The Spot.
It’s a beautiful place. A favorite of the handful of people who know about it, even. A series of sinuous ridges, dotted with pine and fir, the grass low here and high again, bristling with crickets and caterpillars and the occasional startled cat. Too far from roads and houses to be at risk of notice, for more private activities, but not so far as to be inaccessible.
Fray hasn’t seen anyone at the Spot since the Chariot carried them back into Dauntridge, though. Not that he’s gone more than once or twice, but still. He’s not sure whether to be glad of the privacy, or if the pang he feels in his heart as he feels something of his past slipping out of reach. Again.
He tries not to think about it.
It’s the early hours of the morning, now. Four, four-thirty; when decent people are sleeping, his grandmother likes to say. Fray supposes this discounts him from “decent people,” but he’s known that since their escape.
He tries not to think about that, either.
The brush rustles, and from where Fray stands leaned against a scruffy old pine in the glow of the Chariot’s headlights he casts a half-wary eye over it. A second passes, and there’s a scuffle. Moments later, Tin pops his head out from the overgrown grass. His eyes reflect the light, cat-like, making him all the eerier in the darkness. “Fuckin’ chipmunks!” he exclaims with far more enthusiasm than Fray would have expected from a man pushing sixty. “I forgot how fast they are!”
“You get one?” Fray calls.
“Do I look like a cat to you? Don’t answer that. I gotta go see if I can find a raccoon.”
Then he’s gone again. Fray tracks the motion rippling through the grass until it’s lost to the darkness. It’s a relief, to see that this seems to be satisfying Tin’s … Fray doesn’t know, instincts? With luck it’ll wear him out, anyway; and if he’s being honest with himself, it gives Fray a bittersweet kind of gladness to see his enthusiasm for something as simple as being outside.
Not everyone is quite so easy to satisfy, he thinks to himself, and his eyes drift over to Baj.
For the last twenty-four hours, Baj has said no more than the bare minimum. They’ve been pensive and sullen the whole week the three of them have been in Dauntridge, and try as he might, Fray has been unable to tease brighter spirits out of them. Even being presented with the old art things Fray found tucked in a box in his parents’ basement did little to improve their mood. The night at the arcade had helped, a little—though Fray suspects the alcohol had more to do with that than anything. (And this, he reminds himself again, is how alcoholics probably get their start.)
But Fray had decided tonight was the night they would all go to the Spot, because they were all awake anyway, because Baj and Tin tend to sleep the daylight hours away while Fray is off doing his damnedest to fix things. Tin needed convincing, and it was only Baj’s taciturn agreement that, yes, the Spot was about as safe as they were going to get that swayed him. Baj had also not wanted to come. “If it’s safe for Tin it’s safe for you,” Fray had argued, to which Baj rolled their eyes and hunched further over their jigsaw puzzle. “Dude. Come on, I don’t want to see you stuck inside. Outside is good for you.”
“If I ignite at the Spot, it’s all going to go up,” Baj said, the words bland. “It’ll destroy the Spot and get the attention of people looking for us.”
Fray had considered this for a moment before leaning forward onto the little coffee table, hands placed flat on the half-finished puzzle. “You’re not gonna ignite,” he’d said, as kindly as he could. “Come on. We’ve still got a six-pack from the arcade and I found some weed at the old stash spot.”
“Yeah, man, getting drunk and high is really going to increase my control over the walking firebomb in my chest.” Baj did not look up, one hand with a puzzle piece hovering patiently in the air, waiting for Fray to give up and move his hands. Fray did not. “I don’t want to go.”
“You need to not be left on your own,” Fray said, and was startled by his own conviction. It carried on without much input from him: “You were alone for three years and that, th-there’s no way that’s good for you, you know?”
Baj’s eyes narrowed. “Fray.”
“And already you’re already stuck in this house most of the day, like, how’s it that much better than the Library?” Fray carried on. (Baj’s expression went through a complication series of motions.) “We need to find this c-contact or whoever he is, but until then, just—”
“Fray.”
“—I hate seeing you like this,” Fray finished, dropping his head. His hair pooled down over his shoulders, further obscuring the puzzle.
When he at last dared to lift his gaze it was to find Baj leaned back on the overturned milk crate they were using as a seat. They rubbed at their eyes, faint light escaping the intersection like the sun through blinds. Their hands dropped, and they drew a deep breath. They did not meet his eyes. “I’m fine.”
Fray pushed himself up off the table. He took some of the puzzle pieces with him, the cheap cardboard and glossy printed paper sticking to his palm. Too many words crowded at his throat, and in the end he could say none of them.
Baj said, quietly, “I’ll come if you’ll answer my question.”
All of Fray’s words vanished. Just for a moment. He found the ones he wanted a moment later. “I did.”
“No,” said Baj, no longer sounding patient, “you fed me a line and changed the subject.”
“No—”
“Like you always do when you don’t want to tell me something.”
“I’m not—look. I told you. I’m the last guy you need to be worrying about.”
Baj’s eyes glow and shimmer as they fall on him, the brightest thing in Fray’s field of vision. “Then I’m not going.”
Fray groaned in annoyance, throwing his hands up. He strode out of the room. He came back forty-five seconds later and resumed his position opposite Baj at the coffee table, hands akimbo. “Okay,” he said, unable to keep the smugness from his voice. “Then maybe you can help me with something else.”
Baj gave him a wary look. Fray canted his hips to one side, feeling superior. “I wanted to buy a stairway to heaven, but I need a loan.”
Those lamplight eyes widened as Baj processed what he’d said, then narrowed. “That’s … you can’t do that.”
“Uh, yes I can. I still have the pact.” (This was true.) “I even know where it is.” (This was a lie.)
“Whatever, that’s kid stuff.”
“The Zeppelin pact says, and I quote: ‘we the undersigned do most solidly swear that—’”
“Solemnly,” said Baj.
” ‘—most solidly swear allegiance to the other, to be called upon in …’ in, uh …”
Before him, Baj scowled at the puzzle. ” ‘Called upon when in utmost need.’ ” Fray beamed. “We were twelve. We aren’t kids.”
“We signed that thing in blood, Kai,” Fray continued. “You’re not going to break the pact, are you?”
Baj was silent for a long time. Finally, they tilted back their head and said, “This is really what you’re blowing your stairway on? Making me go stand outside at four in the morning?”
Fray said, “Yes.”
And now here they are.