Debris by Kevin Hardcastle

stood for a moment with her eyes closed, one hand to her heart.
    â€œSweet fucking Jesus,” she said.
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    They spent that night on the floor, close together with the scattergun full of double-aught buck and their baby in Sarah’s belly. In the small hours they heard an engine growling low and mean. Daniel reached for the gun but Sarah took it up instead. Truly he did not know what to do with it anyway. The world went quiet except for their breathing and the chopper didn’t come back for another pass.
    â€œHow long do we wait here?” Sarah said.
    â€œâ€™Til dawn I think, and we take your car.”
    Sarah nodded. She asked him to lie back and he did and she put her head to his chest, the shotgun close by on the floor tiles. She lifted his bandaged right hand and then cupped it over in the both of hers.
    â€œIf it turned out to be a boy, would you teach him to fight?” she said.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “Probably I wouldn’t like to.”
    â€œMaybe it is a boy.”
    â€œI damn well hope not.”
    Outside the moon had gone and they lay in almost pure dark and kept tugging at each other every now and then. Neither would let the other sleep. They had hours to wait yet.

 
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    TO HAVE TO WAIT
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    T hey came out of the house with the risen sun beating down on the weather-worn porch. The summer had come early this year. The heat burnt the grass brown and took the nearby river down a foot by June, the high watermark lying naked on the granite banks. Paul went down the porch steps with a plastic cooler that had their lunch inside. He stopped on the gravel driveway and had to squint to see. There were waves of heat trembling atop the hot black mastic of the bordering concession road, the air fat with humidity and hard to draw in. It felt as if his nose and throat and very insides ran hotter with every breath he took. He shook his head and stood there, tall and thin, his dark hair flattened down by the dampness of his scalp.
    â€œShut that door behind you,” he called back without turning around. “And make sure it shuts. That mangy farm dog got in there one night and Mum lost her damn mind.”
    Matthew came out with his shirt half on and he was still wet from the shower. When he pulled the T-shirt down it darkened in patches, sitting ridged and crooked across his heavy chest. He left it like that and pulled the door shut as he came out. He took a step and then stopped and went back. He gave the door a shove. It came open so he leaned back inside and grabbed the knob and pulled as hard as he could. This time he heard the metal latch click. The door stayed put when he shoved it again.
    â€œThat door’s a piece of shit,” he said, coming down the steps in ragged old skateboard shoes. When he got down to the gravel he trod heavy on the rocks and they shot clear as he walked past Paul to the passenger side of the car. Matthew tried to open the door and it wouldn’t give. He stared down at the handle and muttered something, his hand still trying it. His fingers kept going even when he knew the door was locked and finally he stopped and put both arms on top of the roof. Inside of a second he yanked them clear and cursed a string of nonsense at the car and the heat and the world altogether.
    â€œIt’s hot as absolute hell out here,” Matthew said. “This car is going to be a billion fucking degrees inside.”
    Paul nodded and spat on the ground. The phlegm was thin and parts of it started to vanish right away on the stone. He exhaled hard and went over to the car and stood facing his brother, both of them the same height, Matthew much larger in build. They had the same eyes though, the same hairline. They had the same shape of mouth and sometimes made the same expressions on very different faces, Paul’s thinner face with its squared jaw and