California(66)

“And that doesn’t seem weird to you?”

He shrugged. “This life—it’s my second education.”

“What was your first?”

Sailor held up his fist and knocked at the air.

Cal’s voice caught in his throat. “You’re a Planker.”

“Last class. Well, would’ve been. Everything shut down after my first semester.”

Shut down. Cal saw the farmhouse, and the fields, and the stove in the room of some lucky second-year, gone cold.

“How’d you get here?” he asked.

“I guess you could say there was a recruiter of sorts. Dave, Burke, and I agreed to come. There were a few others from the year above. Who wouldn’t be interested in ghost-town living? We were told we’d come out here to tame the Wild West.”

“Where’s your family?”

“In Wilmington.”

“North Carolina?”

Sailor nodded. “Or they were. Hurricanes, you know.”

“My parents were in Cleveland. Years ago. The snowstorms.”

They were silent.

“How come there are no families here?” Cal asked.

“We believe in containment, you know that,” Sailor replied. “We’ve got limited resources.” He stood up straighter. “Plus, there isn’t medicine if they got sick or enough food for them to eat…and what about providing them with an education?”

“But you’ll die out.”

“Us and the whole world.” Sailor wasn’t smiling. “The Land isn’t against growth, Cal. We just choose who gets to join us.”

“Oh, please. What about human nature? What about the desire to procreate?”

Sailor shrugged. “I’m not ready to be a parent, and in this world, I wouldn’t want to be. Not ever. Micah says if we don’t have examples of fatherhood to follow, we won’t seek out that path. I think he’s right.”

“And the women?”

Sailor shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask.”

Cal sat on the bed.

“I should go,” Sailor said. “Leave you to your stuff.”

“One more thing,” Cal said. “Did the recruiter who came to Plank say anything about the Group?”

“I can’t answer that question,” he said, the color leaving his face.

“What do you mean?”

“The Group, it’s not really part of the Land.” He stepped backward. “Well, it is.” He was almost out the door now. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Sailor, wait,” Cal said. “What did the recruiter tell you?”

“Only what we wanted to hear.” He paused. “That we had a purpose.”

And with that, Sailor turned around and was gone.



August had packed Cal’s shorts and Frida’s favorite blue dress. Their quilt, sewn by Frida’s grandmother. A handful of Cal’s bandannas. A few pairs of underwear. Cal didn’t like to think of August going through their things, but thank goodness he had, because Cal had been craving another pair of socks and his second pair of boots and his pillow. They were all here.

August’s ability to pick the right possessions felt like a seduction. It implied that he and the others could anticipate their needs, could guess what would bring them comfort and happiness. This delivery of possessions said, We understand you.

Maybe they did.

Cal pulled out Frida’s blue cable-knit sweater and brought it to his face. The wool made his throat tickle. August had never seen Frida wear this, even Cal hadn’t; she only used it as a pillow when she couldn’t sleep. Somehow August had known she’d feel relieved, seeing it here.

It was the same as Micah knowing that Cal would feel flattered, honored, even, to be asked to join them each morning, to make important decisions. You’re really smart, he’d said. You’re my brother-in-law.

Micah wanted him to believe that their morning meetings were special but harmless. That they discussed who got what jobs and what repairs were needed right away and what members might be on the verge of dispute and need intervention. Village-elder-type work.

Their meetings probably did include such quotidian concerns, but there had to be more. Why else would he be asked to keep them a secret from Frida? How did the Land get all its coveted objects, for instance? Just yesterday, Frida had mentioned that she’d seen garlic powder in the kitchen, not due to expire for another year. And what was August looking for on his routes? The nature of his surveillance had to be central to their meetings.

If he joined them, he’d find out.

Cal swept his hand along the bottom of the bag and hit something hard. He didn’t recognize it. He felt along its strange surface and felt wire, too. He pulled it out.

Frida’s abacus. It was one of her artifacts, stored under the cots, where the turkey baster must have been hiding all along.

Why pack her abacus? If August had known of the child, Cal might have read its inclusion as a kind and hopeful gesture. Now it struck him as wrong, threatening even. It meant August had searched every corner of their house, that he’d left nothing unexamined. He must have been there for a few nights: like Goldilocks, he’d slept in their bed, eaten their food, tried everything on for size. He had seen the world as they did, or he’d tried to, though this wasn’t about empathy but scrutiny and territory. He wanted Cal and Frida to know that.