[No. 22: Hunter R & Cris M]
CRIS swung side to side, loose on silver mount, a pendulum playing out each step taken in the battle of mass vs. gravity, and Cris reached down, annoyed, to pin the name-tag more securely to the lapel of his coat. His fingers flattened the tag, a white flag of surrender. When he was satisfied it would hold still, he finished his sandwich almost as quick as Hunter had, crumbs littering his fingertips and sanding his lips.—It only occurred to him after he'd put his arm 'round the kid that maybe he shouldn't do that. It wasn't so much he thought Hunter would get ideas as much as he didn't wanna be misleading. But, Cris was a real physical guy, tactile by nature. He'd played football, had wrestled for so long, was Cuban, where contact between guys was normal, its own branda affection. He'd forget 'bout how it could be misleading before they found their first egg. It was fighting an uphill battle, trying to remember to curb it.
"Smart thinkin'," he said of Hunter's sage forethought not to bring the dog, giving a smile loose and easy. He wasn't real sure what the stakesa the hunt were, since he'd kinda glossed over the more informative parta the invitation, but, 'course they didn't want nobody thinking they were cheating. That wouldn't be right, huh? Not for the Sheriff.—His grin was cheeky. He lived for playing a lil dirty.
He felt at his pockets when Hunter asked after a basket, stupid, like he might find one, before he just decided to improvise. If allowed, he took that lil blue egg from the kid, and he placed it in the hooda the sweater he'd given Hunter, that Hunter was wearing. It would work. He was laughing about it, pretty pleased with himself and about to tease the kid, when all that faltered, like somebody teetering on the edgea something tectonic.
There was a fence. There hadn't been a fence, and now there was. Its boards were flat, almost wet-looking, definitely real old, and—Cris turned on his heel—it surrounded them. "¿Qué puta mierda?" Instinct had his hand already on Hunter's shoulder again and he practically dragged the kid closer, keeping a grip on him. His brain struggled to make sensea this—from hows to whys to whens. 'Cause it was real, right? It was real.—He closed his fingers 'round that egg again. It was cool against his palm, damp, soil clinging to it. Real. And like a caveman would try tossing a rock at the inexplicable, burning monster that ate wood, he chucked that fucking egg at the planksa the fence, waiting to see if it'd break open.