Chapter Text
Jack remembered a summer just like this.
It had been so disgustingly hot. It had been the kind of heat that kept you indoors, face-down on the floor with the AC cranked. The kind of heat that made you question the existence of a higher power.
He hoisted the duffel higher onto his back and pulled the slack tight, all without breaking stride. Every other step or so, he vaguely felt the stock of the pulse rifle press through the canvas and jab into his spine. That, combined with the heavy jacket balled up at the bottom of the bag, the visor, and the muffled clink of biotic canisters and helix rockets tapping against each other, would have weighed down any other man his age. With the heat, it would have killed any other man.
It didn't surprise Jack that the valley hadn't ever upgraded to paved roads. Only the highway was commuted frequently enough to merit needing asphalt, and so it seemed that the lanes between the fields and ditches and far-flung houses would always be dirt ones. He instinctively kept to the right, the crunch of grit under his boots and the screaming of the cicadas and grasshoppers filtering into a muzzy and surreal reminder of where he had ended up. It had been a real chore to get through Colorado, for sure. After taking the rifle from Grand Mesa, Jack had been hounded from Aspen to Boulder, then beyond. He'd stolen a couple of cars and a motorcycle, ditching them all, and finally, about a third of the country later, he'd been chased back here.
A truck was coming up the road behind him. A souped-up V8 by the sound of it, one of those 'compensating' trucks that Midwesterners just couldn't seem to leave in the past. Jack didn't turn to acknowledge it, didn't stick out his thumb for a lift. Just kept his head down and marched. When the vehicle blew past, it's occupants all leaned out of the windows to hoot and jeer and honk at the old man. Kids shaped by the valley, who had never been out of sight of a corn field in all their lives. The truck's hovers blew grit and dust into his unprotected face, and just like that they were speeding past, pushing the already irresponsible speed limit.
“Indiana, you big beautiful disaster.”
Just a little further. Ten miles or so. He wondered, for the thousandth time, if Thom would be happy to see him. If he had put their mother into a home-- if their mother was even still alive. Probably not, to both questions. He wasn't dumb enough to knock on the door and ask for a meal. He'd just pass by. It had been coincidence that he ended up here at all.
The stretches between plots became shorter and shorter. Jack recognized the corners of the fields as he passed them, admiring the good colors on the corn and okra that grew there. Recollecting the faces of the men and women who had worked them in his youth. Their children were working them now, most likely. He ticked off the names as he walked-- Branger. Porras. Simpson.
Morrison.
The fence was a surprise. It wasn't high enough to keep anyone out, but the post and wire structure spreading from the corner of the plot at a 90 degree angle made its message clear. Behind stood a thicket of corn, head high, all of it dead. The stalks stood loose in the soil, gaunt and bleached like pale scarecrows.
Jack's inner farmer was appalled. How the hell did Thom let the whole crop die? And why was there a fence?
He followed the fence, breaking off withered ears and leaves as he walked, mood darkening further with every step. He had a mind to march right up to the porch, pull a pistol on his brother, and demand to know what the hell the idiot was thinking.
The turn onto their property was there, as it had always been. The mailbox still stood. But the gate was a new development. It, and the notice board drilled to it, had been hit with so much graphitti that Jack couldn't tell what the original message had been.
OVERWATCH WAS NEVER GREAT. MORRISON THE FRAUD. FORGOT WHERE YOU CAME FROM.
Dead corn grew on either side of the lane, and down it Jack could see the house: it still stood, but just. It had been yellow once, his mother's favorite color. But the stain had faded and stripped away years ago, leaving pale panels on the exposed wood. The windows on both floors had been boarded over; no one had jumped the fence to tag the house, but it was almost worse to see it like this.
A gust blew down the road, moving the dust along and agitating the cicadas, who screamed all the louder.
---
The summer after his fourteenth birthday, Jack spotted a boy standing on the perimeter of the soy field at the furthest end of their property.
Regardless of distance, he could tell it was a boy just by sight alone; girls were generally more careful with their posture, and rarely went anywhere without reason. The indifference this loiterer showed told Jack what he needed to know, and he walked barefoot through the rows of calf-high plants to intercept the stranger before he made his way elsewhere.
Enoch Jones' father had grown soy for a few seasons as well, but his had never been as plentiful or as healthy as the Morrison's. He's stuck in his ways, doesn't move the soil around as often as he should, Patrick Morrison had told his boys. And so the Jones farmhands, and even Enoch himself on occasion, were sometimes seen hovering at the edge of their property like buzzards on a wire, wanting to spy and intimidate and generally be a nuisance. Jack had never been afraid of any of them, and had always been quick to react to the threat to their farm.
But to his genuine surprise, the boy who dawdled at the edge of the field wasn't Enoch Jones, or any other boy he knew. The Morrison's fields and their neighbor's fields were separated by stretches of single-lane dirt roads, and this young man stood on the Morrison side of the road, gazing west. His nose was solid, and the outline of his jaw would fill out into a strong and jutting shape one day. His bronze skin was slick with sweat from the brutal heat of late day, soaking his tank top; dark hair pulled away from his face, wavy, secured in an adolescent ponytail. But he showed no discomfort in the heat, only intent, looking toward the horizon like something he craved would appear there soon, very soon.
Jack's fascination ruined his ambush; his foot swung carelessly into a soy plant, and the stranger gave a little start at the rustle, coming about to face him. So caught up were they both in their own heads that neither of them knew how to react to the other; like two dogs, their shoulders stiff and tails held high, ready to play or run or bite.
“Hey.” Jack said finally.
“Hey,” said the stranger. “This your field?”
“Yeah.” Jack took this as an invitation to close the gap between them, coming up to the boy's side and standing with him as if he'd been planning to loiter all along.
The boy sneered slightly, the action causing an eyebrow to drop, a bead of sweat shaken from his eyebrow to roll down his cheekbone. “It all looks the same to me.” He paused, blinked. “Guillermo Reyes is my uncle.”
He knew the man, a bony and quiet corn farmer who lived on the opposite side of the highway. “Are you visiting from Indianapolis?”
“L.A.”
Jack blinked, processing the acronym. “Like... Los Angeles, L.A?”
“Did I stutter?”
Los Angeles. The very notion of it was exotic, busy, loud. He couldn't imagine it.
“I'm Gabriel.” He intoned it with an accent, Gah-bree-el. Jack found himself liking the way he said it.
“Jack Morrison.” He offered his hand; it was stupid for two teenage boys to shake hands, they both knew it. But it was just something farmers did, and Jack had been steeped in the valley his whole life. But Gabriel didn't find this awkward, and he gave his hand a squeeze before returning it to the pocket of his shorts.
They stood on the side of the road like that, just talking. Did it usually get this hot, were any of the teams in California gonna go all the way this year? Eventually Jack picked up a handful of stones from the road and started hurling them over to the other side, attempting to hit the corn that grew there.
Gabriel observed him for a while, then chose a stone at his feet. He didn't hesitate a second before it left his hand with the velocity of a bullet, and Jack saw the silk get shredded from the top of an ear. Another stone was selected, and this one broke the same ear away from the stalk with a wet snap.
“Holy shit,” breathed Jack.
Gabriel's only response was to grin. “I don't miss. Ever.”
Jack hustled to the other side of the road and found the ear among the stalks, shucking it with practiced speed where he stood. All the corn he'd seen from the roads looked good this year, and this field was no exception. Holding the cob in both hands like a baton, he gave it a wrench, cracking it cleanly in two. He ambled back across to Gabriel and tossed him half of the ear as he walked.
He caught it, but seemed to be unaware of what to do with it until Jack started to tuck into his half. “What,” Jack prodded, “never had raw corn before?”
“Never.”
“It's good. Sweeter.”
At first it seemed like Gabriel would pass on the offer, but he let curiosity get the better of him, and Jack saw how his eyes lit up on that first bite, how the milky starch and concentrated sugar made a believer out of this city boy.
What's he doing out here?
Not even ten minutes later, cobs disposed of and licking the sweet from their lips, they picked up the thrum of an engine, and Jack craned his neck to see the familiar cola brown outline of his father's pickup truck rolling down the road towards them. At his side Gabriel made a move as if to run across the road, but Jack soothed him before he could take off into the corn.
“Relax, it's my dad. He'll be cool with you.” Gabriel didn't say anything, but he nodded and smoothed out his composure, sticking close to Jack as the truck slowed and parked, kicking up a fat cloud of dust.
Patrick Morrison took his time stepping down from the truck. He was over fifty, but he had the build of a boxer, and his hands could squeeze an apple to pieces. With his strength came a sincerity that Jack hadn't encountered in any other man. Patrick didn't have to boast or intimidate to be respected, and Jack had once decided, long ago, that's the kind of man I want to be.
Mr. Morrison greeted his son with a smile that could have melted glaciers. “Jackaboy, you're not answering your phone.” Surprised, Jack patted his pockets.
“Uhh... Sorry, dad. I think I left it in my room.”
“That's fine, you're just fine. At least you're not getting into trouble.” It was then that the old farmer noticed Gabriel, and his smile turned wry. “Or are you?” He introduced himself to the boy the same way Jack had, with a firm handshake. “You wouldn't happen to be Guillermo's nephew, would you? I heard tell of you showing up sometime this week.”
“I am, sir. Gabriel Reyes.”
“How'd you get all the way over here, on the other side of the highway?”
“I walked, sir.”
Patrick laughed at this. “You hoofed it! Right on! Well Gabriel, it's gonna be late soon here. I'd be happy to give you a lift home. Hell, by the time we pass our house it'll be dinnertime. You should eat with us.”
Jack expected Gabriel to decline, but to his surprise the boy took up the offer. “Only if it wouldn't be a problem, sir.”
“Go ahead and toss the 'sir', Gabe. You call me Patrick, you hear? I'm gonna go ahead and call your uncle while we drive so he's not worrying over you.”
Room was made in the back of the truck for the boys, so they could sit with their backs to the cab. Mr. Morrison made sure they weren't going to be launched out before getting in and starting it up. Soon they were speeding down the road at a fair clip, and from his spot directly behind the driver's seat, Jack could hear his father on-call with Gabriel's uncle through the open window.
“Reyes? It's Pat, how's it going? … Well, I've got your nephew here with me and- … Oh no, oh lord no, he's not in any trouble, not at all!”
Gabriel rode with his knees against his chest, staring out at the passing corn and soy and okra fields with obvious distaste. If he could hear what was being said inside the cab, he didn't react to it. Jack had to wonder about that.
They pulled up to the house five minutes later, the sun turning the normally buttery yellow of the structure to a vibrant amber. Jack's mother was settled into her rocking chair on the porch, idly peeling apples, navy sundress loose and peppered with bits of peel and seed. She stood slowly, her bad hip making her wobble with the action, but Emily Morrison had nothing but sunshine to offer Gabriel as she ushered the men into the house.
There was just a simple stew and biscuits for dinner, but Gabe ate like he'd never tasted anything finer. He asked for a second bowl, part of a third, and Emily beamed and clapped her hands at this marvel of an eater who had graced her kitchen. More than once, Jack caught Thom openly staring at their guest, eyebrows knitting slightly, spelling out his displeasure for all to see. Jack's response was to kick his brother under the table.
After dinner, he and Gabe returned to the back of his father's truck. There had been warm apple jam to go with the biscuits for dessert, and Jack marveled at the other boy's ability to put away about half a jar of the stuff.
“I've got three sisters,” Gabe explained. “We all got pretty competitive when it came to food.”
Jack chuckled at this, but something in the way Gabe had said it sat wrong with him. He'd spoken of his sisters like they had died, in the past tense.
Thom had gone back up to his room to sulk after dinner, and his parents were enjoying their ritual evening coffee before Patrick took Gabe back across the highway. The sky had set itself ablaze in the failing light, all crimson and indigo. Insects droned out in the fields, and soon the raccoons and opossums and coyotes would be on the prowl between the rows.
“Why were you over on our side of the highway?”
Gabe did not fidget; he was not one to fidget, Jack knew instinctively. He only peered intently into the half-full mason jar, as if contemplating running his fingers around the inside of the rim.
“I was bored. Went for a walk.”
“All the way over here?”
“All the way over here.”
“My dad knew who you were.”
“Farmers talk, don't they?”
Silence. A lark flew overhead, on route back to its nest before nightfall.
“...Did your dad say anything about me before today?”
“No.”
“Good.” He caved, swiping up a fingerful of jam and sucking on it eagerly. “Your mom's nice. Quiet, but nice. My mom's are loud.”
Jack nodded. “A horse trampled her when she was little. Messed up her bones and her head, so she's a little slow. But dad loves her. And you're avoiding the subject.”
Gabe sucked on his teeth, playfully irritated. “Damn. You're nosy.”
“It's my best feature.”
Using a finger he hadn't put into his mouth, Gabe traced the bridge of Jack's nose, tip to top. Jabbing at the other's eye at the end of the motion, making Jack flail and laugh. “Hm, yes. Exquisite. Four out of five, a nose among noses.”
“But ultimately, the gold medal goes to Mr. Reyes, for practical and artistic use of his black hole stomach!” Pivoting, Jack wrenched the jar away from Gabe, tipping it up and letting its contents slide leisurely into his mouth. From the corner of his eye he caught the other boy grinning; all teeth, all mirth.
They danced around each other's questions, finishing dessert between them as the sky began to go inky above, the porch light their only beacon in the dark. In the way a painter knows that a work has been completed, or how birds just know when it's time to take wing and head south, a truth cemented itself between the two of them. That they would be best friends, that one would go wherever the other would, reveling in the other's accomplishments. That, ultimately, they would end up breaking each other's hearts, as only the closest companions can.
Finally there was no more jam, no more little corners for Gabriel to tuck himself into.
“Are you going back to L.A at the end of the summer?”
“Probably not... No. No, I'm not. I can't go back.”
“Why?”
Gabe gripped the empty jar in both hands, sitting very still. Very, very still. From out in the soy a coyote bayed, and the night sky was so open and deep that it felt like they might fall into it.
“I killed someone.”