers every day. No. Lennox loved marching about his many domains in beautiful Lucchese boots and a one-of-a-kind Stetson cowboy hat. More than once Tim heard Townie girls, even the ones who really hated Merritt, admit he was a gorgeous man.

            “Likely calling his legion of lawyers to sue me,” said Hoyt. The Sheriff guided him in a direction away from Lennox, leaving Tim and Reny alone for a few moments. They walked directly into the warm wind to avoid toxic air.

            “What was all that?” she asked. A reasonable question.

            “Uhhh,” Tim said, then began giving her some highlights. Merritt Lennox was one of the richest Transplants to move to town in the last ten years. He was the owner of several large companies. One of which was Lennox’s Hardware Home and Garden.

            “So he puts you out of business and comes to gloat?”

            “Not sure. That might be what he was doing. We’ve had a few issues.” Tim looked away. “He owns the property now.”

            “And your friend. He’s a pastor?”

            Tim smiled and returned to her lovely eyes. “He is. A Doctor of Theology and Philosophy, actually. Pretty impressive guy. I’m biased, of course.”

            “Fairly certain he was hitting on me.”

            “Well, maybe. Think meeting you beats having it out with Lennox any day of the week, Ms. Davies.”

            She turned and watched the fire as the street filled up with people from other businesses on the square. “What about the sheriff?” she asked.

            “All old friends, us. He’s just trying to keep the peace.”

            “That’s why he was giving Hoyt the talking to. Can’t be seen playing favorites.”

            She was a smart girl. “Got a feeling not much gets by you.”

            The crowd gathered. He heard his name from different voices. Hoyt and Merritt’s names. People were talking about it again. Hard not to, him standing there with a beauty of unknown origins, flames dying and rising and dying and rising fifty yards away, marking his Great Failure.  One of the firetrucks was honking to keep people away whenever Freddie Simon took a breath from the megaphone.

            As the people bunched and pushed Tim and Reny closer together, comments and questions unceasing, she said, “Seems like I picked quite a day for my town initiation.”

            “Yeah… yeah.”

            He worried about Hoyt, hoping he’d simmered down. This was the last thing Nathaniel needed to be dealing with. Lennox and his like were a constant thorn in the sheriff’s side. Everything damn thing was a battle, seemed like.

            “Did Lennox burn up in the fire?” asked Mrs. Abigail Dunn from the edge of the crowd. She owned the liquor store down the street and was about as old as Mere Valley itself. She wasn’t inclined to disclose her true age and anyone who knew for sure was long gone.

            “He didn’t burn up, Mrs. Dunn. You stay over there.” Tim guided Reny in Mrs. Dunn’s direction. He watched Mere Valley’s newest Transplant and its most senior Townie shake hands as he did the introductions.

            “Saw smoke and the ass uh that stupid car. Thought you might’ve caught yourself a break, Timmy. Bastard shouldn’t be breathing. It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

            Mrs. Dunn was something like ninety pounds and still got around well. She was away from the din of the crowd before Reny or Tim could say goodbye. “Ok, what’s going on around here?” the young woman asked.

            So Tim told her. Merritt Lennox hadn’t just put him out of business. He was married to his ex-wife. They were barely divorced when Shayna traded up.

            “Wow,” Reny said. “That’s—”

            “Why people, friends like Hoyt, get so riled up. They want to protect me.”
            “No offense, but can’t you protect yourself?”

            “I’m going to do more than that,” Tim said, suddenly serious. “This isn’t over.”

            “What have I walked into?”

            “Welcome to Mere Valley, Ms. Davies.”

Chapter Two: 

            Gable chose a wise spot for her bistro. A few years ago, when Tim was helping her convert an old warehouse into something like its present form, he had his doubts. It was too far north of the town square, he said. She all but guaranteed that a ton of new developments would spring up around her in the coming months and years. New roads. New shops and offices. “Hi,” Tim said to a pair of women wearing strange angular clothing as they kept their pace, oblivious to his simple greeting, coming from or going to one of those new shops and offices.

            “Hey there, Semple,” Gable said, holding open the door. Holding back a smile.

            “Hey, Gabes,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

            “No, they wouldn’t have gotten out of the way.”

            “So you saw that?”

            “See it every day, buddy. Rich women take no detours and suffer no delays. Not even for cute boys.”

            He kissed her on the cheek as she welcomed him in and closed the door behind. It was mostly dark, but Tim knew the place down to the square foot, having put serious time into the renovations. “How’s your day going?” he asked as she turned up the main dining room lights.

            “Uneventful, I’d say,” she said, playfully or sarcastically. Tim couldn’t quite tell. “Compared to you, that is, Mr. Semple. I am but a simple, humble restauranter, preparing once again for another ravenous host.”

            He rubbed his brow with a hand that shrouded cinched eyes. His body and mind were preparing for whatever Gable had in store, be it a prosecution or peppering.

“So, was she this close to you?”

            Their faces were almost touching when he blinked open. Her mouth was close enough to feel her breath. He thought about a real kiss, arms wrapped tight around her. It wouldn’t take much. Just an inch or two, then nature would take over. He’d have to put his hands through, with her arms on her hips like that—

            “You got something you want to say directly?” he asked, not moving, trying not to smile.

            Somehow, she leaned forward without making contact. “I don’t know, Timothy. A nice girl would like to rise above the gossip—”

            “A nice girl would?”

            Gable sighed. “She would. But when half of Mere Valley texts me about you gallivanting about with some pretty young thing, a nice girl grows a little concerned.”

            “This frigging town.”

            “I know,” she said soothingly, the way you speak to a despondent child. Her hands came up to both sides of scruffy face. “She must be hot though, if people are that much eager to raise the alarm. Hotter than me?”

            “No way.”

            “You squint when you lie, Semple. Those big blues take cover. I’m going to kiss you proper now so you don’t have to keep dodging.”

            For a minute or two, Tim was free. He was no longer imprisoned by what he had to do or couldn’t do or expectations or relationship management. Her body. Her lips. The smell of her skin and hair. He loved Gable completely. Every new moment was further confirmation. She knew her power but never abused it. Though she would, at times, give him the business.

            Fair enough.

            “When are you going to marry me?” he asked, immediately regretting the question. It was desperate. It lacked proper set-up. If there was such a thing as too honest, Tim had stumbled on it. He knew how she’d answer but it didn’t take away the sting.

            “Okay, buddy. Not the right time. But that isn’t a no.”

            He knew Gable’s mind. She could think and operate on multiple levels at once, and he somehow believed not the right time was a strange kind of absolutely yes and thank you for bringing it to my attention. “Fine,” he said, tapping his forehead on hers. “Give me the all-clear when it’s good to ask and I’ll come a running.”

            “I’m really sorry about today,” Gable said, turning her head and placing in on his chest.  “You won’t complain, but there’s no way it doesn’t suck to finally say goodbye to the store. Even if it was a burden, it was a big part of your life.” She ran her fingers slowly through his hair. He closed his eyes and allowed himself the comfort.

            “How are things here?” he asked, knowing she’d grudgingly allow the sudden spotlight shift.

            “Nothing’s broken, which is a miracle. Yeah, I’m thinking it’s a good weekend.”

            He smiled and put up his hand for a high five. “You’re a dork, Semple.”

            “Let me know if you need any help. Seriously. Not like I have a job. Yet.”

            A quick kiss and wink and Gable was back to work in the kitchen. Tim looked at the bar to his left and thought about a drink. After the last few hours, he probably deserved one or two. Maybe some of that really good stuff Gable’s bartender needed a stool to reach. Maybe later.

            “Mr. Semple?” He looked up and saw the man he was there to meet. He was shorter than Tim and in great shape. Keeps himself thin for the cameras, Tim thought.

            “Hey there, Mr. Varga.” Three o’clock exactly, as they’d agreed.

            “Gable told me to come on through. I didn’t mean to startle.”

            “Please. You’re right on time, just like last time.” He shrugged his shoulders, caught and confessing. “If I’m being honest, I was thinking about having a drink.”

            It was an unnecessary admission. To a man Tim knew mostly by reputation, besides the once. He fully realized he was nervous. It made honest sense to be overwhelmed. Baz Varga was one of those people who radiated success because he was bred to it and because he seemed to truly enjoy it. Tim wondered what that felt like, if it ever got old. No way it got old the way losing did.

            Tim watched the new arrival go over to the bar and pick two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from a shelf halfway up. They decided on a table and sat. He thought Varga looked comfortable pouring drinks. Tim didn’t feel comfortable watching. “I should probably keep my head.”

            “Day like yours, you deserve at least one, Semple.”

            “Okay.” Just one. He was right. A hell of a day. Why’d he have to put Gable on the spot like that? Trying to make things more complicated? Stupid. Too much on his mind. He hoped Hoyt had calmed down and Nathaniel was managing the fire and the drama. “That’s not bad,” he said, setting down the empty glass.

            “It is. Did you think I’d go for the fancy stuff?”

            “Maybe you don’t think I’m worthy of it.”

            He laughed slightly, revealing a few perfect teeth. “That’s funny. No, just can’t tell the difference. Why fake it?”

            “But you didn’t grab the cheapest, either.”

            “I’m not an animal, Mr. Semple.”

            “Funny.” Tim was having a hard time figuring Varga. He wore Savile Row suits and owned planes but his spirit seemed man-of-the-people. It was Gable that first recommended they talk. He’d been coming into her place for months now and made a good impression on her and the staff. A guy like that, money like that, and nobody knew what he was doing in Mere Valley. Not specifics, anyway. “You still want me to work for you?” Tim asked.

            “I do, Mr. Semple. The more I hear about you, the better I feel.”

            “I’m just not sure what I have to offer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you thought of me.”

            Varga sat back and smiled big enough to catch more of those perfect teeth. “Do you think business should be personal, Tim?”

            It was the first time the CEO used his first name. He wondered what it meant, if anything. Tim started to give his honest answer, which was maybe, then stopped himself and thought about what Varga wanted to hear. It didn’t have much effect. “Maybe.”

            “You’re too careful, Tim.”

            “That’s—yes, that is probably true.”

            He felt like boasting to Varga that only moments before he had flagrantly asked Gable Sal to marry him, but that was an outlier. Most likely why it was so easily dismissed. Over the years, Tim had allowed himself more and more to be governed by apprehension. He mind worked differently than it had growing up or in his days in the military. That Tim Semple wasn’t afraid of a damn thing. People said it about him, and it was basically true. True, pre-rocky divorce. Pre-dad’s cancer, unceasing bills. Business failure. If he was skittish or lacking in Baz Varga’s intrepidity, there were reasons.          

            “Of course it’s personal. That’s why you’re my guy. I want to make this valley and those mountains into THE place. THE one everybody talks about. Worldwide. This the THE place. But it’s not just a location. People are involved. That is why I need want you, and if all the stories are true, you need me.”

            “It makes sense.” It did, in many ways.

            “And it’s personal for me, Tim. Ever since my uncle passed and I got CEO, everyone has been looking at me to fail. The rest of my family are vultures, riding the wind, looking for any weakness. This development could finally get me respect. Solidity. I’d love to say I don’t care what’s said about me, but I’d be lying. Let’s do this, Tim.”

            It was a six-figure job with benefits. He’d been living off scraps for years trying to keep the store open against Lennox and Transplants like him. Now here he was, on the verge of working for another Transplant.

            Some of the Townies would hate him. People he loved. They’d call him a turncoat. Say that nothing could justify getting in bed with a bigshot. Betraying his wonderful father’s memory, they’d say.

            “And you promise,” Tim said, holding out his hand to shake, “Merritt Lennox doesn’t win.”

            “It’s him our us,” Varga said, nodding his head with serious, squinting eyes.

Chapter Three: Fishing

            Tim left Gable’s before the customers started coming in. Baz Varga told him to take the weekend so they could hit it hard next week. He decided to meet Hoyt at a trailhead ten miles from town so they could fish the river during sundown. It had been too hot lately to catch anything during the day. Seemed a good idea. They had a heap to unwind from.

            The lifelong friends exchanged about three words on the trial leading to their favorite spot. Tim caught a few bugs nibbling on his arms, trying to confirm what they might be feeding on.

            “If you want to talk, that’s fine,” Hoyt said, turning around in the high grass just before they reached the rocks that flanked the river. “I was out of line with Lennox. The man is a real sack of—he really presses my buttons, brother.”

            “Guy hit your truck.”

            “Guy hits my truck.”

            Tim smiled and his friend smiled back. The pair could talk forever or say nothing; they’d understand each other about the same. “Just be careful. My guess, he at least half-wanted you to punch him. All to shut down your church. Cut another leg from under this town.”

            Hoyt nodded and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Tim figured it for a short prayer for patience. When he opened back up, he reminded the preacher/scholar to thank God for Nate Jacobs. Their friend the sheriff possessed an almost supernatural ability to deescalate a situation.

            “I give thanks daily for Nate. Sometimes, when I’m feeling especially generous, I might even offer appreciation for you.”

            “Very good, Your Grace.”

            In that moment, it seemed like twenty years ago. At their spot, busting balls. Talking about trouble. Nobody around. “Let’s go catch fish,” Hoyt said quietly.

The sky was turning a rich orange. Shadows started filling up the canyon. Tim could hear the trees leaning as the wind picked up on either side of the tributary. “Hope that dies down,” he said to himself, splitting off from Hoyt and stepping into the water. The bottom wasn’t deep but it was full of big slick rocks. Concentration and strength were required to get yourself set against the current. He was about to lunge deeper into the river when he saw Hoyt swimming against the stream. His friend’s head was in and out of the water. “What are you—?”

            That’s when he heard it. Unmistakable. The report of a rifle. He let go of his rod and went down in the water, negotiating the rocks, unable to get his whole body under. Hoyt reached the bank at about the same time as he did. “Three shots from the other side of river,” he reported. Coming from just inside the tree line, I think.”

            They’d left their gear by a felled tree that had been there since they found the spot. After using it for cover, Tim asked, “Rifle or pistol?”

            “Come on,” Hoyt said, accepting the rifle. He was the better shot.

            After wiping faces and deep breaths, Tim said it might’ve just been hunters. It had been half a minute since the last shot.

            “Two went right by my head, Timmy. Pretty sure the only game around here is us.”

            They huddled behind the old tree for a few minutes, talking about what they might do. It felt like Afghanistan, which didn’t feel great. Tim checked his weapon and shook his head. “This is ridiculous. It had to be an accident.” He started getting up before Hoyt could stop him. Another shot. It hit the tree a few feet from Tim’s shoulder.

            Hoyt yanked him down and started to swear. Instead, he tightened his grip. “Don’t do that again.”

            “Roger that.”

            Tim thought about using his phone. This wasn’t the war. This was America. Law. Cops. You couldn’t just shoot at people. He opened the screen and showed it Hoyt. “There’s no signal.”

            “Nope. That’s one of the reasons why we still come up here.”

            “I know that, man. I just thought, you know, maybe there’s more, newer signal. Or something. Technology.”

            “Pretty darn good theory.”

            “Don’t be a dick. Sorry. I haven’t been under fire at for long time.”

            They sat for a half minute or so, listening to each other attempting quiet breaths, listening for any other people with guns lurking about.

            “I’ve been thinking,” Hoyt said.

Tim looked at his buddy and then at his buddy’s hands, clutching the rifle. It was old and hadn’t been sighted in for years. It was their fishing rifle, for scaring away curious wildlife. They only brought guns out of habit, because there used to be more wolves and lions and bears, back when Tim’s dad insisted they take them. They didn’t have exclusive rights to that spot, and dad would say he wanted to keep his boys around a little longer and he’d never heard a good thing about getting eaten. “I’ve been thinking too.”

            “Now you’ve discovered that we’re pinned down, I’m thinking about crawling back around into that brush so I can get a look at this loon.”

            “You’re not going to do that.”

            “Semper, it’s getting dark. I don’t want to get stuck out here. And don’t tell me what to do.”

            Hoyt was always one for the fray. And not just fighting. He liked the Arena, in general. Doing things other people just tended to stay away from. Tim admired the hell out of his friend’s impetuous nature, all considered. But now. “I’ve got a better idea. Will you at least listen?”

            Hoyt was wound up, understandably. “Okay. Not saying I’ll listen—go on with your great idea.”

            “In about ten minutes it’ll be too dark to see over there. But that goes both ways. I say we sit tight, wait till it’s dark. Crawl back to the trucks and get the hell out of here, man.”

            “What if they’re waiting at the cars or on the trail back?”

            It was a good question. Tim held up his pistol. “We take it slow. We have guns.”

            Tim’s suggestion seemed to make Hoyt more frustrated than the bullets. He talked to himself for a minute or two then went quiet and closed his eyes. Semple figured it was praying. He hoped they were good ones and that he was included. “Your plan makes sense.”

            It took two hours to make the quarter mile back to the vehicles. It was nerve-racking as anything Tim could remember. Worse than the war. War was the proper context for almost getting killed. He hadn’t realized how much context helped.

            He followed Hoyt’s Bronco in his pickup. As soon as they hit highway and cell coverage returned, he called the sheriff. “Nate.”

            “Hey, Semp. You guys catch anything out there? Wish I could’ve gone.”

            Tim looked over at the pistol sitting on the passenger seat. He laughed a little and wiped sweat from his brow, plus a little wet hiding in his eyes. After a throat clearing he said, “Thinking you’ll be glad for missing this one, brother.”

Chapter Four: Road

            A blurry bottle of whisky was the first thing Tim saw the next morning. It wasn’t yet sunup. Good, he thought, right before the drinking pains hit. They’d gone through about a half barrel, the four them—Hoyt, Nathaniel, and Mr. James Madison Adams, also known as Pop. They’d crashed in Pop’s living room after retreating there after the river incident. They had argued past midnight on how to proceed, never really settling.

            It wasn’t simple. God, Tim wished for simple. Instead, it felt as if there were only bad choices. He put his boots on quietly and ignored the headache gathering steam behind his puffy eyes. Hoyt was snoring on the other sofa and Nate could sleep through an earthquake, even in Pop’s old recliner. He’d have no problem slipping away. They wouldn’t hear his truck. He’d push it down the gravel driveway, let the slope take him silently down the hill until starting the engine wouldn’t cause a stir. And then—well—he’d drive. Keep driving until things started to make sense. Maybe they never would. In that case, always another road.

            Closing the door quietly, he started for the porch steps.

            “Figured on getting an early start, I see.”

            Tim had to grab the rail to keep from falling out of surprise. He turned back and saw Pop with his feet up, cup of coffee in one hand, pipe in the other. “Damn, sir. You scared the hell out of me.”

            “I was sitting right here.”

            “It’s dark. And I thought you’d be asleep.”

            “I’m an old man, Timmy. We wake up early. Dotage means lots and lots to do.”

            Tim knew Mr. Adams wasn’t being completely truthful, like he was up particularly early for a particular reason. To get in his way. “Just don’t, sir.”

            “Don’t what?”

            “It’s best for everybody that I go. Safer. This isn’t some act of cowardice.”

            “No,” said the old man, taking a few indulgent puffs from his pipe. “Still, it don’t have the look of heroics, slinking off before the crack of dawn. I adopted that posture you’re carrying, one or two times getting away from some questionable female entanglements.”

           Tim noticed Pop’s familiar Winchester leaning within reach of its owner as he rocked steady as a metronome in his chair.