“to think too much is a disease”

It took him a second to find his voice. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. It’s just… splinters.” It sounded really, really stupid to say it out loud. He had called Beau all the way here in the middle of the night for this?

“Splinters hurt,” Beau said graciously. “Are you hurt any other ways?”

“No,” he said, willfully ignoring the way his thigh burned and his heart ached.

Beau accompanied him to the other side of the car and held the passenger door open in an excessively chivalrous way. Port climbed in, becoming antsy once Beau sat in the driver’s seat beside him. They should not be sitting so close, on an equal level, separated only by the center console.

Beau seemed much more at-ease now that he knew Port was not dying or having some sort of outwardly hysterical breakdown. It had been an incredibly awkward phone call, mostly on Port’s part. Beau had asked him questions in a carefully calm manner while Port was quiet and stuttering, overtaken by the shame and guilt of it all. He managed to convince Beau that his keepers were not the ones who had hurt him— it was nature’s doing.

He worried Beau might scold him and expose him to Rida, or that maybe it was all a trap he had set— to test if Port was disobedient enough to warrant being taken away and decommissioned for good. But Beau did not seem to care. He was willing to whisk him away in the dead of night to save him from a few wood chips and cactus needles. Port found himself wondering how ethical or even legal this was— not that he cared. He was so far removed from ethics, law, and basic human consideration himself that he had no right to judge. 

“I’ll take you to my office,” Beau said, making a U-turn. “Get you fixed up. What do you think about that?”

“Okay, sir. Thank you.”

Beau flicked his blinker on before he turned out of the neighborhood street, even though there were no other cars in sight. It clicked rhythmically like Beau’s tapping finger, cutting through the silence. Then they were on their way.

“So, are you one for nature walks?” The tone was not quite accusatory, but it was certainly more than small talk.

“Um… I don't usually have the opportunity.” The answer came out so quietly he feared Beau may not be able to hear him over the hum of tires on asphalt. “But I suppose I am,” he said louder.

“Sometimes it just calls to you, right? It’s a little dangerous to be walking out in the desert at night, though,” Beau said lightly. “There are snakes out there. Scorpions.” He was taken by a shiver, shoulders shuttering. “Hate those things,” he muttered.

“I heard some coyotes,” Port said. He feared their sharp teeth more than he feared a scorpion’s curled sting.

“Oooh,” Beau intoned, like this was incredibly interesting. “Y’know, I’ve been attacked by plenty of scorpions, but never a coyote. I’ve never heard of one hurting a human, so they’re probably okay. I used to see them all the time, where I’m from.”

“Where’s that, sir?” Port asked, welcoming the change of topic. He would much rather talk about Beau than talk about himself.

“Oklahoma, the southeastern part. It’s pretty rural there.”

Port took a moment to picture this in his head. Five hundred miles north of Houston, maybe, or something like that. “Why did you move?”

“Well… there’s not much to do, unless you like to gamble. And it’s not great career-wise, either. Life just led me here.” 

Maybe Mr. Oz would have enjoyed Oklahoma. “Do you like it here?”

Beau’s chin dipped. “Yes. I love it. My only qualm is living so far away from my mother, but sometimes…” His eyes flicked over to Port for a second, either realizing he was sharing too much or feeling awkward that he had brought up the privilege of having a mother at all. “Uh, anyway, what do you think of it so far?”

“It’s nice,” Port said noncommittally. He missed the familiar landscape of home. “It looks a lot different.”

“It’s beautiful,” Beau said. Port peered out the window, but all he could see were the shadows of those clay-looking buildings passing them by, all smooth edges. Sonny had taught him the word for it: adobe. “Lots of things to see, nice people, great culture… say, have you heard of Taos Pueblo? It’s only a couple hours away, you should visit. The Rio Grande Gorge is near there, too.”

Port had no idea what those were, nor when he’d possibly have the opportunity to go there, but perhaps it was a nice thought.

“If you like art, the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum is here in town…” Beau went on. “She painted a lot of flowers.”

“I like flowers,” Port said.

“I think flowers have a universal appeal,” Beau mused. 

Before long, they were parked by a pale and rectangular building. Port got out of the car and followed Beau to a nondescript door with no signage. Beau fumbled with his jingling key ring on the way, picking out the correct one and twisting it in the lock. 

It was dark and silent inside other than the hum of electrical appliances thrumming through the walls. Port had trouble making anything out, but Beau seemed to know where he was going. He led Port down a hallway and into a room, carpet scratching beneath his shoes. There Beau flicked on the light switch, revealing a modest space with a few unoffensive wall decorations and furnishings, including an armchair. 

“You can sit there,” Beau said. “I’ll be right back.”

Something about sitting alone in the small room made his anxiety pick up again, like he was waiting in a doctor’s office or about to have some sort of psychological evaluation. The feeling was hardly eased by Beau's return, though his relaxed demeanor was comforting. He was carrying a First-Aid kit and a roll of duct tape.

“Should we look at the spines or the splinters first?” Beau asked.

“Whichever you’d prefer, sir.” Port found himself increasingly embarrassed by his situation. 

“You said the cactus got your ankle, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

He had the sudden urge to slip out of the chair and drop to his knees when Beau lowered himself onto the carpet, right by his feet. From this angle he could see the crown of Beau’s head and the neat part running down the middle of his scalp. Nobody had ever kneeled before him before. It did not feel right. 

“I can sit on the floor, too,” Port said, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt.

Beau’s brown eyes met his face curiously. “I think it’ll be easier if you stay in the chair.”

“Okay,” he relented. 

He told Beau which leg it was and Beau lifted the cuff of his pant, neatly and precisely folding it over on itself to reveal his pale ankle.

“These are very tiny,” Beau said. “No wonder you didn’t have any luck with tweezers.” He peeled up a strip of duct tape with his nail and tore it from the roll. “That's what this is for. I’m going to put this on your leg and then rip it up, like a wax. It’ll get them right out. Does that sound okay to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Beau carefully pressed the piece of tape over the affected patch of ankle. “It might sting a little. Would you like a countdown?”

Port smiled with humor before he could stop himself. “That’s okay, sir. Do what you need to.” It would not bother him. 

He preferred it when Beau was not looking up at him. Beau pinched the edge of the tape between his fingers and tore it from his skin in a quick motion. It didn’t feel like much at all. Beau lightly pressed on his foot to get a better look, like he was tapping a horse’s hoof. Port shifted his legs wider without thinking. “There are still some in your skin, so I’ll do it a few more times. Look at what came out so far.” He held the piece of tape up. The sticky side was coated with a few needles, tiny white hairs against the dark ribs of the tape. And a few of his actual leg hairs, too, pale follicle buds still attached to the ends. Ripped out at the root.

Port took the piece of tape from him and folded it over so that the hair was trapped inside, and then folded it again for good measure. Beau started scraping at the roll again. Port’s ear picked up on the scratch of his nails against the tape, and then the buzz of the ceiling light, and then the beat of his own heart. The clinical quiet bothered him. “Why did you choose this job?” he asked.

“Well... I like feeling like I’m doing a good thing for people,” Beau said, still fiddling with the roll.

Port waited for him to continue, but he left it at that. Port liked his smooth voice and the pleasing way he enunciated his words, and wanted him to keep talking. “How did you choose this, specifically?”

Beau blew soft air from his lips, considering. “Well, if you want my whole story… My goal was to work for CPS, originally.” He finally freed a new piece and started sticking it to Port’s ankle in an almost ticklish way. “But you have to work up to that, so I took my first job at a residential treatment center for kids and teens. And then I had a brief stint in juvenile detention. The thing is, it was…” he trailed off, pressing the tape down. “Well, I just wasn’t a good fit. Especially because I was young, myself.” He ripped the tape away with no warning, a tug at Port’s skin. Beau squinted at his ankle again and went for another piece.

“I see,” Port said. Could they be the same age? His skin was clear, and his hair was thick, but the lines under his eyes made him seem mature.

“It got me thinking about all those kids who slip through the cracks, and how increasingly more people look to Contract Companionship as an option. When you age out of the youth system, and you’re either looking at WRU or prison, it seems pretty tempting, right? And it’s not only criminals, of course. A lot foster children, too, who just have nowhere else to turn. The whole thing is just…” He stuck the tape to Port’s skin. “Well, you don’t need my opinion.” Beau met his eyes. Port imagined what he might be seeing— the perturbed look on his face, his furrowed brow. “What do you think about it?” Beau asked.

“I… don’t.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“That’s fair enough. I’m, uh, sorry to bring it up at all.” Port flinched, this time, when Beau ripped the tape from his skin. “Oh! Sorry. I should have warned you. It looks like that’s the last of them, though.”

Port resisted the urge to pull his foot up and rub at his abused ankle. He could feel his skin was irritated and see the pinkness of it. Beau flicked open the latch on the First-Aid kit and pulled out a packaged alcohol swap. He ripped the paper open and swiped the wet square over his skin.

“Thank you,” Port said, though he wasn't sure how necessary that was. Surely if he was going to get an infection it would be too late to stop it now.

“Of course. Can I take a look at your palms?”

Beau pulled over the other chair that was in the room and settled across from him. Somehow it was even more unsettling than when Beau had been kneeling by his feet. Port extended his right hand first. The tender way Beau tilted it and leaned in closer to see it better in the light felt overly intimate. He did not even press hard enough to make divots in Port’s skin. His nails were neatly trimmed and filed, clean tips of white. Port was self-conscious of his own ugly ones in comparison.

Beau decided he would be able to go at them with tweezers and grabbed them from the kit. He gently cupped Port’s hand with his own, skin strangely soft and girlish. Beau stared intently into the lines of his palm and delicately pinched one of the minuscule chips between the metal, plucking it out painlessly. He dropped it to the floor. “This room gets vacuumed every night,” Beau said, as if Port would confront him about it. 

Something about the way Beau carefully picked the splinters from his palm made sweat break out over his forehead and the back of his neck. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, though Beau did not look up. “Sir?” he said.

“Yes?”

“May I know your opinion?”

“Hm?”

“About me. I mean— about us. Pets.” 

“Oh. Well…” The tweezers stilled as Beau thought it over. “There’s a distinction between pets— or Companions— and the system itself.”

“Ms. Rida doesn’t like it,” Port was compelled to say. 

Beau picked out another splinter. “She made me aware.”

“Do you think similarly?”

Beau sighed, head tilting. “If you really want to know, I find it kind of... grim. The System isn’t exactly kind. That’s why I chose this job,” Beau said. “To help individuals.” He removed the final splinter from Port’s hand. “If you can't beat 'em, join 'em,” he muttered, touch lingering a few seconds too long. “That’s what I have to say about that.” He pulled away. “Other hand, please?”

Port dropped his right hand to his lap and extended his left one apprehensively. The one with the missing fingers. People’s eyes tended to skip over it, but it was impossible not to notice at such close proximity. Port waited for Beau to make some comment, or even just hesitate, and wondered what sort of tale he should tell this time.

It didn’t happen. Beau grabbed his hand without faltering. 

Still, it did not prevent Port’s discomfort. The stumps had not been painful for a long time, but there was still something disturbing and sensitive about having the scar tissue touched. Sometimes they tingled or ached. But Beau’s own fingers did not brush against them, nor did the tweezers. It was a relief.

As Beau worked at his palm, and he turned Beau's story over in his mind, something he had mentioned was nagging at him. “Can all criminals go into the System?” Port asked. “Not just juveniles?”

“Well, there is an age limit,” Beau said. “And many factors are taken into consideration. But generally speaking, it’s an option. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it all started as a way to clear out prisons in the first place. The 13th Amendment outlawed slavery except as punishment for crime, so… I think it was only a matter of time before that was taken advantage of,” Beau said, displeasure scarcely concealed. “And of course, now the System has expanded so that anyone can go in if they want to.” 

Port was getting strangely restless and fighting the desire to pull his hand away. The intimate novelty had worn off. Now he just wanted to be done, and not to be touched anymore. “I didn’t know that,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody ever explained it to me. At least not that I can remember.”

“I guess I wouldn’t expect them to.” Beau accidentally poked Port’s palm with the tweezer, making him twitch. “Sorry.”

Phantom taste of metal in his mouth. Sweat on his neck. The missing space of his finger prickled. “Isn’t it dangerous for criminals to become pets?”

Beau glanced at him in a way Port could not quite decipher. “Like I said, there are multiple factors. People who commit, say, first-degree murder don’t have it as an option. And there are psychological evaluations involved, even if things slip by sometimes. I used to do a lot of screenings for suicide and homicide risk.”

Port’s leg shifted. His thigh burned. More prickling.

“I think that’s all of them,” Beau said.

“Huh?”

“I think I got all the splinters. Can you see any?”

Port lifted his arms to inspect, eyes running over the lines of his palms. His hands were red. Splinter-free. Beau sat back in his chair, allowing him his personal space once again. 

“May I ask something?”

“Of course,” Beau said.

His eyes remained fixed on his palms. “Do you know why I became this?”

Beau did not answer right away. Immediately, Port knew the question was too revealing. He was toeing a line.

“No,” Beau said. “I’m not made privy to that information.”

Port lowered his hands. “Oh.”

“The files they gave me are, uh, extremely redacted.”

Port knew this. He had found where Rida tucked the files on a shelf. He had needed to know if they would tell him anything about himself, and spent an hour pouring over the tiny and nauseating letters, sounding out each word in his head. All he got from it was a headache and tired eyes. Nothing of use. Too many black bars.

“But the information exists?”

Beau was looking at him quite seriously, but in a way that seemed more thoughtful than it did dangerous. “I assume so. Has it been on your mind?”

Strange dreams. Weird flashes. Wondering about a past he was not even supposed to spare a passing thought to. You chose this. That’s all you need to know. “At a certain point, it’s… hard not to wonder,” Port said, having revealed too much to backtrack now. He kept seeing images behind his eyelids he could not explain. Phantoms sitting on his chest.

Beau hummed. “I can imagine.” His fingers were tapping on his thigh, one after the other, over and over again. “I can look into it for you, if you’d like.”

Port shook his head, though the offer made something thrum in his chest. “I ain’t asking you to do that, sir, I was just wondering if you knew.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Beau said it casually, not even meeting his eyes. He was busying himself with the First-Aid kit, and pulled out another alcohol swab. “Hands?”

Port held them out, palm-up, like in supplication. The cold swipe made his fingers curl, antiseptic smell filling his nose. “Thank you,” he said.

“No problem.” Beau sat back, and tilted his head, eyes turning a little impish. “Now did you want to go back home, or… like… McDonald’s?”

More time away? Of course. “McDonald’s sounds good,” Port said. Beau rewarded him with a smile.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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The sensation flashed through his mind. Bones separating. He could've sworn he tasted iron in his mouth. He removed the damp finger from his tongue, sweating and disturbed. There was a deep, pink divot in his flesh where his teeth had pressed, a little gap in the line that reflected the missing chip of his front tooth. No blood. He watched the skin slowly raise with memory and the mark fade like it had never happened at all. 

Port knew, for a fact, that he could do it if he really put his mind to it. The idea did not scare him as much as it should.

He allowed his focus to shift to the sensation of the raw burn on his thigh— the one he had given himself not long ago, with a heated fork like a four-pronged brand. 

The utensil he had used lay abandoned on the table beside him. It was blackened with soot, now, dropping to the temperature of the night air. The insistent heat on his skin lingered long after he’d pulled the scalding metal away. It was a familiar feeling, stomach-turning and honeyed and numb all at once.

A faint gust of wind like a tail wrapping around his ankle sent a soft wave of goosebumps running up his bare leg. The night was nearly silent except for the wind chimes like bells as he dragged a feather-light fingernail from his knee to the midpoint of his thigh, drawing a shiver out of himself. The hair on his legs rose like with magnetic attraction to the surrounding air. His chilled and buzzing skin, in all its minuscule peaks, was the texture of tongue.

He was not cold. At least not anymore, and not yet. The rapidly cooling sweat was still prickling on his neck. His heart was slowing to relative normality.

He stared into the flickering flame before him, the small form of Rida’s lighter gripped tenderly in his hand. His eyes went out of focus as it danced for him, mesmerizing. In spite of the breeze, it did not go out until he snapped the lid shut and stifled the glow that fell upon his face. In its absence, he let his hand fall to the arm of the chair.

He’d never been branded before, though the old circular burns littering the insides of his thighs were proof of the cigarettes, and the warped texture on the bottom of his feet was proof of the way Ginny had held her lighter there to make him squirm and scream. His heart rate picked back up at the mere memory.

He brushed his thumb over the inside of his wrist, pressing into the tendons there, feeling his fingers curl involuntarily. There were not so many scars there, and they were faded, but it was the first time she had ever put the fire to his skin. It was also the first time he had ever betrayed himself like this— and for that, they were special. He wondered if Sonny had ever noticed them and elected not to mention it. Probably. Definitely. He could be subtle like that.

Port wondered how he had ever thought he was being subtle, himself. 

He realized he was gripping the fork again at the thought of Sonny and everything he had done to him. There were so many things he wished he could take back. 

The flame was at his fingers once again. He dipped the tines into the heat. He imagined it was alive and screaming and he was torturing it, forcing it into the fire until it begged for him to stop. The image made something sick settle in his stomach— he could not tell if it was thrill or disgust. When he felt it was hot enough, he flicked the Zippo shut. Without giving the fork a chance to cool, or himself a chance to rethink, he pressed the metal to his flesh.

It burned. God, it burned like a motherfucker. A little taste of hellfire.

He kept it there until he could bear it no longer. He tore the fork away, teeth clenched. He shut his eyes and pressed the back of his head to the rough wall behind him, basking in the pain. He inhaled deeply, breathing through it. It felt sticky, almost, if pain could even be such a thing. Like hot tar or syrup clinging to his skin. 

He deserved the pain, of course— even if it would not atone for anything. He liked to think of it as proof that he was still alive. Gore played out behind his eyelids. Barrel to temple. Brains on carpet. Blood from nose.

Eyes open, he looked at what he had done to himself. The burns were raw and blistering. Three sets of uneven four-pronged shapes marring his leg. 

He decided he was finished. Somehow it was not as satisfying when he did it to himself. Ginny would not have waited for him to be ready before bestowing him another mark. She would’ve had him pleading for her to stop, or wait, or at least give me a second to breathe.

He should not be out here, outside, at all. But everyone was asleep, and no one was here to tell him no.

Scarcely any light filtered into the backyard from the street that ran along the front of the house. Port thought he might be on the very edge of the city. He knew beyond the fence was desert. Beyond that were mountains. Beyond that…?

The lighter went in his pocket. The soot-covered fork, too. He stood from the chair. The fabric of his shorts, which had been hiked up, slipped down his thigh and brushed against the burns in a distracting way. Every step and swish of fabric stung all over again, breath-catching pain that made him wince. He told himself to embrace it.

Port pressed his hand to the old wooden gate until a gap appeared wide enough for him to fit through. Though his feet were planted firmly on the ground, he felt he was standing on a ledge. Fighting vertigo and the assured plummet, he crossed the threshold. Confined no longer. 

He nudged the gate shut behind him. For the first time in five years, for the first time in all the life he could remember, there was nobody he needed to follow. His head spun.

It was very dark out, but the moon offered just enough light to see the western landscape spread out before him. Barely, just barely, he could make out the mountain peaks in the haze, scraping the firmament. He wanted to go there.

Once he passed the wooden telephone poles, he had left the realm of man-made creation. The sound of the spinning wind chimes faded into the ether. There were only cacti, bushes, dry trees, and a whole lot of rocks and sand. There were surely creatures as well, out of sight, scuttling or slithering away from his footfalls. Maybe he would step on an unsuspecting serpent. Maybe it would send venom into his veins. He did not particularly care. His body moved of its own accord. He was little more than the thin vapor that permeated his limbs.

A sharp scrape at his ankle momentarily distracted him from the insistent burning on his thigh. Fangs, he thought— razor-sharp pinpoints. He pulled away instinctively, looking to see what had hurt him. Not a snake, but a cactus. 

He knelt and used the lighter to bestow enough light to see the minuscule spines sticking out of his skin, each one the width of a strand of hair. He doubted he would have much luck trying to remove them with his fingers, so he accepted that they would have to stay. That was fine. He kept going. 

He did not know how long he had been walking towards the horizon when a coyote’s distant howl like a mourning cry traveled across the land and cut through his haze. It struck a cold fear into him that, wrapped in his blanket of numbness, he had forgotten he was capable of. He froze in place, halfway between steps. 

A second, high-pitched howl, from a different direction. Suddenly the idea of walking until he could touch heaven did not seem so appealing anymore. He noticed he was cold. He wrapped his arms around himself, taken by a shiver. His heart beat rabbit-quick.

When he turned around, the house was simultaneously further and closer than he had expected it to be. He would not have been able to estimate the distance if he tried. The walk of shame back to the glowing beacon of the neighborhood was like wading through water or shifting through a dream, no matter how hastily he moved. 

It hardly seemed to draw any nearer until seconds, minutes, or hours later when he realized the fence was already directly before his eyes. He had been to the other side, and now wanted to return. He pressed his hand to the gate once again, but it did not budge. The latch had closed.

Well, there was nothing to do but climb it. He tested his weight on the horizontal slat of wood running near the bottom of the fence, a perfect foothold. It seemed sturdy enough, so he stepped on to it, only room for his toes. He gripped the top of the fence and winced at the new wood splinters in his palms, blooming pain like the needles of the cactus. How could something so small be so painful? He hoisted himself up and swung his leg over, pressing his foot against the other side, then the other foot, and then he was back in the confines of the backyard. He twisted and dropped down, but lost his footing at the landing— he stumbled forward and ended up on his knees in the dusty earth. 

The marks he had given himself still burned like hell. What an insistent pain it was, impossible to ignore. He stood up, brushed the pebbles from his legs, and made his way to the back door. 

Inside the house was wonderfully warm, but it did little to assuage the chill within him. He stepped out of his sandals and crept to the bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light.

He was a mess. It was obvious without the shroud of darkness. He wet a washcloth and swiped it over his legs to wash the dirt away, avoiding the burns. He wasn’t quite sure how to tackle them. Just water? Soap? Alcohol? He used another clean cloth to wet them gently, hissing through his teeth at the sting. Even the soft pressure sent pain radiating, though the cool water was somewhat relieving. 

He searched through the drawers, looking for some sort of bandage. He found a box of them in various sizes and a few small tubes of ointment. He tried reading the labels on them, but they were impossibly long and tiny in text. He unscrewed the cap of one and squeezed some onto his finger. It was clear, gel-like, and did not have any discernible smell. Maybe this was what he was looking for. He spread more of it over the burns and topped them off with the plasters. There. He was not completely far gone— he was taking care of himself. 

His splintered palms still stung, as did his ankle, but when he tried to pick at them with tweezers he realized they were too big, or the spines were too small, or his eyes were too blurry or his hands were too shaky. Horrifyingly, he found himself so frustrated that he could cry, if he only let the tears out. He refused to.

He threw the tweezers back in the drawer and just sat there on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, wondering what to do. This was his own doing, like everything else. He would just have to sleep with it, maybe, and shamefully ask someone for help in the morning. But he did not want to put this upon anyone, let alone have to explain how he had suffered them in the first place. Really, he did not want to have to face anyone at all. He did not want to look Sonny, Rida, or Talha in the eyes. He had wronged all of them in ways they didn’t even realize. 

For a few minutes he stared off into space. I want to leave again, he thought. When his eyes came back into focus, he realized they where they were aimed— at the porcelain. That was when it dawned on him.

“If you need anything,” Beau had said, “and I mean anything, you can call me.”

He had never thrown away the card the social worker gave him— the one with the phone number. He had not flushed it, nor ripped it up. Despite wanting to, something about it felt harmful, like within the fibers of the cardstock and its black printed text was some essence of the man’s soul that he would be destroying, and Beau would be able to sense it torn in half and hate him for it. 

Now, in his desperation, he was grateful he had kept it intact. If Port remembered correctly, the card must still be tucked within his old pair of grey clothes from the facility, which he had folded neatly and not yet had the chance to wash.

When he slipped back into his and Sonny’s shared room, his companion was still sleeping soundly in bed, covered in blankets and facing the wall so that all Port could see of him was his black hair. He was not sure whether to be thankful for it or not. On one hand, he did not want to have to explain himself. On the other, it would be wrong of him to leave without a word. 

“I want us to go back to how we were before all this,” Sonny had said.

He had been unable to explain to Sonny, at the time, why he’d done it. Right up until he put himself into motion, right up until he did not stop himself, right up until the warm contact with Sonny’s lips, the idea was nothing he’d ever entertained before. The thought had been so sheerly foreign and exotic, that in that moment, he could not help but want to try it.

Looking back on it, one reason he’d done it was the hope that it would quash any misguided feelings Sonny was harboring for him— get it out of both their systems, as opposed to fueling them.

The other reason he had done it— the reason he hesitated to articulate, even to himself: He had wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, Sonny had the right idea. He’d wanted to see if it would do anything for him. He’d wanted to see if something would ignite.

It only succeeded in making him guiltier. And that was that.

Port really hadn’t made it easy, had he?

He opened the dresser drawer as quietly as he could manage and found his pile of grey sweats. He slipped his hand inside the folds and found it— the sharp corner of cardstock. He layered a warm sweatshirt over his clothes, stepped into longer pants, and peeled the dusty socks off his feet to replace them with clean, white ones. He slipped Beau’s card into his pocket.

The blankets rustled behind him, and he turned. Sonny’s eyes peered at him through the dark. Port froze the same way he had upon hearing the coyote’s howl. 

“Where were you?” Sonny asked. There was no discernible tone to his voice, other than the low and quiet inflection of tiredness.

“Outside,” Port admitted uneasily.

Sonny’s gaze flicked up and down. “What are you getting dressed for?”

Port’s hand tightened around the card in his pocket. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you left. Are you gonna answer my question?”

Port brought his hand to the back of his neck, cupping it nervously. He could not exactly lie about this. “I’m calling Beau,” he said. “I was gonna wake you up and tell you."

Sonny lifted his head, the concern that appeared on his face making him seem more awake. “What for?”

“I— I wanna talk with him. And… see if he’ll... take me out.”

“Huh? Where?”

“I don’t know, IHOP?”

“Are you serious? Did you tell Rida?”

“No,” Port said. “She’s sleeping.”

Sonny stared incredulously. Port stared back, unwilling to give away anything he didn’t need to. His ankle prickled, and his palms stung, and pant leg rubbed against the burns in an uncomfortable way. He subtly shifted his stance.

Sonny put his head back on the pillow. He had given up. “Okay. Whatever. Have fun.”

“Are you gonna tell Rida?” Port was acutely aware of his own insubordination. A year ago, he never would have even dreamed of this, but lately, rules did not feel so important to him anymore. This would be nothing in comparison to what he’d already done and gotten away with.

“No,” Sonny sighed, rolling his eyes. “I ain’t no snitch.”

Port dipped his head. “Thank you.”

Sonny only rolled over and pulled his blanket back up to his chin. Port took a final look at the rise and fall of shoulders before leaving the room and gently shutting the door.

Standing before the landline, Port turned the card over in his hand. He ran his thumb over the print, illuminated by the dim lamplight. 

He unhooked the phone attached to the wall with a cord like a curling strand of hair. Port stuck his finger in the ringlet, testing the elastic stretch. He held the receiver by his head and got an earful of the droning dial tone. He was compelled to wiggle his toes, feel the solid floor beneath him. 

Before his vertigo could get the better of him, he punched the first digit. He remembered the last time he had used a phone, when his hands trembled so badly he could hardly make the three button presses. Now was not nearly as bad, and that was some consolation. Ten presses. Ten musical tones. The tinny ring shook his eardrum. It rung once, twice, three times… Was Beau even awake at this hour? It was a stupid idea. He should just suck it up and ask Sonny to help him— face the consequences of what he had done and explain himself. 

He was close to tearing the phone away from his ear and setting it back in the holder when the ringing abruptly ceased, cut off unfinished. 

A faint click. A familiar voice. 

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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