South Village (Ash McKenna) by Rob Hart Page B

into my spot, comfortably away from the circle.
    A dark cloud is cast over everyone. I scan the faces I can see, that instinctual part of my brain taking over, sorting them out. There is a very good chance the person responsible for killing Pete—if he was killed—is here. Holding hands, like everyone is together in this. No one has left camp since he died, that I know of. I keep an eye out for the stereogram soul that matches mine.
    Tibo clears his throat.
    “Today was not a good day for us as a community…”
    “Excuse me.”
    Tibo stops and looks over at a short Asian girl in overalls and a white tank top, her black hair in a braid that brushes her lower back. Katie, I think.
    “Trigger warnings, please?” she asks, with a heavy layer of condescension.
    Tibo looks at the ground and sighs. “Tonight we will be discussing death. I thought that might be obvious?”
    He looks around the circle one more time, to make sure there won’t be any more interruptions. Then he gives a slight nod. “Usually before dinner, we stand here and take turns sharing what we’re thankful for. But this is a unique circumstance. A member of our group died today in a very unfortunate accident.”
    His eyes seem to flick in my direction when he says this, but I can’t be sure in the failing light.
    “I thought this might be a good opportunity to share our memories of Pete,” Tibo says. “If you didn’t know him and there’s something you’d like to share, that’s fine, too. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
    He stops and looks around, waiting for someone to speak.
     
    T ibo. How to describe Tibo.
    Last I saw Tibo, before I saw him here, he was dredging the bottom of the Narrows to find several million dollars’ worth of silver bars that had been lost in a shipwreck in the early 1900s. While working on this plan, he dressed like a pirate, because he thought it might help his creative process.
    It was fucking lunacy. But lunacy is square in Tibo’s wheelhouse. The plan worked. He found a couple of the bars, buried in the muck and mud. And he made enough money to buy this place.
    He’s the kind of weird that most people want to pat on the head and call “cute.” Unless you’re paying attention, and you realize there might be something to it. I always knew he was smart, toeing up on brilliant. But back when we were bouncing around the East Village, had someone asked me, I never would have guessed he’d be good at something like this.
    The leadership role has galvanized him. That puppy-like sense of wonder is gone, replaced by a laser focus on making this place run. He talked about it for years: Finding a plot of land down south, turning it into a commune, developing a model of sustainable living. Granted, part of that was due to his belief we were approaching the apocalypse and humanity needed a place to ride that out, but motivation is motivation, no matter where you find it.
    The important thing is, he’s found the place where he fits in the world. The only thing I’ve got looming in my future is a loose plan to go to Prague and do stuff, contingent on my passport arriving in time.
    My five year plan consists of two things: Be alive and not in jail.
    And here’s Tibo, building something. I’m proud of him. Maybe jealous, too.
    This is something I would tell him if we still have conversations like that anymore.
     
    M arx is the first to speak.
    Of course he’s the first to speak.
    “Not all of you knew Pete the way I knew him,” Marx says. “He was more than a person. He was a spirit leader. He was a revolutionary. He had the heart of a lion. He saw the world for what it is and dared to think differently. I can only hope to carry on Pete’s good works.” He glances at Tibo, clearly and deliberately. “I know not everyone agreed with him, but he was right, you know? He was right.”
    That doesn’t sound loaded at all.
    A few people in the circle nod in agreement. Marx oozes so much charisma you can almost see