this Rudyard Kipling moment right now.”
Bane chuckled, and they walked back to his bike for a needle, thread, and a flask of whiskey.
Kurt noticed a black vulture circling, back where Sophie lay, about a thousand feet up. Then, two. As his eyes drifted downward, he noticed two turkey vultures doing the same, but only one hundred feet up. They wouldn’t be able to do anything to Sophie unless she had passed out. Still, the scene tugged at his protective instincts, and he double-timed it back to her, leaving Bane to struggle through the weeded yards.
“I want you to take a sip of this,” said Bane.
“What is it?” said Sophie.
“Whiskey. It’s gonna taste like crap, but think of it as medicine. It’ll numb you a little bit, which will help when we sew up your knee.”
She took the flask, sipped, winced.
“More than that.”
She nodded, took a swallow, then shuddered.
He poured a little more across the wound, and she showed her teeth, but said nothing. She felt the needle each time it went through her skin, and felt the whiskey burn through her chest, and down into her arms; the sweat drop off her neck; the weight of the men on the grass beside her. She felt everything, and for that moment, the world became her temple.
Kurt and Bane helped her up, and braced her as she limped.
“You can’t bike with that knee. We’re going to put you on Bane’s trailer, and I’ll walk the bikes. We’ll camp early, and we’ll see if we can figure out a one-legged way for you to do this.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” She felt selfish and small as the consequences appeared clearly to her. She couldn’t travel. Now, she was a burden.
“Hey. Look at me. You were very brave. Crazy, but brave. Here.” He handed her the slender spear, which he’d taken when helping her walk, and Bane likewise pulled away from her, leaving her to stand on her own, leaning on her spear.
“We hereby recognize your courage in life, and dignity with death, by bestowing your woman-name.” He looked to Bane, and they said, together: “Sophie Long-Spear.”
She beamed.
Chapter 7: Half a Bottle of Advil
They crossed the Preston Bridge over LBJ like refugees from a strange war. Sophie was propped up on Bane’s trailer. Bane was pumping his recumbent bike with the hand crank, and Kurt was walking both his bike and Sophie’s like tired horses. They looked like they were headed for the island of misfit suburbanites.
Pausing mid-way across the bridge, Kurt looked down to the overgrown highway.
“Plenty of foliage and trapped water. I bet the mountain lion hunted here.”
Bane nodded. “Makes sense. Animals would get funneled down there, and the lion could watch, then sneak down for a kill.”
They continued, turning left onto the LBJ access road.
“Let’s set up camp over there, in the shade of those office buildings. The walls will cut the wind, and give us a bit of hiding space.”
Sophie was asleep, and Bane let the bike and trailer coast as the access road sloped downhill.
* * *
“I guess this is going to be a short trip,” said Kurt, once he was sure Sophie was asleep in the open tent. She was snoring, the tent flap open to a median overgrown with soft grasses and wildflowers.
Bane, sitting on a nearby bench, nodded.
“You could go on ahead,” said Kurt as he paced. “I’d be happy to give you whatever gear you wanted.”
“Nah,” Bane said. “I wouldn’t survive this alone. Besides, I’ve enjoyed the company. When she heals up, we’ll have to do this again, if only nearby, and for fun.”
“Agreed.”
They drank water and relaxed. Bane scribbled in a spiral notebook.
“Diary?”
“Something like that. I don’t record everything. Just the interesting stuff. Today has been interesting.”
“I heard Elmore Leonard said he tried not to write the parts that people skipped.”
Bane chuckled. “You a writer?”
“Something like that. I taught high school English for a while, did some tech
Bane chuckled, and they walked back to his bike for a needle, thread, and a flask of whiskey.
Kurt noticed a black vulture circling, back where Sophie lay, about a thousand feet up. Then, two. As his eyes drifted downward, he noticed two turkey vultures doing the same, but only one hundred feet up. They wouldn’t be able to do anything to Sophie unless she had passed out. Still, the scene tugged at his protective instincts, and he double-timed it back to her, leaving Bane to struggle through the weeded yards.
“I want you to take a sip of this,” said Bane.
“What is it?” said Sophie.
“Whiskey. It’s gonna taste like crap, but think of it as medicine. It’ll numb you a little bit, which will help when we sew up your knee.”
She took the flask, sipped, winced.
“More than that.”
She nodded, took a swallow, then shuddered.
He poured a little more across the wound, and she showed her teeth, but said nothing. She felt the needle each time it went through her skin, and felt the whiskey burn through her chest, and down into her arms; the sweat drop off her neck; the weight of the men on the grass beside her. She felt everything, and for that moment, the world became her temple.
Kurt and Bane helped her up, and braced her as she limped.
“You can’t bike with that knee. We’re going to put you on Bane’s trailer, and I’ll walk the bikes. We’ll camp early, and we’ll see if we can figure out a one-legged way for you to do this.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” She felt selfish and small as the consequences appeared clearly to her. She couldn’t travel. Now, she was a burden.
“Hey. Look at me. You were very brave. Crazy, but brave. Here.” He handed her the slender spear, which he’d taken when helping her walk, and Bane likewise pulled away from her, leaving her to stand on her own, leaning on her spear.
“We hereby recognize your courage in life, and dignity with death, by bestowing your woman-name.” He looked to Bane, and they said, together: “Sophie Long-Spear.”
She beamed.
Chapter 7: Half a Bottle of Advil
They crossed the Preston Bridge over LBJ like refugees from a strange war. Sophie was propped up on Bane’s trailer. Bane was pumping his recumbent bike with the hand crank, and Kurt was walking both his bike and Sophie’s like tired horses. They looked like they were headed for the island of misfit suburbanites.
Pausing mid-way across the bridge, Kurt looked down to the overgrown highway.
“Plenty of foliage and trapped water. I bet the mountain lion hunted here.”
Bane nodded. “Makes sense. Animals would get funneled down there, and the lion could watch, then sneak down for a kill.”
They continued, turning left onto the LBJ access road.
“Let’s set up camp over there, in the shade of those office buildings. The walls will cut the wind, and give us a bit of hiding space.”
Sophie was asleep, and Bane let the bike and trailer coast as the access road sloped downhill.
* * *
“I guess this is going to be a short trip,” said Kurt, once he was sure Sophie was asleep in the open tent. She was snoring, the tent flap open to a median overgrown with soft grasses and wildflowers.
Bane, sitting on a nearby bench, nodded.
“You could go on ahead,” said Kurt as he paced. “I’d be happy to give you whatever gear you wanted.”
“Nah,” Bane said. “I wouldn’t survive this alone. Besides, I’ve enjoyed the company. When she heals up, we’ll have to do this again, if only nearby, and for fun.”
“Agreed.”
They drank water and relaxed. Bane scribbled in a spiral notebook.
“Diary?”
“Something like that. I don’t record everything. Just the interesting stuff. Today has been interesting.”
“I heard Elmore Leonard said he tried not to write the parts that people skipped.”
Bane chuckled. “You a writer?”
“Something like that. I taught high school English for a while, did some tech
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