Three (Article 5 #3)(65)

I searched for Chase and Jesse, and was informed by the female soldier with the ponytail—now wearing jeans and a patched thermal shirt—that they were with Corporal Blackstone patching the tire. Dusk was coming, shadowing the paths, and instead of wandering through the woods I discovered the cookhouse, a cabin with sweeping, vaulted ceilings, and grabbed a plate of food, pocketing a little extra bread in case we went without for some time. Taking my plate, I went outside, marveling at the families who sat on picnic-style blankets or logs circled around a fire.

I wanted to sit with them, but felt strangely separate at the same time, like it was my first day at school and I couldn’t find my friends. My Sisters of Salvation uniform was drying—I’d washed it at the swimming hole—and my clothes were borrowed. They hung off my shoulders and hips like I was a kid playing dress up.

Beside the cookhouse was a small cabin, and on the front porch sat a man reading a book and minding his own business. A woman on the ground was leaning against the railing, looking out over the group, but when I approached, she caught my eye.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I asked when I reached the bottom steps. She tucked her black hair behind one ear and glanced over her shoulder at the man, clearly waiting for him to respond.

He lifted his chin, and though I couldn’t place it, there was definitely something familiar about him. His skin was browned by the sun, his hair short and gray like the smoke that rose from the fires. Wrinkles popped up beside his eyes as he smiled.

“I do,” he said in a kind way, but with a voice that demanded attention. He stood to remove a stack of books from the wooden rocking chair beside him. “I’d mind less if you joined me.”

He seemed friendly enough, so I climbed the steps past the woman and took my place beside him. From this point I still had a clear view of the road, the cookhouse, and the paths leading into camp. I would be able to see Chase and Jesse as soon as they arrived. The woman returned to her spot leaning against the porch, and though another man came to talk to her, I could tell she was keeping her eye on me. I wondered if the man was the leader of this post; he had to be someone important to have a guard.

We sat in the quiet, the porch creaking as we rocked, the crickets chirping from their secret perches. I kept eyeing his stack of books, now at his feet. There were titles there I’d never seen, and some I hadn’t seen in years. All contraband from what I could recall.

“You like to read?” he asked.

I glanced back at the fire. “I used to.”

“I like a good story,” he said. After a moment he rose, a sneaky twinkle in his eye. “Come take a look at this.”

I balanced the plate on the banister, glancing back down the path, but the man didn’t go far. He opened the front door of the cabin to reveal a dozen bookcases, all lined with paperbacks, hardcovers, pamphlets, and magazines. My mouth dropped open in awe as I stepped over the threshold.

“Not bad, huh?”

I shook my head, unable to speak. I hadn’t seen this many books in one place since before the War. Unable to help myself, I touched the nearest stack, feeling the worn covers and waterlogged pages before drawing back to wipe my hands on my pant leg.

“Where’d you get all these?” I managed.

“Here and there,” he said. “When the teams make supply runs into town sometimes they bring me back one or two if they come across them.”

“You must rank pretty high,” I said, and he laughed. I removed a children’s book with flimsy gold binding. A blue train was painted on the cover. “My mom used to read this to me when I was little.”

“My son’s favorite,” he said. “I can’t tell you how many times he brought it to bed with him. He’d memorized the words before he could read. Could play back every word.”

“Did he make it?” The nostalgia between us turned heavy. I didn’t know why I asked that. I didn’t even know this man.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” said the man. “He’s with his mother, and though I hate to admit it, they’re in a far better place right now.”

My mouth formed a small o, and a wave of pity passed over me. I hoped my mother was in a better place, too.

He smiled. “Mexico.”

“Mexico,” I said slowly, and this time when he laughed, he placed his hand on my arm.

“Sure,” he said. “That big country across the border.”

“The U.S. border,” I clarified. Surely this man was not in his right mind. I gave him my most polite, whatever-you-say smile.

“Kids these days,” he said with a sigh. “Thought you said you liked to read.”

“I know what Mexico is,” I said, keeping my voice light. “It’s just … they closed their borders during the War. They built a fence to keep us out. They sent an army to defend it.” I remembered the images from the news: people trying to climb the wall during the worst of the riots, setting homemade bombs to break through the weak spots. The Mexican Militia rounding them up and dumping them back in Texas and California. They didn’t want anything to do with America, fearing the same rise of insurgents in their own overcrowded country.

He winced. “I recall all too well.” We rounded the corner and paused in front of a series of wrinkled maps tacked to the wall, some of different continents, some of the Great Smoky Mountains.