Morning Labor wasn’t as trying as the discussion of it; there was a strict protocol to follow with any new project, and the members on his team were nervous about taking a wrong step. He didn’t want to use that word, team, but everyone else did, and it had seeped into his vocabulary when he wasn’t looking. A woman named Sheryl had forced them to measure and remeasure the spot planned for the oven, to ensure it was the one decreed. Decreed was Cal’s word—his team had assured him it’d been a group decision, but he didn’t believe them. Cal had seen Micah and Peter talking in front of the Church. It was a meeting, Cal realized, by the way their voices dropped low, their faces no longer playful. They were the ones making the decisions.
Cal could ask August about it himself. That sound must be him arriving, wasn’t it? Cal realized it as soon as the water trickled to a drop, and another drop, then nothing. He hurried out of the stall and shook himself dry before throwing on his pants and Sailor’s T-shirt. Cal had been told he could grab anything from the line that fit, but he refused. He knew he was being petulant—even Fatima had used that word to describe him to his face, smiling as she did so—but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want to leave his own pants for a stranger. The longer he stayed on the Land, the more possessive he became.
By the time he reached the barn, his still-wet skin had stained his clothing dark, and his pants were making his legs itch. He should have used one of the drying rags, old tablecloths and bolts of linen that the Land used as towels, but he’d refused that as well. He was petulant, wasn’t he? He was stubborn as a two-year-old. If Frida saw him, she’d laugh, ask him if he’d peed his pants. But she’d gone foraging and wouldn’t return for a while.
She was out making friends, volunteering for extra work. Tomorrow morning, an hour before Labor began, she was meeting Anika, her team leader, to discuss bread making. If she was suspicious about Micah, she didn’t seem to carry those feelings to the people she cooked with, at least not outwardly. Cal tried to be happy about this; his wife hadn’t become someone else entirely.
August’s mare, Sue, had already been led into the barn, but otherwise, everything else was as Cal expected it. August looked as he always did, standing there next to his buggy: same gray sweatsuit and combat boots, same wraparound sunglasses, same beanie covering his head. Cal held up his hand as a greeting, and August simply nodded, as if this were an everyday occurrence. This, too, Cal had expected: August’s capacity to remain unfazed, no matter what.
People were gathered around him like eager children, and Sailor had climbed onto the edge of the buggy, leaning in to get a better look at what had been collected. This did surprise Cal: someone else besides August was allowed to touch the cart.
Micah stood off to the side, and Cal saw that he was watching him. Had he taken note of Cal’s brief moment of shock? Cal hoped not. He pulled at his wet T-shirt, fiddled with the scratchy waist of his pants, and kept walking.
“So he’s back,” he said as he reached Micah. “It’s quite a welcome.”
Micah nodded. “Always is. August comes bearing news and gifts. And Sue’s our mascot, if not one or two men’s soul mate.”
Micah held up a hand, gesturing for August to join them. “Plus, he’s got your stuff.”
“Ha,” Cal said, but as he did, Sailor lifted a large duffel bag out of the cart. It was the purple bag with the teal straps, the one Cal and Frida kept on the highest kitchen shelf. It was now stuffed as full as it had been when they’d left L.A., long and heavy as a dead body, a mafioso joke too obvious to make.
August yelled at Sailor to put the bag down, and Sailor complied immediately. Dave pulled him off the buggy, yelling, “Come on, you nosy motherfucker!” They were laughing.
Pulling off his hat, August jogged over to Cal and Micah. His head was bald and shiny with sweat, but Cal thought he could make out a vague shadow of hair growth—a receding hairline. August would probably go to the Bath soon, take care of that right quick. Someone would probably volunteer to shave it for him.
“Cal,” August said, and shook his hand.
“You broke into my house.”
“This guy,” Micah said, looking at Cal, “has no time for niceties.” He put a hand on Cal’s shoulder and gave it a friendly shake.
“Let’s go talk,” Micah said. “I’ll get Peter.”
“Sounds like a fine idea,” August said, and put his cap back on.
“Which one of you okayed the theft of my property?” Cal asked.
“Your property?” Micah said.
August shook his head and pulled off his sunglasses. Cal sucked in his breath.
But they were just eyes. Dark brown eyes. August looked less intimidating without the sunglasses. He must have known it, and that was why he had removed them.
“Come on, Cal,” he said, blinking in the sunlight. “Give us a break. You gotta know, we’re not out to get you.”
“You need clothes, don’t you?” Micah asked.
“I had an extra shirt and a pair of jeans when I arrived,” Cal said. “Sailor returned my flashlight and sleeping bag, but he didn’t know what happened to the clothes. Said I should holler if I see someone wearing my stuff.” It was almost too absurd to make Cal angry anymore.
August took in Cal’s too-small, soaked shirt. “Cal. You’re a man.” He paused. “Sailor, he’s…I don’t know. A boy? A kid. You can’t be wearing that, it doesn’t fit.”
August started to laugh, and so did Micah. Cal waited.
“Sailor, get the bag!” Micah yelled, once he’d caught his breath. To August and Cal he said, “Follow me.”