Despite the long rides and the tedious jobs, that fortnight passed in the blink of an eye. Every hamlet we rode to threw some kind of wrench in our plans. There was always a fight, always a scuffle. Sometimes we were met with Mexican standoffs, but either way, I didn't think much about them when it was all said and done. The only thing I failed to overcome was that shock that ridded my body every time I'd hear a bone break or see a bore ignite. I never got used to that, but I did harden up because of it. With that said, some days I truly couldn't stomach no matter what, like October 3rd—the last hamlet we scouted before heading down to Nyack. My God, what a mess that was.
Sugar Loaf, Orange County, a little after sunrise.
In the corner of a kitchen which belonged to an old-American home, I sat before the remnants of one of the messiest close-calls I had ever witnessed in my entire being. Tiled floors were concealed by the hissing bodies of Hexagon troops, and hot shells that were embedded in the ground fried the air around us. Not a sound could be heard. Only the rattling of a drain as blood and water fell to the gutters. It was bad. Our guys were shell-shocked, except for Lieutenant Miller. He, with his matted lupara in hand, rested leisurely on a tall stool, enemy ichor running down his calm face.
Inches away from his toes was a French guard bludgeoned in the head so many times that he didn't need to be cuffed. The man's body was stiff and straight like a toothpick. There was no point in sweating him down either for he sounded like he was having a stroke and on the cusp of drawing his last breath. There was a printed document found on the kitchen island. It was the only thing of interest lying around. Tables and chairs were tipped, nooks and crannies were searched. That was the one thing being guarded in that hive.
"[REDACTED] materials," Lieutenant Miller read me the paper. "It's a shipping permit from T-SIAP. September 27th. That was six days ago. Are you telling me that your Canuck guys are still shipping out their goodies to the U.S.? I mean, don't they know that the Hexagon's just butt-fucking them every time a truck of theirs passes through?"
"Really?"
I myself was surprised. See, the institute had gone into liquidation a year before. As a result, we were all laid off from work, and from what I've heard, all of T-SIAP's assets were sold to other Canadian-based institutes. Peer institutes. Not even any of its subsidiaries in the U.S. As for M-SIAT, I didn't really know what happened to them. Other sister companies crumbled as a result of French advances. Oddly enough, that Michigan one stood the test of time.
"Not to mention, they're hijacking these trucks up north," the lieutenant folded the paper and stuffed it in his pants, "meaning that we've got cheese-eaters operating too far from our reach."
"How did we get Hexagon troops up north?" I asked him.
"Well, we're still in the 'recovery phase'. The frontier hasn't been quite as effective as it was back then. When the regiment retreated from Edgewater, Hexagon guys moved with the crowd. Troops were all in a panic. How could we have known that the ugly motherfuckers riding up north with us were French troops? They were dressed like volun-fucking-teers, and for me at least, I wasn't willing to risk my hind to verify who these dregs were. I simply did what the rest of the force did—ran for dear life. We only ever heard news about French hives forming along the Canadian border, but General Vergs didn't think too much about it. We never received any reports of an OEC getting lynched, so who were we to worry about that? As far as we were concerned, these guys fled back to wherever the Master Camps were put up. Those places, we'll take zero chances infiltrating."
"Why? Are the Master Camps worse than the Hudson?"
"Water cures, rape dungeons, feeding pounds. You tell me."
The lieutenant scoured for any morsel of food left lying around. He stuck his snout to the walls, the cupboards, hoping to find something to snack on, but unfortunately, the place was dry. As for the dying guard, he began hissing like the rest of his dead friendlies. I wondered why they were doing that. Some were louder than others, full-on snoring and slightly bobbing their heads despite being blown to smithereens by the lieutenant's sawed-off. I clung onto the edge of my seat, sweat dripping from the tip of my nose. I had never seen anything like it.
Lieutenant Miller saw my unease and told me, "Don't worry now. They're just doing a death rattle."
"A… a death rattle?"
"Yeah, a 'death rattle'. It's when blood, spit, and whatever bodily fluids accumulate in the throat and chest of someone who's about to die. When air passes through, it causes those fluids to move around, making that hissy, rattly kind of noise. Hence, death rattle." He raised his arms in the air in a lively manner, flaring his eyes and giving me a serial-killer kind of grin. "It doesn't take long to get used to. Once you've been in enough life-or-death situations, you'll come to love the sound of it. No one hisses like that and turns up A-okay. Once you start guzzling, it's game over."
"Death Rattle," I wrote it down in the journal.
Now, the lieutenant didn't know this, but underneath the memoir, I had beads in my grasp. I was praying over the dead in secret for I didn't think he would let me if I had asked him. The man didn't even let me pray in my own time. "It's for the birds," he'd always say. Sadly, I wasn't able to complete my prayers. As soon as Captain Finer knocked on the door frame, the lieutenant and I got up and left the kitchen. I wish I wrote down the names of those guards. I didn't want them to be forgotten, but I was sure that the Lord and His kindness understood what I was trying to do, and I was certain that He did the rest for me. For them.
The living room we found ourselves in was nice and cozy. I can still recall exactly what it looked like because I remember being so enraptured by it. I took a mental picture of it like I did with everything else. Stacks of books made the floors appear as a miniature city, stained globes spun loosely in the wind, and large portraits rested on cracked walls. I think I can also remember Captain Finer briefing me about the locale.
The house belonged to an archeologist if I'm not mistaken. It was a beautiful home. "Up my alley" as one would say. I sat my rump on a jade ottoman, eyeing the surroundings all while crossing out items from my to-do list which was something I didn't see Tommy do in the memoir. I like to think that I "one-upped" him in that regard.
"Did you find anything?" Captain Finer asked the both of us.
Lieutenant Miller reached for his flask and took a swig from it. "Place was empty," he slurred, "nothing to spoil." He then grabbed the paper from his pocket and informed the captain that, "However, it sounds like Thunder Bay and Michigan have some kind of endeavors to pursue."
"Endeavors?" Captain Finer swiped the document from the lieutenant's hand and proceeded to scan it. "What is this, Miller?"
"A shipping permit."
"From T-SIAP? It looks like they hired a third-party to do all the work."
"Third-party?" Lieutenant Miller and I said at the same time.
Captain Finer unraveled the creased paper and dug his face into the rows upon rows of sentences and paragraphs. "Lion-6—that's a French port. Doesn't an institute like T-SIAP have their own logistics to haul stuff around?"
"Only when logistics was closed or undergoing maintenance did they outsource a 3PL," I answered him, "and it was only purely Canadian or American shipping companies—not French, not French-Canadian."
"Shit," he exclaimed. "Then this might just be a military strategy on their end. They're stealing metals. Maybe for ammunition or for something big—we don't know. But now we know why the gun business is booming for them. And if they have something like Lion-6 to back 'em up, then we're bound to have an even bigger problem on our hands."
"But, sir, they liquidized all of their assets a year ago," I told him. "Why are these metals still being shipped from Thunder Bay? From T-SIAP? They should be coming from other institutes."
"Well, you tell me. A lot can happen—a lot can change—when people with power start playing chess." He let out a deep sigh and rested beside the ottoman, wiping the bony part of his palm all over his haggard face. "I'm not saying I'm lazy, but I don't think we need to delve into all that. I don't have the brain capacity for it. At the same time, this is the second tanktainer we spotted in how many days?"
I looked down to the journal, not because I was searching for the date, but because the lack of sleep was taking its toll on me. Just like the corpses in the kitchen, I started bobbing my weary head. "Nine, I think."
"Nine?" Captain Finer said in slight disbelief. "Jesus, that's a short span of time."
"Mhm. It is."
"Miller, ready the jeep and tell Everett to scan the terrain. Make sure we don't have Hex guys heading to this camp." The captain took the keys from his belt then tossed them into the lieutenant's hand. "Double-time."
"On it," said Lieutenant Miller.
That front door was the only thing that kept the gales of the forest away from my weak body, and when it was opened, I thought I was done for. The Pali' guys were all shelled up in plate carriers and thick fatigues, wearing orange bandanas around their left arms to signify their alliance. Me—all I had on was my blouse and the stretchable khakis which still had blood stains on them. I shivered so bad that it appeared as if I was shifting in and out of existence. I shook like the wings of a hummingbird. I couldn't control it.
The captain saw me struggle to fight the cold. He scooted next to me and thawed my hands with his. He was kind and cordial enough to keep some sort of distance between us as he used his palms to cushion my knuckles. It looked and felt awkward, but it did help.
He was cold, too.
"Dr. Agatha told me about what happened at the creek, and she's right, you know? She told me she wouldn't have it any other way. It was you or him, and we're glad it was him."
"What made you wanna bring it up?"
"You haven't been eating lately, and I think it's because of that. If you're wondering, no, I'm not spying on you. It's part of my job to make sure that everyone around here's getting their fill. I've been checking, and you're not." The captain grabbed his wallet, but all he had on him were American bills. He stood from the ground and went back into the kitchen, leaving a trail of muck by the heels of his boots. "All the markets around here only accept francs. We started poaching the dead, but I'm afraid the French picked up on that. Ever since, their guys stopped carrying cash on hand."
"So, no one around here accepts dollars anymore?"
"I'm afraid so." Fortunately, he was able to salvage a few good paper bills from the kitchen. I didn't know exactly how much he plundered, but his dismayed look led me to assume that it wasn't enough to cash in for a full, hot meal. He said after letting out a scornful sigh, "Christ, this doesn't even add up to hardtacks." The captain stashed the bills in his pocket then went back to the ottoman to inform me that, "Even their guys are dry, but don't worry. I have another idea." He pointed at one of the many stained globes in the living room and said to me, "Hey, can you grab that for me?"
Of course, I followed his order, though I was clueless as to where it was all headed. "Okay," I reluctantly replied.
He asked me as soon as I had the decor in my embrace, "Say, Baby, have you seen the rest of the county?"
"Well, no, I haven't."
"They've got markets west of here. Merchants who are always up for a good trade. Maybe we can get something out of that globe. I mean, it looks pretty fancy to me. What do you think?"
"But… but this isn't ours."
"Homeowner's been gone for a while now," the captain swiped a few more things from the shelves while he spoke to me. "I don't think anyone owns anything here. Not anymore."
Cradling an assorted bundle of knick-knacks, some falling through the folds of his arms, Captain Finer ambled out of the home and into the jeep. I watched through the swinging door as he tossed all of the decors in the backseat like they were all nothing but tradables. I, on the other hand, tenderly ran my pointer finger along the globe's equator, feeling out the dried stains which reeked of coffee and clutter.
That old home wasn't just another house along the street. In spite of the fact that the place had been abandoned for quite a while, I felt those airy ribbons of a stranger's fond memories lingering in the air. Of course, they weren't mine, but still. The dark, damp, and bloodied enemy camp looked like it had its fair share of sentiments in a past life.
Before I made my way out the door, I glanced one more time at the living room and all its innocence, whispering to it from the bottom of my heart, "Thank you."
* * *
As a way to keep myself warm, I wrapped my arm around the captain's as we took a stroll down a busy street full of vendors and hungry passersby. Captain Finer was still in search of a hot meal for me to eat, but the lively markets and child mary-makers were enough to take my mind off my grumbling stomach. Shop owners sweeping their storefronts greeted us when we passed them by and even presented us with their wares which consisted of knives, arrows, wires, cuffs, and munitions among other things. Captain Finer accepted one of the shopkeeper's invitations into their shop for he saw a grill sizzling away on the side. He thought that maybe there was grub there.
"Find us a seat," said the captain, "I'll talk with the shopkeeper."
Pie's was the name of the store if I remember correctly. Contrary to what the name implied, the place sold guns—not perishables—and the grill that the captain and I saw from the outside was actually a whetstone used to file down pistol slides and whatnot.
The man who ran the store was old and of short stature, as in he was short-short. Probably a four-footer. When he stood behind his booth, all you could see was his head. However, even though he was small, feeble, and crooked, he stood loud and proud before a wall of cold rifles and dusty 12-gauges. He appeared seasoned, like he knew how to operate every gun in that store. I'm sure he did. He could tell that we were looking for food. We hunched all poor and hungry like beggars despite having cash on hand.
"This is not an eatery," the old man leaned on his desk, wiping down a dull switchblade. "You're not from here. People from the county reckon this as a gun shop—not a canteen run by some twink. Then again, that's what happens when your God-given name also refers to a pastry that's been stuffed with meat and/or berries."
Captain Finer repeated, "And/or?"
"But then again-again, if you're not literate, you'd read my sign as 'pies' without the apostrophe, and you two did just that."
"Well, are you looking to trade at least?" the captain asked him.
"The store's not very liquid right now. In other words, I don't got bills on me."
"Francs?"
"None. Nada. Not an ounce. Not a cent." His store was flourishing with guns and blades waiting to be taken off the shelves, though he sobbed as if business wasn't booming at all. Well, if it were, I suppose his shelves would have been empty. "The Frenchies passed us by. They taxed the whole damn street."
"Taxed? What do you mean 'taxed'?"
"Those assholes robbed us of every cent." He struck the desk with the grip of his knife then struck it again with its tip, driving it into the rotten grain. "They used to come by the shop to get their guns wiped down. They paid me good. They were honest men. All of a sudden, they came rolling down the street, 'collecting' what they believed to be was 'rightfully theirs'. Coins, bills—they pilfered this town dead and clean. American banknotes—they crumpled up in piles and burned in the center of the street. But you know what? I don't blame them. Do you know who I blame?"
"Who?" asked the captain.
"You, Mr. Goody-fucking-two-shoes." The old man exited his booth and stood toe-to-toe with the Pali' captain. "Listen here, mister. I don't know who the hell you are or where you come from, but I sure as hell know that damn badge you got mommied on your drabs. You Palisades peeps are the reason why the French started ransacking the markets in the first place. So, no. Maybe I'm not looking to buy stuff off of you."
"And why are we to blame, Mr. Pie?"
"Enough with that 'Mr. Pie' shit. You don't have the right to call me by my name. You don't have the right to be here at all—"
"Look, the lady just needs something to eat—"
"Oh, yeah? Then get in line, goddammit! The whole block's starving!" He smacked his chin at the captain then went back to his booth, pulling the blade out of the table. "The canteen was the first to go. They figured that they didn't want the provisions to spoil, and so, they fed the hungry free of charge. It wasn't long until they used up all they had. Herbs, spices, meats, veggies—all gone. They packed up, got up, and left in a jiffy."
"You guys have nothing to spare? Nothing at all?"
"None. Unless your dame fancies trash pandas roasted over can fires, I got nothing for you." The shopkeeper tapped the counter and bopped his head down, staring at the dings on the countertop in discontentment. After a few seconds of silently panting over the booth, he asked the captain, "What are your wares?"
We came back with our plunders.
"Baby," Captain Finer called me to bring the globe over to Mr. Pie's desk.
I gently set it down on the booth and gave it a spin, showing him all the markings on the sphere. He seemed to like it, though he was more intrigued by the box of ornaments that the captain set down on the floor. The store owner needed not examine them.
He gave the knick-knacks a quick glance and said, "For the globe, I'll clean your arms. The figurines—a .38 special."
"A .38 special for a bunch of glass dolls? Sounds like a steal."
"I've got a boy up in Canada. Loves glass dolls. They mean something to him." Mr. Pie stashed the globe underneath the desk and readied the .38 special before our eyes. All the other guns in the shop shimmered in clear nickel, but not this gun. It was rusted and grimy, like it belonged to a man who had drowned at sea years and years ago. It smelled like the sea, too. "I gotta warn you," said the man, "the piece is a little faulty. It might blow up in your face if you don't get it checked out, but if you wanna play Russian roulette, then be my guest."
"We'll be fine," said Captain Finer.
Mr. Pie pounded the desk with his fist, pointing at the captain afterwards and reiterating, "Have it checked out. I mean it."
"We will." The captain then asked him, "Are you guys gonna do the same?"
"What do you mean?"
"Pack up and flee?"
The shop owner slid the gun over to me as he told us, "Well, what else is there to do? As long as we conduct business here, the French are just gonna keep coming back, robbing our stores and harassing more folks. It's not safe, but it's nowhere better where we're all headed."
"And you guys found a spot?"
"Oh, not us. Congress. They chose the spot for us."
Beep. "Finer, come in."
Those walkie-talkies we had buzzed obnoxiously loud whenever we were indoors. They'd always scare the living daylights out of me. Captain Finer respectfully turned away from Mr. Pie and grabbed his radio, marching out of the shop as he responded to the call.
"Baby, wait inside."
"Yes, sir."
As I waited for the captain to come back in, Mr. Pie stood next to me and crossed his arms. To break the silence, he told me "This is not your crowd."
I didn't understand what he meant by that. "I beg your pardon?"
"Palisades Reconnaissance is a dangerous group to be affiliated with. You shouldn't be rolling with these guys. Believe me. I've seen and heard enough about these bastards to know that whatever they're after isn't worth it for the people they scoop up. You're a volunteer, right?"
It was like speaking to a fortune teller. "How'd you know?"
"Nothing to it, really. You stand out is all."
I guess smoking was the new ice-breaker that time for everyone I interacted with always offered me a smoke, sometimes, even a joint. Mr. Pie offered me a fancy, unlit cigar, and although its nice, dark, and earthy tobacco scent was pleasant to the nose, I declined. He decided to light it for himself and lit it so close that the smoke instantly seeped through my shirt and pants. I knew I was going to smell that way for the rest of the day.
Mr. Pie then said to me, "I also happen to have seen enough baby faces to know that it takes a lot to break 'em, but it takes much less to keep 'em broken." The shopkeeper spoke to me as if he knew me his entire life, but I suppose once you grow old, that body of wisdom just plants itself in your head and in your mind. He sounded like Dr. Agatha if she was an even older, wiser soul. "What's your name, young lady?"
"Elisabeth Baby."
He held my hand then shook it even though I was still facing the door. It took me a while to figure out what he was doing. Once I realized it was a handshake, I faced him and bowed as soon as he released his grasp on my fingers. "George Pie," he gave me his full name. "You seem like an okay gal, Elisabeth."
"And you seem like an okay shopkeeper," I said in response. "So, Congress has the power to just pick you up and move you guys elsewhere?"
"Pope requested our markets be moved further down."
"Why is that if you don't mind me asking?"
Mr. Pie went back to his booth and continued wiping down his switchblade. "She's trying to help the markets revert to using American dollars. Resistance teams further south successfully pushed back French forces and reclaimed a few territories. The problem now is that so many people around Nyack have dollars in their pockets with no services to spend them on."
"So, you're moving business down to Nyack?"
"Looks like it." The man handed me a printed telegram. "This might help."
"Thank you." I took the stationary from his fingers and said to him, "Well, I hope I bump into you again once you're in Nyack. We'll be down there as well to conduct our operations against Hexagon troops along the DMZ."
"And I hope to see you too, young lady." The man gave me a friendly smile. His wrinkles and blemishes went away once his cheeks pressed his eyes closed. He looked like a kid, especially with how short he was.
I bowed a second time and told him, "If there's anything you need, just let me know."
"Oh, well there is one thing." Mr. Pie rushed to the back office of his little gun shop which was a makeshift shed made from wooden racks, cage fences, and sheet metal. I heard him swishing around in there, knocking things over and causing the small office to sway back and forth. He emerged from the shed covered in dust and with a folded letter in his hand. "I have this letter that I wish to send to the postal office, but I don't want to leave my shop unattended. I'd have you be a doll and watch over it, but I don't trust you or your knight in shining armor to do that for me."
"I understand." I was handed the letter. It wasn't secured in an envelope or anything. It was folded into threes with the name "Toni" written on the back of it. I didn't want to pry at him nor ask who that Toni girl was, so I just slipped the letter in my back pocket. "And where is this postal office? Is it outside the town?"
1407, Kings Highway.
"I'm sorry, but I can't quite trust you right now, Baby," said the captain as we ushered ourselves through a dense crowd out on the street. "What if the old man just took advantage of you? Ran off with the guns while you and I are out delivering a plain old letter?"
"I'm sure he means well, sir."
"We'll see when we get back. If he's double-crossing us, I'll have Miller repo those arms if you know what I mean." Captain Finer squinted every time he'd look down to recount the bills he had fanned in between his fingers. To me, the numbers were clear as day, but for him, they were probably all smudged and distorted despite the banknotes being just hairs away from his retinas.
"Do you… need help?" I offered him my reading glasses.
"Huh? Oh, no, it's fine. Thank you."
We continued strolling through Sugar Loaf until we made it to Kings Highway. The trees there stretched so high, standing erect like Mother Nature's skyscrapers while vines, shrubs, and ferns covered the very asphalt we trekked on. I thought we were sauntering through a whole other planet. The only thing that gave us a sense of direction was the post office itself which we spotted from the other side of the wide street. As we kicked our legs through knee-high grass, I tried to do a little small-talk with the captain. He was mildly vexed with my presence, though I knew he wasn't going to speak his mind about it. He was proper that way.
"So, what was it like for you before all of this?" I asked him.
"Before all of this? Meh… dismal."
"Dismal?"
"Life was life is all. Every day, you wake up, put on your shoes, and go to work. Other days, it's wake up, eat, sleep, and sleep again. I mean, there had to be more to it, right?" He kicked a pebble and watched it roll across the rigid ground in a similar way a child would. "Helen was the only upside. She was something else. She was very 'new' in the sense that everything else was getting old."
"Your wife?"
"Yeah, my wife," he sighed when he answered me.
Asking him that simple, shallow, dumb question made my tongue slide down my throat. I didn't know how fragile and/or tough these people were. I swear, you couldn't gauge them.
"She was the people's person. Me—I was just there on the side, but I was fine with it. It was supposed to be like that, but I wasn't on the bleachers or anything. I was right in her corner, cheering her on and stuff. It was fun that way."
To be honest, I felt the same about Tommy. He was always meant to be the star of the show while I was the one buffing him out, making him shine, and I was alright with that. But when a person like that gets taken out of the picture and you're left for everyone to look at, you just… freeze. All eyes are on you when you never needed that many eyes before.
I wanted to tell the captain how I felt about Tommy, how I felt about giving the floor to him and letting him shine. Before all that, he was a quiet fella and I was the one speaking my mind and making moves. He always struggled to find a purpose, and once he joined Palisades, everyone, including me, got to witness what he could really do… even if I only ever heard about it. The recognition that he got, the respect that he obtained from the troops made him feel loved. Tommy was a sad man, but he didn't need to be sad all the time. Anyways, I chose to keep quiet about it.
"1407, Kings Highway," said the captain. "We're here."
That small node along the forest-ridden highway looked like it came straight out of a painting. Vines and ferns grew in certain spots which accentuated the many cracks and blemishes of the small, yellow cabin, and a warm light emitted by a hanging lantern bathed the dark, wooden porch in a golden hue. There was a barrel by the door, and leaning on it was a neglected banjo. It was all old and crusty, though when I ran my finger through its five strings, it still resonated quite nicely.
There were many other things on that porch, some the captain took and slid in his pocket like a kerosene lighter, cigarette tins, and money clips just without the money. I sat my hind on the steps and fiddled with a flower that I found shriveling up under the porch's foundation. Even though it was withering away, it still smelled like berries and honey.
"Just stay here, Baby. I'll be right back."
Sure, the captain wasn't fond of the detour, but he was kind enough to do me the favor. It didn't matter if the task was mine or not. He always wanted me to sit down and catch my breath. I waited patiently on the porch, observing the very few folks traverse the long highway on foot while Captain Finer spoke with the man inside.
The sun was getting brighter and hotter, but it wasn't enough to thaw my body. I tucked my arms in my pits, the flower still dancing in my hand. I watched as the sun rose, causing the shadows, which were the main source of that unrelenting cold, to creep back into the woods. The cold was still too much for me. My skin was white and my palms were purple. Literally, I couldn't feel a thing. I cupped my hands and pursed my lips into them. With a stuttering breath, I blew hot air into my tiny mitts, hoping to revive them from their lifeless state.
By the time Captain Finer exited the postal office, every bone in my body was glued in place. He sat by my side and counted his bills once more, inserting them into the money clip he had just found on the porch.
"Swamp Rose Mallow," said the captain.
"Hm?"
He pointed at the flower in my grasp. "It's called a 'Swamp Rose Mallow'. Where I come from, we call it 'Lady Baltimore' or 'Lord Baltimore'. You're lucky you found one. Those little guys stop blooming around this time."
"I didn't know you were into… plants? Or is it just flowers?"
"Helen's mother was a botanist." The captain took the flower from my hand then twirled it around, flaring its petals back to life. "She's doing okay. We're on good terms. At least, there's that."
"Is there anything special about this flower? You know… for you?"
"Not much," he answered. "All I know is that she and her husband met with this exact type of flower between their feet, and I guess that was the case with Helen and I as well. On her side of the family, Rose Mallows were like the year-round mistletoes, and instead of looming overhead, they worked their magic in between the tips of two people's kicks."
"That sounds magical."
"Yeah? Well, I suppose it does." Captain Finer set the Rose Mallow on my palm and told me, "Well, there is one special thing about this flower. I mean, I don't believe in it that much, but it is something that I still do from time to time. Helen's mom said that whenever you spot a Rose Mallow on the ground, keep it with you. As long as it's bright and showy, it carries luck."
"Bright and showy," I repeated after him. "What about you?"
"I got one back at camp, brighter and… showy-er than yours. Here," he took the flower from me once again and slipped it into my hair. "That's how her mom always wears it—over her ear and stuff."
I didn't think much about the kind gesture. Surely, he was just longing for company given that his missus passed away all too soon. I was looking for the same kind of company, though as with everything else, I kept my mouth shut, my head down, and my hands to myself. I was just tactile like that.
"She sounds like a lovely person. Where is she now?"
Dear Senators Perez and Sommers, Representatives Dale, Hopper, and Reeves:
On behalf of Rockland County, N.Y., I write to inform you that a local bank, (NNB, North Nyack Bank), has been restored and is currently under our possession. To combat the implementation of the use of French banknotes in the east, the council devised a labor system to revive the use of U.S. currency. The council also wishes to outsource markets from Sugar Loaf, Orange County in particular upon hearing about Hexagon guards confiscating store profits. County executives see the migration of markets to Rockland County as a means to expand dollar-dominant territory and to acquire immediate funds for troops stationed near the Barren Buffer Zone. In addition, armed henchmen, provided by me, will be dispatched to surveille the townsfolk of Sugar Loaf as they travel down to Nyack.
Reviving the American dollar, the council believes, is the first and most vital step in revolting against the French occupation and should be treated with severity as it is an urgent matter.
Sincerely,
County Executive Helena Maurice L. Pope