They did as he asked.
They walked to the Church. On the way, August asked Sailor to go find Peter as soon as he’d dropped off the bag. Sailor nodded urgently and said the bag wasn’t that heavy, that he could do both in one trip.
“He loves to take orders,” Micah said once Sailor had taken off, duffel slapping at his side. “He’s the only one who actually likes Morning Labor.”
Cal had been about to make his own snide remark. He wanted to ask Micah why he didn’t participate in Morning Labor, but he didn’t because Micah would most likely reply with something cutesy, something like, We work, too, just with our heads. A sad disregard for manual labor, though that would be strange, considering what they’d learned at Plank: the field and the book, a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps Micah, in his grab for power, had disregarded half the skills that had led him here.
Cal told himself he wouldn’t give his brother-in-law the satisfaction of clever answers. He would withhold all questions. Perhaps if he seemed uninterested, they’d be more willing to explain how everything worked.
Wasn’t that, in the end, what he wanted? To discover how this place worked—not just its outward system of organization but its inward, private one as well? Its secret machinations, the strings that gestured the puppet. Who was the puppet, though? Maybe it wasn’t all that sinister. Frida was probably right; he was descending into paranoia. Maybe it was more like a car: just lift the hood, and you’ll see how everything works.
The Church was cool inside, the empty pews gathering dust in the sunlight. The studio lights, tall and spindly as prehistoric insects, waited nearby, disturbing but, for the time being, powerless.
Cal wanted to go to the second floor. He didn’t realize this until Micah hoisted himself to the edge of the stage, and August slid into the first row of pews. There was no way this was where they conducted their meetings each morning. There was a war room upstairs; there had to be.
A few moments later, Peter and Sailor walked in. Peter was holding the bag now, and when he caught Cal’s eyes, he lifted his chin, beckoning him to come retrieve his possessions. Instead, Cal sat down next to August in the pew.
“I’m working on the goddamned traps,” Peter said. “I was about to tell poor Sail to fuck off, when he said Gus was back. He was dragging this along the ground.” Peter hefted the bag onto the second-row pew.
“I think I hurt my back,” Sailor said.
“Too much * inspecting,” Micah replied, and August laughed.
“I wish,” Sailor said.
Cal laughed, but no one else did.
“I guess I’ll see you guys later,” Sailor said then.
“You’re not allowed to stay?” Cal said. Damn, a question. He couldn’t help himself.
“Sure he is,” Micah replied. “Have a seat, Popeye.”
Sailor hesitated, but when August and Peter said nothing, he sat in the pew behind Cal.
“So, California,” Micah began. He was swinging his legs, hitting the side of the stage with the backs of his heels. The wood was scuffed there; maybe this was where they conducted their morning meetings.
“So.”
Micah stopped swinging his legs, as if this were a habit he were trying to break himself of. “August only let himself in.”
“Theft,” August said. “He used the word theft. He thinks I stole from him.”
“Ah yes, he only stole your property because we knew you’d need more stuff. August returned from his original route only hours after you arrived. I told him to turn around and get things he thought you might want. Otherwise, I’m sure you’d convince Frida to go back home with you, if only temporarily.”
“Why would that be a problem?”
“Because this isn’t a place you can just visit,” Sailor said.
“Sailor…,” Peter said.
“It isn’t?” Cal said. “Frida and I are stuck here?”
“Of course not,” Micah said. “But it’s dangerous to have you coming back and forth. Not many know I’m alive, and it has to stay that way. We can’t attract attention with people waltzing in and out as they please and giving away our location. If you want to leave, it would be for good.”
“I see.” Cal imagined telling this to Frida; she would not take it well. “But August is always traveling the route, isn’t he?”
“August isn’t you,” Peter said.
“What he means,” Micah said, “is that August is the best candidate to trade with the few settlers nearby and to perform a regular security sweep.”
“I don’t know about ‘the best,’” August said, “but when I tell people I’m a loner, they believe me. Or they assume it right off. I get special treatment.” He brought an index finger to his cheek and tapped twice.
“Wait—why?” Cal said. “Because you’re black? That’s ridiculous.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”