When his mother and next oldest brother die after becoming afflicted by one of the endless plagues that scour their already ravaged community, their tinderbox fortress, a fresh siege mentality takes hold. The family must work harder, be more vigilant, and keep closer watch. He does not think this will help; in truth, he thinks nothing will help. They are victims of times and events that are overwhelming. They are trapped in their lives like rats in cages. They are dead men walking.
He doesn’t let this thinking dominate him the way he thinks it probably dominates his brothers. He refuses. He is caught up in the magic of his art, and in art there is escape from the realities of life. There is peace and beauty and a sense of satisfaction. He cannot change the world around him, but he can make a stab at changing it in his drawings.
He becomes more and more of an oddity to his family. They are angry with and disappointed in him, and they no longer bother to hide it. They have come to view his behavior as a burden on the family—one that they increasingly see as unnecessary. If he is to be a part of the family, he must change. He must become like them—hardened to the future, focused on survival, willing to put aside childish pursuits in favor of mature commitments.
He is eleven years old.
He tries to live up to their expectations, but it is impossible for him. He can carry out the tasks they give him, can fulfill the obligations he is assigned, but he cannot become what they are. Father, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins, they are all of a piece, and he does not fit.
A few of the younger cousins show interest in his drawings and his vision of things they cannot see. But their elders quickly discourage them and direct their attention elsewhere. They are told not to spend time with him, and are given work that will make certain that they can’t. It is all done subtly and surreptitiously, but he sees what is happening. His isolation grows. His sense of disconnection increases.
One day, he is asked to accompany his father and two of his brothers on a foraging expedition that will take them down out of the foothills in which they reside to a nearby ghost town. It is an expedition that requires several nights away from home. He senses there is something odd in the way his father makes the request, but accepts that he must do as he is told.
When he returns, all of his drawings and art supplies are gone. He searches for them everywhere, but they are nowhere to be found. No one claims to know what has become of them. Several of his brothers suggest he has misplaced them. His father tells him to forget about them and think about more important things.
He is devastated. His art is all he has that he cares about, and now it has been taken away from him.
A week later, he leaves home in the middle of the night. He walks south and west toward the city of Seattle, a place where he knows he can find the supplies he needs. He has never been to Seattle. He has barely been anywhere and does not have experience or skill at finding his way. But he is lucky. Nothing bad happens to him in the five days it takes him to reach his goal. He is hungry and thirsty much of the time, having not thought to take much of anything with him to eat or drink. He reaches the city in one piece and begins his search.
Fortunately, his search puts him in a place where he encounters the Ghosts. He becomes a member of their family and finds a place where he is accepted for who and what he is. His passion for drawing is indulged. His eccentricities are tolerated and even admired. He is given a chance to become the person he knows he is meant to be. He is loved.
But finding you, he tells his best friend over and over again, is even more important than all of this. Finding you is the best thing that ever happened to me.
FIXIT STARED OUT across the abandoned campsite, the ground empty of tents, equipment, supplies, and vehicles, cleared of people. The wind was blowing dust in sharp gusts, sweeping across the hills and scooping out the gullies. Overhead, the midday sky was cloudless, and the sun was a blazing white ball in an endless blue sweep.
Chalk would have admired a day like this one, if he had been there.
Fixit kept searching the landscape, thinking that he had overlooked something and might still find it or that he would miss something if he looked away. He already knew it was hopeless, that Chalk wasn’t coming back. But he couldn’t help himself; he still looked. A part of him refused to accept what the rest of him already had. A part of him still hoped.
How had it happened? How had he allowed it to happen?