The two men stood at the edge of the clearing, Cal with the foraging bag over his shoulder, the gardening gloves and paring knife in his hands. August had jumped off his buggy and was running a brush across the mare, who snorted at his touch.
The first time Frida had seen him approach the shed, sitting high on his carriage like someone out of Victorian England, she had felt oddly homesick. The carriage, choked with discarded furniture, car parts, crates of produce, and even a dollhouse, reminded her of those rundown trucks in L.A., filled with junk. There was always a hand-painted phone number on the side, to call if you needed something picked up and discarded. When she was younger, it had been a job for illegal immigrants, but over the years, more businesses like it began popping up, with all kinds of drivers. Near the end, they’d begun to disappear; you had to have a safe place to store your truck and its discards, or else all of it would be looted, and almost no one had that.
When she told August about these trucks, he had shrugged. “I’ve been out here a long time,” he said. But what was a long time? She’d wondered if he’d struck out for the wilderness before the earthquakes. At the time, Frida had been seventeen, Micah fifteen, and L.A. never recovered from the destruction. Nor had San Francisco, six months later. In the year following, the film industry—the kind that paid Dada, at least—left L.A. altogether, and the rich fled to the new Communities popping up everywhere. Hilda took to crying a lot and saying, “What now? What now?”
If August hadn’t seen the reports of wildfires in Colorado and Utah or, later, those snowstorms across the Midwest and the East Coast or the rainstorms north of here, he would have no idea how battered the world was. And besides, would they have bothered a man who only whispered his secrets to a mule?
August was wearing what he always wore: a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants, the pants pushed to his calves like britches; white tube socks; and the black lace-up boots of a soldier. His head was covered, as always, with a black beanie, and his wraparound sunglasses shielded his eyes. He never took them off. Frida hated how she saw herself in their reflection, which kept her from looking him in the eyes. His intention, she presumed.
He nodded at Frida but returned his gaze to Cal, who had begun walking backward.
“I gotta run while the sun’s still up,” Cal was saying. “She’ll take care of everything.”
“I’d expect that,” August said.
Frida was close enough now that she could greet him properly. Always a handshake.
“Nice to see you,” he said. “You look well.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I feel great.”
Cal looked away; he had the worst poker face.
Once Cal was gone, August invited Frida to come around to the back of the carriage. “I have a few new things,” he said, and climbed up. Frida remained where she was. No one was allowed up on the carriage except August.
“Do you have any garlic?” she asked. “Cal wants to plant some. For flavoring, obviously. But also to ward off colds.” This might be a perfect segue, she thought. Something about how she’d need to stay healthy, that the stakes were higher now that she might be pregnant.
“Let me check,” August said, and rummaged through his belongings, which, today, included an old bicycle, missing its seat, and a pile of tarps, one of them already shredded to confetti. A moment later, August was grinning. “I’ve got Vicodin.”
Had she heard him right? She’d never been much of a pill popper—as a teenager she’d preferred weed above all else—but she imagined the Vicodin sliding down her throat, on its way to making her feel good. A buzz: that’s what she wanted.
“Did I hear you right?”
“I knew that’d get your attention. Always took you for a party girl.” August pulled something from a mesh bag and stuffed it into his pocket. He climbed out of the carriage. “I’ve got a couple of the big boys. Seven hundred fifty milligrams.”
Frida nodded. If she was pregnant—what would happen? “I thought the Communities had killed the drug trade.” She remembered reading about it back in L.A.; the Communities were so safe and clean, even smoking a cigarette could get you exiled. That, and not paying your membership fees. “But I guess they’ve got to have a black market.”
August just raised an eyebrow; he never wanted to talk about the world beyond.
“I guess Vicodin was always legal with a prescription,” Frida said, keeping her eyes on him. “And those Community bastards still have access to everything that makes you feel better. Have a cold, call the doctor, et cetera, et cetera. Right?”
August was silent.
“What are you asking for it?” Frida asked finally.
“I knew it,” he said. “You love pills.”
“I was always more slacker stoner than glamorous party girl. A pothead through and through.” She shrugged. “But I could use a little fun.”
“But you don’t have any pain,” he asked, “do you?”