South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart Page A

forest and all the monster bugs that dwell within. Nothing but me gets in here.
    I make my way for the steps leading up to the door, and one of those roach motherfuckers is chilling on a step, glaring at me. I slam my foot down, hoping the vibration will scare it away. It starts running toward me and I hop back.
    Maybe Pete got scared by a bug. He jumped. The rope snapped.
    Who knows?
    Pete does. That’s it.
    The roach breaks and runs behind the stairs and disappears. I wait until I think it’s safe, climb to the top and push in hard. The accordion door opens. I get inside, drop the towel onto the driver’s seat, the only thing that’s still bolted down to the floor. I take a pair of shorts and a t-shirt off the bookshelf that serves as the dresser. Spray myself with some deodorant, not that it’ll help much at keeping me dry, but it’s nice to pretend. The dirty clothes I hang over the single bench bus seat that’s pushed up against the back.
    Something feels off.
    I turn, look around the bus. There’s not much here. A cot, the bookshelf and seats, a small table. On the table, a few books, borrowed from the library: A nearly-fallen-apart copy of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury and some cookbooks. A yellow plastic flashlight. My nearly-empty plastic jug of whiskey, which reminds me I need another one of those.
    Then there’s the small tie folder full of personal documents, sitting on top of the bookshelf.
    I’m not a neat freak, but I like to keep things tidy. Which is not hard, because I don’t have a whole lot of stuff anymore. Still, this small pile of things feels off. The sleeping bag looks more pushed into the corner of the cot than normal. And the books look like they’ve been moved around, maybe.
    The folder, though, that’s what does it.
    I’m right-handed. When I loop the rope back around the enclosure, I go clockwise.
    But the rope is now tied counter-clockwise.
    I open it up. Everything’s there.
    Personal documents, a couple of photos. Including the one of my dad in his bunker gear, standing outside his firehouse in Bensonhurst. I look at that for a couple of minutes before putting it back.
    Speaking of. I go to my dirty shorts and dig into the cargo pocket, so I can replace the items I brought with me to the passport office, and find the arson guidebook I swiped from Crusty Pete’s tree house.
    Was someone in here? Were they looking for this?
    I pull my cell phone out of my bag, turn it on. It’s still got a bit of a charge. I take a picture of the code on the back. I turn the phone off and stick it in my pocket. The phone is mostly useless, since there’s no cell signal out here, but I figure I can send it to Bombay next time I’m out by the road. He’s smarter than me and might have some input. Plus I’m overdue to check in. It’s been weeks since we spoke. What a sorry best friend I am.
    The arson manual, I fold up and stuff into the pocket of my cargo shorts. I feel the need to keep it close. Just in case.

T he sun is nearly gone now, a sliver blazing orange beyond the trees. The no-see-ums are out. Like mosquitos, but more insistent. We’re out of the lemon-eucalyptus spray Aesop makes and I need to remind him to make more.
    Tibo is crouched low to the ground, holding a lighter to a chunk of newspaper that’s been doused in cooking oil. It catches on the edge, the flame slowly crawling across, and he places it into the circle of stones on a bed of kindling. He picks up a twig and pushes the newspaper in the center so the whole thing will catch.
    He stands and returns to the circle, taking hands between Cannabelle and Gideon. The entire camp is here—I think the entire camp is here—standing in one large circle around the fire sputtering and coming to life, flames licking the dead wood.
    I step into the shadows, sit up on a picnic table. Tibo looks at me for a couple of moments, expecting something, like today was going to be different from every other day, but it’s not. I settle