Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

6

Prologue

It was the Lakota who started it. Of course.
In the nineteenth century, the Lakota took the Ghost Dance, a Ute ritual designed to

bring prosperity through peace, and put a new interpretation on it. U.S. soldiers killed
Sitting Bull because he would not stop his people from trying to dance away the white
man and all his works.

So, when certain Lakota leaders announced in December of 2007 that they had

endured far too many broken treaties and that the United States no longer had any
claim on their territory, the way was opened for the Dis-Unification.

When the Mideast oil stopped flowing, three hundred million people realized they

were in a country far too large to sustain itself in the way it had grown. Cities starved as
crops rotted in the fields. Farmers struggled to harvest what they could, using horse
and muscle power and the occasional biodiesel or alcohol engine.

In time, things resumed normalcy of a sort.
Texas, who always claimed they still had a secession clause written into the

constitution, took Oklahoma along for the ride and formed Lone Star.

Neo-confederates, states-rights fanatics, dominionist theocrats and others revived

the old Confederacy, the South rising again as they had always claimed it would. And
the Bonnie Blue Flag flew once more over Birmingham.

The middle of the country retreated into the past, patterning itself off the media of

the middle of the twentieth century. Bucolic small towns and thriving farms were all
visitors to Heartland saw.

The northeast still called itself the United States, and stretched from Maine to

Indiana, being in a perpetual border dispute with Heartland over Illinois.

The California Conglomerate and the newly formed Azteca kept close ties with

Mexico, while Deseret cut itself off from nonbelievers after a new revelation.

In Pacifica, tankers of Bering Strait oil still docked, but not as fuel. The

petrochemicals were limited to industrial and manufacturing use.

Biodiesel no longer came from precious food crops, but rather from industrial-grade

hemp. Eighteen-wheelers, in greatly reduced numbers, carried goods once more over
Eisenhower’s international highway system. But the breed of man behind the wheel
never changed. Not since the days when he turned in his mule team for a Cat under the
hood.

Glad Hands

7

Chapter One

‘Hey, Chuck!’
Chuck Hummingbird turned on the steps of the little café outside Missoula,

Montana, Tribal Lands, and saw Dave Williams climbing out of the cab of his rig. He
smiled at the sight of his former partner. As he waited for Dave, he leaned against a
pillar of the porch, crossed one leg over the other, getting comfortable. Dave was
obsessive about walk-arounds at every stop. He picked at a fraying place on the seam of
his well-worn jeans.

‘Hi, Dave. It’s been a while.’
‘Been forever, Chuck.’ Dave hugged the tall Cherokee man, his hand going to stroke

the ponytail that fell to Chuck’s waist before he stopped himself. He looked a little
embarrassed. ‘Let me buy you breakfast, for old times.’

Chuck grinned. ‘You know I never pass up free food.’
They went in to the café and the pretty dark-eyed waitress brought them coffee and

toast. Dave shed his leather jacket and Chuck took off his shearling-lined suede coat.
Dave ordered for them both, remembering what Chuck liked. They’d run team for a
couple years, running together and more, so much more. Dave had been a nice guy and
they’d parted on good terms.

‘So, you still with the little Iroquois guy, Shenandoah, wasn’t it?’ Dave asked.
‘Nah. Will Skenando and I split a couple years ago. We were just too different and

he hated Seattle. Couldn’t take the rain and needed more trees. You still with Betty?’

Dave nodded. The pretty blonde accountant had been the final wedge in their

partnership. She refused, quite rightly in Chuck’s opinion, to marry a man who was
gone all the time and sleeping with his team driver to boot.

‘You’re a ways out of Pacifica, Dave. What brings you out to the Tribal Lands, white

man?’ Chuck winked, letting him know there was no malice in the words.

‘High Chief Mankiller has a job for me. My papers are in order. You still running

petroleum for Seattle?’

Chuck nodded and tucked into his eggs. Lisa always scrambled them right, so he

always stopped here. ‘It’s a steady job. I make one run a week, sleep in my apartment
weekends.’

‘Sounds sweet.’ They ate, talking of what they’d been doing for the last few years.

Lisa made a second pot of coffee for them and delivered it with a smile.

Chuck checked his watch. ‘Gotta roll. The crude isn’t going to deliver itself. Thanks

for breakfast. Let’s not make it four years next time, Dave.’ He snuck a peek at the bill
and left a more-than-generous tip.

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8

Dave paid the tab and followed him out. He caught Chuck checking the lines

between his cab and the tanker he was pulling. ‘You’re right, let’s do it more often.’ He
kissed Chuck hard, stroking Chuck’s hair this time, letting his hands wander all over
Chuck’s body. It had been five years since they split, but he clearly still knew what
Chuck liked. Chuck felt an erection to match his own growing one, pressing against him
through Dave’s jeans. Then Dave reached down and rubbed them both, grasping the
hard shafts through the hemp denim.

Chuck returned the kiss for a few moments, then pulled away when Dave’s

roaming hands got too personal. ‘I said thanks for breakfast. I don’t fool around with
married men, Dave. Give Betty a hug from me.’ He climbed into the cab and made sure
Dave was clear of the truck before he started the engine.

He arrived in Great Falls by eleven. The gate guard gave him a grin, his teeth

flashing and his traditional Mohawk haircut limp in the chilly drizzle. ‘If it’s lunchtime
on Tuesday, it must be the Hummingbird rolling in. How ya doing, Chuck?’

‘Fine, Stan.’ He smiled back as he signed the log. ‘Is John here today?’
‘Sure is. Saw his blinds twitch about five minutes ago. He’s probably looking for

you.’ The guard checked the seals on his tanker’s valves and nodded approval. ‘Drop it
in lot C, slot twenty-six.’ He made a note on his clipboard. ‘Crude, SeaTac, 1115, 9 Oct
91.’ He looked up. ‘John’ll tell you which one to hook.’

‘Thanks.’ Chuck knew the drill, knew it better than Stan, in fact, because he’d been

doing it for six months longer. He idled over to lot C and found slot twenty-six. He
loved the refinery lot, since it had plenty of room to park. He hated tight parking lots.
He especially hated trying to get a fifty-foot tank into a slot without enough room to
maneuver. Here, he could do a straight line back, just pulling forward and backing
straight up. He had the tanker in the hole in less than five minutes.

He lowered the landing gear, cranking it down hard and level, and made sure it

would hold. Then he uncoupled the air lines and hooked the glad-hands at the ends of
the lines to the storage rack on the back of his tractor. Last, he pulled the fifth-wheel
lock. ‘Gear, hoses, pin,’ he muttered as he did every time he dropped a trailer. He idled
the tractor out from under the tanker, pausing to make sure the landing gear held. He
parked the Hummingbird at the office, and checked over his paperwork, making sure
he had signed everything.

Chuck grinned as he opened the office door. It was time for one of his favorite

games. He wiped the smile off his face and assumed the standard ‘Stoic Indian’ face
from the old movies as he put the bill of lading on John’s desk and raised his right
hand. ‘How. Dropped ‘um heap big load, Littlefeather. You got ‘um place hitch steel
pony?’ He made his voice low and gravelly, almost expressionless.

John looked up at him, his face equally impassive. ‘Hitch ‘um to wagon in slot two

tens, Hummingbird. Great White Mother on coast send red errand boy to steal tribe’s
wampum again.’ He furrowed his brow and added, ‘Ugh.’

Glad Hands

9

‘Great White Mother send with much black stink water. You got firewater for

thirsty brave?’

They could go back and forth for hours, each trying to make the other laugh with

the ridiculous pidgin. The loser had to buy the winner lunch. So far they were tied.

Fred Halfmoon opened the door as they launched into a third volley and slammed

his clipboard down on John’s desk. ‘How dare you? A century and a half of work and
every damn time I walk in, you two are in here acting like…like Hollywood savages.’

Both men looked at him and laughed. Chuck looked back at John. ‘I think we’re

both buying Fred lunch today, huh?’

‘I don’t want your lunch. I want this to stop.’ Fred scowled. ‘Chuck, you of all

people should know what prejudice does. You Cherokee got run out of Georgia and
then out of Oklahoma on top of it.’

Chuck turned on him, the move slow and fluid, his face very serious. The Second

Trail of Tears was one of his earliest memories and he didn’t like being lectured by a
Crow who still lived on land that had been his people’s for two centuries. Land that had
been given to them for collaborating with the U.S. government, land bought with the
blood of other tribes.

He rolled up the sleeve of the blue plaid wool workshirt and looked at Fred,

pinning him with his dark eyes until the Crow fidgeted. The old, faded tattoo of a
Cherokee-patterned armband stretched around his right biceps. ‘I know exactly what
prejudice does, Fred.’ He saw Fred flinch at the sight of it.

Chuck’s quiet, cold voice continued, without pity or ceasing. ‘It puts tattoos on

scared three-year-olds and exiles them with their families in the middle of winter. But I
also know a sense of humor is a powerful weapon and I can mock the stupid
stereotypes.’ He rolled down his sleeve and buttoned the cuff of the shirt back around
his wrist. He would never take Fred to task for his ancestors’ actions.

Fred stared at the tattoo until Chuck covered it. ‘Chuck, John, I know it’s only a

joke. It offends me anyway.’ He sounded more subdued, the visceral reminder that
Chuck had a great deal of firsthand experience with prejudice obviously hitting him
harder than any physical blow.

John nodded. ‘We won’t do it in front of you again.’
Chuck agreed. ‘And we’ll still buy you lunch if you want.’
‘You’re all heart, Hummingbird.’ Fred finally smiled at him. ‘Look, High Chief

Mankiller’s here.’

Everyone startled, but the high chief was legendary for her hands-on management

style. A schoolroom in Lame Deer. A hemp textile mill in Mitchell. A mine up by Coeur
d’Alene. Any of these could find her visiting without warning and talking to the people,
learning what they needed. A refinery in Great Falls was not at all unheard of.

‘She has a deal for you, Chuck. Maybe you should take her to lunch instead.’

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

10

‘Here? I thought she was in Missoula.’ Chuck remembered what Dave had told him

over breakfast about a cotton run deep into the Confederated States.

While Lone Star allowed Native Americans to be shot on sight for a bounty, like

coyotes and other nuisance animals, the C.S. was more subtle. Violation of any one of
their many racial or religious laws would get a foreign driver a prison sentence…if he
was lucky.

Lucky was a very relative term. Less than forty percent of Confederation prisoners

left the prisons as free men. But foreigners could also be enslaved permanently or
executed under C.S. law. Ignorance of which bit of minutiae had been violated was no
excuse. Dave had been nervous about the run and Chuck was very glad he hadn’t been
tapped to go to Huntsville.

The handsome fiftyish woman stepped through the office door in time to hear this.

Littlefeather stood up, and Chuck gave her an acknowledging nod.

‘No need for lunch. I will be brief.’ Elizabeth Mankiller, elected High Chief of the

Western Tribes, sat down in the battered plastic chair and planted a ceremonial cane
between her knees. She ran one hand through her short, damp hair and then polished
her glasses with a handkerchief from her suit pocket. ‘Mr. Hummingbird, I need a favor
of you. You will take this load to Seattle and tell your bosses you need a week, maybe
two. Since you own your truck, this should not be problematic. We need you to deliver
a shipment of plastics throughout Heartland, slip over the Confederation border and
pick up a load and bring it back here.’

Chuck nodded, adrenaline already racing. ‘Yes, High Chief.’ He had no choice. He

liked his nice secure petroleum run, and keeping it depended on the good graces of the
Tribes. It might make him nervous, but it sounded like an adventure, and how much
trouble could he get into on a quick flit across the border? It wasn’t as if he’d be running
two hundred miles deep into C.S. territory like Dave.

‘It will be an easy run. We require cotton here and cannot grow it. We hired white

drivers for the two loads that must be picked up deeper in the country. Yours is less
than five miles over the border. We have a special pass for you and will pay quite well.’

Chuck named a figure, doubling what he would usually charge for going into

Heartland. The pay had to be worth the risk he would be taking. ‘And you pay for all
the diesel and a per diem of fifty dollars on top of that.’

High Chief Mankiller nodded. ‘You shall have it. Hazard pay as well. Mr.

Littlefeather will have the per diem pay for six days when you pick up the Heartland
load. We have arrangements with a truck stop in Holland, Missouri, to refuel you at no
charge to you.’ She offered her hand and Chuck shook it. ‘Thank you, Mr.
Hummingbird. This is a great help to our folks.’

‘I’m always pleased to help out, High Chief.’ He wouldn’t show her his nerves

about this run.

She tipped him a wink. ‘Your mother sends greetings and said to tell you that you

were brave but foolish if you took it. And she is proud of you.’

Glad Hands

11

Chuck laughed. His mother and Elizabeth Mankiller had been friends since they

were girls in school, and now Linda Hummingbird served as the high chief’s liaison to
Pacifica. ‘That sounds like Ma. Give her my best and tell her I’ll see her when I hit
Billings.’

‘I thank you again.’ She rose and swept out the door.
Fred pulled a couple of sheets off his clipboard and put them on John’s desk. ‘I’ll

see you around, Chuck. You can buy me lunch when you get back.’ He gave the driver
a smile and left.

John looked at him hard. ‘Chuck, you sure about this one? You could be buying

more trouble than you can sell. Heartland’s bad enough, but the C.S.? I don’t want to
get word back that you got yourself executed.’

‘Sounds like it’s all a Heartland run, and only about ten miles plus the hook are in

C.S. Even I can’t get into too much trouble in ten miles.’ He tapped the papers. ‘Besides,
sounds like Fred has confidence that I’ll be fine.’

‘He’s whistling past the graveyard. Chuck, you know they can arrest you for being

out after dark? And what’s going to stop them saying the penknife on your keys and
your tire thumper aren’t weapons? Do you know what the penalty is for nonwhites
carrying weapons?’

‘It’s either prison or execution, like everything else. Come on, John, you can’t

believe all those old stories. They’re made up to scare outsiders and keep foreigners out
of the country. The C.S. is just like Heartland, except more religious.’

‘Watch your back anyway. I’ll buy you lunch for luck next week.’
Chuck checked to make sure that Fred was nowhere nearby. He stood very straight

and thumped his chest in a macho fashion. ‘Me wily brave. Slip past stupid enemy.
Return with many ponies.’ He snickered, ruining the effect. ‘Or a semi-load of cotton as
the case may be. See you next week.’ He collected his signed paperwork and took the
Bird to find his trailer.

He hooked the load of raw plastic and headed back to Seattle, sparing a wave for

Stan in the guardhouse. The new assignment had him scared. His palms sweated on the
wheel every time he thought about it. He finally pulled into a rest area about
suppertime.

Chuck pulled on his coat and splashed to the restroom. He didn’t like autumn rains

in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. It meant snow on up the hill. He suspected he
could pull one more load before the snows made the passes treacherous until spring. If
he didn’t want to brave the mountains, he’d be stuck with five or six months of hunting
for loads in and out of the California Conglomerate or Azteca. He didn’t run Deseret.
The Mormon theocracy wasn’t friendly to outsiders.

The composting toilet didn’t compost fast enough for Chuck’s liking, but it still

steamed in the cold air. The solar-heated water in the sink felt like it hadn’t seen any
sun for about a week. He slumped back out to his truck, almost as miserable as when
he’d pulled over, but now with icy fingers added to the bargain.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

12

He flipped on the auxiliary heater as soon as he climbed into the truck. Idling had

been banned back in the teens and twenties. Most of the truck stops provided a
temperature-control module for a price, and most trucks came with portable comfort
units these days.

He dug a package of WorkingMan Chow out of his locker. Purina, seeing the

market for a human version of their pet foods, had developed several varieties some
years back. WomanChow had more iron and calcium, KidChow had more fat.
WorkingMan had more protein and enough calories to make two pouches adequate for
a man who did physical labor. A lot of prisons had contracts with the company, since it
saved them space, money and labor. Rumor had it Purina marketed a slave kibble in the
C.S., which had all the nutrition and none of the taste. Chuck liked the chow for the
same reason everyone else did, because it was cheaper than real food and easy to
transport. His favorite was the beef stew flavor. He ate real food when he had a
refrigerator and a stove. But when he was on the road, the chow served him fine.

He ate the kibble, which tasted of beef and carrots, potatoes and onions, one piece

at a time, not really wanting it, but knowing he had to eat. He checked his location
against the onboard atlas and decided to call it a night.

In the bottom of his locker, he found an old paper atlas. His onboard only covered

Pacifica, Azteca, the Conglomerate and the Tribal Lands. He’d have to see if he could
get a Heartland module. He traced his route, across to Sioux Falls, down to Kansas City,
across to St. Louis and down to Holland. Holland was almost invisible on the map. He
saw Blytheville across the line, exactly where the high chief had said it would be. Ten
miles to get in and out, fifteen minutes for hooking and paperwork. How much trouble
could he get into in an hour, especially one he spent working?

Somewhat reassured, he pulled the curtains and tugged off his boots and jeans. He

undid the holder on his ponytail and brushed his hair before braiding it. He almost
never wore a braid in public, but his hair knotted if he didn’t do it at night. He hated
brushing out knots. Settled, he pulled out his reader and brought up The Rise and Fall of
the United States. He’d already read about halfway through the eight-hundred-page
history of chaos. He hit the ‘return to bookmark’ button on the reader and it flipped to
his spot.

He read about ten pages in twenty minutes, the book being fascinating, if rather

dense going. He marked his place and turned off the reader and his bunk light. Reading
strictly by the reader’s backlighting gave him a headache. He set his wake-up call on the
built-in alarm clock, made sure his doors were locked and settled into his thermal bag.

One hand drifted down to his crotch, and he rubbed a little. The book hadn’t left

him riled, but bumping into Dave had. He’d been a little on edge ever since. And it had
been a long time. His cock woke up at the first touch through the cotton and he
wondered why he didn’t do this more often.

He shoved his underwear down and ran his fingers along the delicate skin of the

shaft and rubbed one calloused thumb over the velvety firmness of the head. One-

Glad Hands

13

handed, he fumbled the lube out of the locker at the head of the bed and gave himself a
generous dollop. The skin of his cock was much more sensitive than that of his hand.

Now he was really hard. As much as he tried not to focus on Dave, the other

driver’s face kept coming up, with memories of fast blowjobs while being loaded, the
whole truck shaking with the forklift coming and going; of fucking in a too-narrow
sleeper and then bundling in tightly because even the auxiliary power wouldn’t be
enough to keep the truck warm in the bitter blizzard howling down off the Rockies.

But then he drifted, thinking of the kind of man he wanted as he stroked along the

length of his cock, one that he could live with for a long time. He couldn’t imagine a
face, only a sense of being loved, of protectiveness. He imagined himself wrapping
around his lover, cuddling and rocking within him. He exploded all over his hands, a
soft moan escaping his lips.

After catching his breath, Chuck reached for a small anti-bacterial cleaning

towelette and wiped up himself and his sleeping bag. He turned the heater down a little
and snuggled into his pillow.

Two days later, he let himself into his apartment, keying the thumb-print lock and

ordering the lights to half. He set the bag of groceries on the counter and dropped his
clothes bag by the doors of the laundry closet. He put away the yogurt, fish and
vegetables and then started his washer.

He looked at the cabinets with loathing. He shouldn’t be this tired at four in the

afternoon, but explaining the situation three times to three different office workers, two
of whom were too insular to grasp the relationship between his runs and the Tribes’
goodwill, had left him exhausted. He didn’t feel like cooking and he didn’t want to go
out. His stomach griped at him, as it always did after too many days of juice and chow
packs, and, more likely, too many hours of arguing with desk jockeys. He grabbed a
yogurt pot, hoping it would settle his stomach.

He ate it watching the Seattle skyline. The sliding doors had been glass when the

apartments were built a century before. Now it was made of an unbreakable
transparent ceramic, whose trade name Chuck could never remember—despite having
hauled for them for six months.

He loved looking out over the city. Most people thought a twenty-fifth-floor

apartment was too high up, but Chuck found it suited him perfectly. The yogurt helped.
Now he could eat.

He heated a pot of water on the stove and dropped one of the frozen fish pouches—

’Fish, seasoning and rice, all one!’ the box announced—into it while he unzipped the
bag of salad. He ate alone.

The next day, he called the refinery and told John it was a go for the Confederation

run. He would be in to Great Falls on Saturday with a load of crude and pick up the
raw plastic for Heartland. He could spend Saturday night and then Sunday and
Monday at his folks’ house in Billings. It had been a while since he’d seen them.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

14

He’d be into Heartland Tuesday night, make the Missouri run on Wednesday, his

pick-up early Thursday morning and be back in the Tribal Lands by Friday morning.
He could see his folks again the next weekend and haul the cotton into Butte the
following Monday. It looked like a nice, easy cake run. He wouldn’t have to push
himself too hard and he’d get paid well. All he had to do was keep his head down and
stay out of trouble.

Chuck dragged out his handheld computer and checked his mail and bills, feeling

better about the run. He punched up the route and timetables on his planning program
and ordered up a Heartland navigation module for the truck. After a moment, he
splurged and bought a C.S. module and a U.S. one as well. He didn’t know if he’d need
them, but upgrading never hurt. He could conceivably push it hard and do the run in
three days, but that put him out after dark in Confederation territory. His plan looked
fine.

He watched a movie, a romance he’d been wanting to see for a while, but found it

insipid and stereotyped. The boy meets boy, boy falls for boy with much sarcastic
banter and boy marries boy plotline did nothing for him. He’d rather have his romance
mixed with adventure or horror or something. Boy saves boy from wendigo about to
curse him with cannibalistic desires. Now that would be a movie worth seeing.

Chuck cleaned the kitchen and checked the rest of the apartment. He read his book

for a while, then shut down the reader and went to bed. It might only be nine, but he
felt like he’d been dragged under the rig instead of driving it. Mountains took a lot out
of him, much as he loved them.

He spent Thursday going over the Hummingbird. It’d been a long time since he’d

taken the old girl on a flatland run. Everything looked good. He changed the oil for
luck, made sure her saddle tanks were full and then he cleaned out the sleeper and
restocked it.

Winter was getting ready to set in, so he made sure he had everything ready for the

cold weather. Food, water, extra blankets, emergency flares, everything. He double-
checked the auxiliary power unit that heated his bunk when the truck was shut down.
He removed the reader and his trade magazines and cleaned out all his delivery
receipts and logs, except the ones the law required him to keep on him. The C.S. had
very strict laws about acceptable printed matter. He wasn’t about to get busted for
having a copy of the Handy Dan’s Diesel Doodads catalogue.

That night, Keith from the Seattle Gay Community Center called and they went for

dinner. Keith was obviously hoping for more, but Chuck wasn’t really interested. They
weren’t all that compatible, much as he liked Keith as a person, and Chuck was bored
before the end of the salad. Since Keith saw he wouldn’t get anywhere, he hit Chuck up
for a donation.

That, Chuck gave, more than willing. He had relied on the center’s resources when

he first moved to Seattle. They gave him housing assistance, social networking, even
their list of shrink referrals when the Seattle winter and its lack of sun had become too
much.

Glad Hands

15

‘How’s it going at the youth shelter?’ The Center’s Home for Gay Youth was Keith’s

pet project. Chuck knew even today, even in enlightened Pacifica where almost twenty-
five percent of the population was gay, some kids had to run away or were thrown
away by their parents. More migrated in from Deseret where the Mormon theocracy
squelched unorthodoxy with banishment. Chuck had found more than one runaway
Mormon kid in Idaho and taken him back to Seattle and the shelter. Some still wrote
him.

‘Well as can be expected. We help about two hundred kids a year, and that’s up

from the twelve we started with. Why, you been seducing more Mormon elders on their
little bikes?’

Chuck laughed at their standing joke. ‘Nah, this time I’ll bring in a whole semi-load

of scared little gay kids from the C.S.’

Keith shook his head and looked glum. ‘I only wish you could.’
The pleasantness gone from the meal, they finished, paid the tab and parted with an

awkward hug. Chuck headed out for Great Falls early the next morning.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

16

Chapter Two

‘Move along, kid.’ The words were accompanied by a jab of the nightstick in

Seven’s ribs. ‘This ain’t a motel.’

Seven came awake on the park bench and sat up, shoving his too-long hair out of

his eyes. It was the middle of the night. Most of the park lights were off. All the ducks in
the duck pond were asleep with their heads under their wings. Only the burly, cranky
cop standing over him with nightstick and flashlight moved in the darkness.

‘I’m sorry. I was waiting for someone. I guess I dozed off.’
The cop smiled a little, his stern face softening. ‘Stood you up, did she? Still, you

need to go home, son.’

‘Yes, Officer.’ Seven stood up, shouldered his backpack and walked purposefully

past the bandstand and playground, then out of the park as if heading for home. He
knew better. The little green farmhouse five miles out of town wouldn’t welcome him.
Not with Dad home.

And Bruce… Well, he knew how Bruce felt about him now. Seven walked past the

bank on the square, its clock showing two thirty. Turning up on anyone’s doorstep at
this hour would be a bad idea. He walked out the old highway, heading west. He’d
pick up the international highway and— He didn’t have anything to come after the
‘and’.

Seven walked through the Iowa night, the fields silver under the half-moon, trying

not to think. It would only hurt. But the rhythm of his shoes on the shoulder of the road
set a backbeat to his thoughts. As each semi passed, he held out his thumb. None of
them stopped.

Seven walked on. Move along. It had been the story of his life all summer. He’d

gotten out of the hospital in May. Finally, now in August, he’d made it back to his
hometown and made the phone call that he’d been dreaming of since the dreadful night
two years earlier.

Bruce had picked up and Seven, standing in a phone booth outside the grocery

store, breathed a sigh of relief. For a fleeting instant, he’d considered hanging up as he
had the last four times, but since Bruce had already answered, he would be paying for
the call.

‘Hi, Bruce.’ He had been proud of how steady his voice sounded as he said it.
‘Sev? You’re out?’ Bruce’s voice had trembled with something, fear or excitement,

Seven didn’t know.

‘Yeah. Finally, huh?’ He had tried to keep it light.
‘Are you all right? You the one who keeps calling me?’

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17

‘Yeah…and yeah. Sorry about that.’ Seven had sounded more subdued now. ‘You

moved.’

Bruce had swallowed hard. ‘Yeah, got my own house. I need it, being city

councilman, in line for mayor. I’m doing all right. Look, Seven, I uh… I got married.’

‘Oh.’ Seven had known the word sounded small and disappointed and sad.
‘Yeah, you remember Nancy?’
Seven had racked his brains, coming up with brown hair and only one defining

feature. ‘Nancy who wore the too-pink lipstick? The one the old ladies always said
would come to a bad end?’

‘Yeah. Sings soprano, makes chocolate cake to die for.’ Bruce had actually sounded

pleased.

Seven had pushed ahead before he could lose his nerve. ‘Bruce, I really want to see

you.’

‘No!’ had come the answer too fast and too sharp. ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good

idea at all.’ Bruce had taken a breath. ‘Nancy’s pregnant, you see, and she’s having a
rough one. She can’t be upset.’

‘Does she need to know?’ Seven had asked.
Bruce had sounded ridiculously relieved. ‘You want to meet somewhere? You’re

not coming to the house?’

Seven had tried to think of the most secluded spot he could. ‘The duck pond at the

park just past the high school. Is that okay?’

‘All right. I’ll be there in about an hour.’ But Bruce had never come.
Seven had sat on the bench by the duck pond remembering the fishing trips. His

dad had been elected to the city council a few years back. He’d gone along for a mixer at
the mayor’s house. At the party, he’d met the mayor’s son, Bruce, and several other
young men. They were older than him, in their twenties to his nineteen, but they had
talked to him and listened as if he actually had something to say.

Bruce had invited him on the group’s fishing trip, and Seven had learned more

about small-town politics and gossip than he’d ever heard in his mother’s kitchen or
eavesdropping on the sewing circles. He’d had his first beer on the trip too and liked it.

The following month, Bruce had invited him on another trip. Seven’s dad, pleased

that his son was making friends with the sons of the powerful, had excused him from
the weeding and sent him off with a brand-new rod and reel.

But the gang hadn’t been along. Only Bruce, who had driven them down to the lake

in a biodiesel pickup truck, and settled them into his father’s little cabin with its two
rooms and native stone fireplace. They’d taken the old rowboat out to the middle of the
lake and fished all day. Seven had caught a trout and Bruce had several crappies. There
had been fish and fried potatoes for dinner, and Seven had never had anything so good.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

18

They’d barely finished cleaning up when Bruce reached for the thin cotton

dishtowel Seven held. He’d dried his hands and then had pulled Seven in closer and
kissed him. It was quick and light, but Seven had turned bright red and pulled away.

‘You’re so cute.’ Bruce hadn’t let go of the towel and reeled him back in. Seven had

reached out and touched his cheek, very gently. His hands had been light, but calloused
on Bruce’s smooth face. ‘Go ahead,’ Bruce had said. ‘Nothing wrong with it. Didn’t
King David love Jonathan more than he loved any woman? I’m going to be mayor
someday, a virtual king. And you can be my Jonathan.’

Seven looked shocked at this, but Bruce had laughed. He’d pulled the Bible off the

bookshelf, where it sat next to the farmer’s almanac and the fish and game regulation
book and an old manual on tying flies. Bruce had flipped to 1 Samuel 18 and read.

‘Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul.

And Jonathan stripped himself of the robe that was upon him, and gave it to David, and
his garments, even to his sword, and to his bow, and to his girdle.’ Bruce had put the
Bible away and came closer. ‘Jonathan stripped naked, his clothes, his underwear, and
gave them to David, with that long, sharp sword and the long, hard bow.’

Seven had blushed in earnest now. Bruce had unbuttoned his best workshirt, the

one with no holes or mending, and kissed him again.

‘Come on, Jonathan. Give me your garments, your robe and your girdle.’ He’d

unzipped Seven’s new blue jeans, the ones Mrs. McCullough had bought special for this
trip, took Seven’s cock in his hand. ‘And your sword.’

Seven had come after two strokes of Bruce’s hand and Bruce had laughed again.

‘Perhaps not a sword, but a bow that fires quickly.’ He kissed Seven again. ‘Someday, I
will sheathe the King’s sword within you.’

Seven had looked at him, blue eyes startled. ‘Tonight?’ he asked hopefully.
Bruce had looked a little afraid himself. ‘Let’s wait. But you can brandish my sword

if you want.’

Seven had nodded and opened Bruce’s jeans, older but better quality than his own,

then. He had taken out Bruce’s cock, which was only a little bigger than his own. It had
hardened in his hand and he’d touched it all over, feeling the texture. Then he’d gone to
his knees and kissed it, wanting to know what it would taste like, how it would feel to
his mouth. He’d had to know if the head felt as velvety on his lips as it had been under
his fingers.

Bruce had moaned at that. ‘Nobody ever… Not even Nancy on prom night.’ He’d

looked down, the fear of rejection large on his face. ‘Please, Seven. Can you take it in
your mouth?’

Seven had, willingly, wanting more of him. He’d flicked his tongue under the head

and Bruce had come with a muttered ‘oh god’. Seven had moved away quickly, but he
still got some of the spunk in his mouth. He’d spat it discreetly into the dishtowel he
still held.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bruce had sighed.

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19

‘It’s okay.’
Bruce had kissed his cheek. ‘Seven, I’m sorry. I’m being all pushy.’
Seven had shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine. We’re just…going to get in trouble.’
‘No, we aren’t. Not out here.’ Bruce had drawn Seven to his feet and held him close.

‘I’ve done this a lot. I know how to get around the rules.’

Seven had looked at him, unbelieving. ‘A lot?’
‘Well.’ Bruce had looked sheepish and turned loose of Seven. ‘A few times.’ He’d

scuffed one toe against the tile floor. ‘A couple of times.’

Seven had nodded. That made it easier. ‘Okay. Only out here, then.’
‘Where nobody knows and nobody sees.’ Bruce had turned out the lamps. He’d

found Seven in the dark and guided him back into the bedroom of the cabin and sat
them both on the edge of one double bed. ‘Sleep in my bed,’ he’d whispered.

Seven had stripped down entirely and got under the covers. He hadn’t been sure

about this. Bruce was good-looking and from a rich family. He’d had a line on power
and prestige. And Bruce wanted him. Seven had knownhis body wanted Bruce too, but
his mind had been sounding a lot of alarm bells. Too many lectures, too many sermons,
too much of the culture of silence that pervaded Heartland had surrounded this idea.

Bruce hadn’t cuddle up, but scooted close. He’d touched Seven, his hands light and

curious. He’d touched Seven’s face and chest. He’d played with one nipple until Seven
had flinched away from his touch, growing too sensitive. He’d stroked Seven’s cock and
felt his balls. Seven had gotten hard again almost at once. Bruce had said nothing, but
kept up some long strokes of his hand, playing and touching until Seven came again,

Bruce’s voice had sounded soft and scared in the darkness. He’d pressed his

erection to Seven’s hip and said, ‘May I?’

Seven, half dreaming of this already, hadsaid ‘Yeah.’
Bruce had gotten up and got the petroleum jelly from the bathroom’s first-aid kit.

He’d rubbed plenty of it on himself and poked a little at Seven’s opening with greasy
fingers. ‘I’ve only heard how this is done,’ he’d whispered. ‘Tell me if I hurt you.’ He’d
pressed the head of his cock against the tight sphincter and shoved. Seven had given a
small moan, the first real noise he’d made.

‘Are you okay?’ Bruce had touched his shoulder. ‘You’re so tight. I’m not hurting,

am I?’

‘Keep going,’ Seven had whispered.
Bruce hadn’t been rough or crude. He’d pumped away, steadily, whispering about

how Seven was the first and how good it felt. Seven had discovered it kind of hurt, kind
of didn’t and that he liked it all right, but he wasn’t going to come from it.

When Bruce had finished and gotten up to wash, Seven stayed in the bed, shaking a

little. He’d really done it, crossed the line from simply wanting boys to actually fucking
them. Bruce had come back and crawled in, more cuddly now.

‘My first lover,’ he’d said, kissing Seven.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

20

‘When can we come back out here?’ Seven had asked.
‘Not for about a month. We’ll fish all summer and then hunt during deer season

and turkey season,’ Bruce had promised.

Seven had clung around Bruce’s neck, finally letting the enormity sink in. ‘Gonna

miss you until then.’

They hadn’t seen see much of each other in the intervening weeks. Just at Sunday

morning church and sometimes on the street when Seven went into town for groceries
or farm supplies. Once, after a council meeting, he’d gone for pizza with Bruce and his
gang. One morning after church, Bruce had caught up with him.

‘I have some mailing I need to finish tonight after evening church. You want to

come to the office and help?’

‘Sure. I can help.’ Seven had been careful not to seem overly eager for this evening.

It had to look like one friend doing a favor for another.

Bruce had locked the office door and drawn the shades. There was no camera in the

office, to Seven’s surprise. They’d folded and stuffed envelopes for an hour. The
mailing done at last, Bruce had leaned across the desk and kissed Seven again, like he
always had done, mouth closed, lips dry.

‘Hi.’ Seven had smiled.
‘Thought about you for weeks.’ Bruce had looked miserable. ‘Shame we can’t do

much more right now.’

‘I know. But I hear the bass are running.’
Bruce had nodded. ‘Thought I might go down to the lake this weekend and see if I

could catch a mess of them. Want to come?’

Seven had grinned. ‘Yeah.’
‘Give me a kiss,’ Bruce had said, softly. When Seven had leaned in, he got one hand

down Seven’s pants and wouldn’t let him pull away.

‘Dangerous,’ Seven had gasped, shaking. Bruce’s hand on his cock had turned him

on, making him want more, want things he shouldn’t have.

‘Not that dangerous. I’m not stupid. No windows, nobody else here. All the

cameras gone.’ Bruce had withdrawn. Seven had opened his pants as Bruce opened his
own. ‘Can you kiss me again, like you did at the lake?’

Seven had gone to his knees and kissed the head of Bruce’s cock before sucking it

into his mouth. He’d heard a soft scraping, but as he turned, the mayor and his own
dad had walked in on them, chattering about the next election.

The mayor had dropped his keyring and bellowed, ‘Bruce!’
Mr. McCullough had stamped up to them. ‘Seven! What are you doing?’
Seven had pulled away fast, but he was caught with Bruce’s cock entirely in his

mouth. After that, the night had become all a blur of his father shouting about how he
was breaking his mother’s heart and the mayor shouting while Bruce did a fast fade.

Glad Hands

21

The mayor’s bodyguard had hustled Seven out of the office and into a waiting car.

Out in the country, he had pulled the weeping youth out of the car and beaten him
unconscious.

Seven had come to strapped to a gurney, with a kindly looking white-haired doctor

taking his vitals. ‘Ah, another sad invert, and slightly damaged. We’ll take good care of
you, son. You’ll be all better when you leave.’

Seven had refused to cooperate with anything but the first aid. All he had been able

say was, ‘I want to go home.’

‘We don’t send ill people home, Seven,’ the doctors had told him. ‘Stay here, eat

and rest and grow healthy again.’

He hadn’t rebelled at all, not after the shock treatment. That one had been done by

an orderly who hated him. Seven suspected now that the machine had been turned up
too high. The orderly had only strapped him down and taken no other safety
precautions. The doctor had heard Seven’s screams, barged in, put an end to it and
checked him over.

‘Son, can you hear me? What is your name?’
Seven had felt entirely wiped out. He had barely been able to keep his eyes open for

more than a second. Every muscle in his body had felt limp as overcooked asparagus.
He had been able to feel he’d wet himself, but he didn’t care. When his voice had finally
come, it hardly sounded like his own. It had taken some effort to get out the words,
‘Seven Asher McCullough.’

‘Do you know where you are, Seven?’
He’d laughed, harshly. Oh, he did know, indeed. ‘Hell,’ he’d said with the vaguest

hint of a smirk on his lips.

The doctor had smoothed his hair and taken him to his room. A nurse had stayed

all night to make sure he was all right. He’d never seen the orderly again. He’d only
seen the shock room once more.

That time he’d fought and screamed all the way down the hall until the big black

nurse had hit him with a sedative. Then he hadn’t cared as he lay quietly on the gurney,
the rubber protector in his mouth as they had tried to fry the gayness out of him.

The old hospital had fallen into general disrepair. Heartland had higher priorities

than funding a rehabilitation center for sex criminals, even one that was ostensibly a
tuberculosis sanatorium. The Department of Mental Hygiene’s budget was a favorite
target for double-dipping, graft and corruption. Nobody really cared what became of
the patients it treated. Homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, masturbators and exhibitionists
didn’t fit in with Heartland’s way of life.

After the second treatment, Seven had spent most of his free time staring between

the clock and the ever-flickering fluorescent light outside his door. When that got too
boring, he’d pick up the Bible and reread the story of David and Jonathan. Those
passages always brought the memory of Bruce’s smile to his mind.

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22

He had trouble concentrating enough to read anything longer. No television or

books save the Bible were permitted in his tiny, private room. There was TV in the
dayroom, but the nurses had picked the channels they thought least likely to stimulate
the patients. They’d even denied him a simple sketchbook and pencil. Pencils could be
used as a weapon, they’d said. Not being able to so much as doodle had made the time
go even slower.

But he hadn’t been sure he could use a pencil and sketchbook anymore anyway.

Sometimes his hands had jerked. They shook and everything he was holding went
everywhere. It was an aftereffect, the nurse had said. It might be permanent. Those
words terrified him, especially when he had to go without dinner because he’d
spasmed and dropped the tray.

So, most of the time, he’d had the light and the memories of Bruce. Blond, green-

eyed Bruce, who’d had the most kissable mouth he’d ever seen. They could try to
reprogram him here, but they could never take away his fantasies. Fantasies that the
video camera perched on the wall, recording him constantly, hadn’t been able to allow
him to act on. Seven had felt grateful they hadn’t punished him for nocturnal erections,
the ones that always went away after he’d peed.

And in May, two years after he had come to them, they’d pronounced him cured

and sent him out. He’d had no food, no money, no job. He had not officially existed in
any Heartland database and the H tattooed on his wrist meant he could not find work.

He’d walked on, the memories a heavier weight than his backpack, a plan forming.

The Tribal Lands weren’t far from the Iowa border. Neither was the U.S. If he could
figure out how to get out of the country, he might be safe.

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23

Chapter Three

Chuck shut his apartment down and left out Friday. The usual parts of the run

seemed more scenic. He laughed at his own nerves. ‘Of course you’ll see it again,’ he
told himself, his voice the first one he’d heard in hours other than the music player.

John waited for him Saturday. ‘Chuck, I just don’t know. You got a helluva nerve

doing this, is all I can say.’ He handed over all the papers and agreements including the
fuel card charged to the Tribal Council.

‘For crying out loud, John, it’s only a quick duck over the border.’
‘C.S., Heartland, they’re bad medicine, Chuck, and you know it.’ He moved in a

little closer. ‘I’m not asegi, but,’ he kissed Chuck on the cheek, ‘for luck. You come back
safe, all right?’

Chuck smiled, and tried to ease the tension. ‘I will. I still owe Fred lunch, don’t I?’
‘What you mean, owe Fred? Owe Littlefeather lunch, kemosabe.’ John thumped his

chest. Out of nervousness and bravado, he had dropped his voice and launched into
their game, trying to reassure himself that Chuck would return.

Chuck laughed. ‘Hummingbird make fast ride. Hurry back with much wampum.

Buy many lunch.’ He hugged John hard. ‘I know you’re worried. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you
a week from Monday and we’ll laugh at all this.’

‘I sure hope so.’ John was still shaking his head when Chuck left. Chuck knew very

little petroleum plastic made it anywhere into Heartland. Scarcity always created value.
He would have to be wary of thieves on this run.

Snow hadn’t fallen in Billings yet. Chuck parked at the century-old truckstop in

Lockwood and called his folks. He’d already alerted them to his arrival for the
weekend. They were always pleased to see him.

Charles Hummingbird showed up ten minutes later in his little fuel-cell three-

wheeler. Chuck always called it the Bubblemobile, because the passengers sat behind
each other and the top was a plexi-plas dome.

Chuck grabbed his bag and climbed down. He hugged his father and flipped the

ponytail Charles sported. ‘Old Mr. Wendt relax the dress code or what?’ Charles
worked for the oldest ad agencies in Billings. ‘Wendt, Meek and Mankiller finally ready
to move into the twenty-second century?’

‘Meek, Mankiller and Hummingbird, kiddo. I’m the new VP of marketing. I coulda

swore your mother sent you a mail about it.’

Chuck laughed. ‘Had to give you trouble, Dad. I remember what you said when I

started growing mine.’

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24

‘Your mom’s waiting.’ The elder Hummingbird didn’t want to rehash the fight

they’d had years ago when Chuck had announced a calling to follow the old ways in
both appearance and religion. ‘She’s going to church tonight.’

Chuck nodded. ‘I might go along. It’ll make her happy.’ His mother was very active

in the local Episcopalian church. He might not believe that way anymore, but he loved
his mother, and Mother Vivian, the priest, always made him feel welcome. He talked a
little about Pacifica.

Charles shot him a smile as they got out in front of the old house under the shadow

of the Rimrocks. Chuck saw the shutters and gutters had been repainted recently, and
his mother’s winter rock garden had been rearranged. ‘Smells like dinner’s waiting too.’

Chuck could smell it as they opened the door. He hugged Linda Hummingbird,

who barely came to his nose. ‘Ma, you didn’t have to make venison.’ Game meat was a
rarity in Pacifica, but much more common in the Tribal Lands. In some places, deer and
buffalo were farmed like cattle.

Linda laughed. ‘The stupid deer are overpopulating this year, and there’s plenty

around. I know you almost never get it.’ She kissed her son. ‘Now, if both of you will
wash up, it’s dinnertime.’

‘So Elizabeth tells me you took the C.S. job,’ Linda said as Charles hammered at the

frozen vanilla tofu to go on the gooseberry pie after they’d eaten. Both parents had
refused to speak of anything but the veriest trivia before dessert. ‘For crying out loud,
Charles, don’t bend the cutlery. Use that heated scoop we have.’

‘Can’t find it.’ Charles took out a steak knife and started at it again.
Chuck smiled. Some things never changed. His dad always wrestled with the

frozen stuff until Linda always made the same suggestion, and he always made the
same answer. Chuck wasn’t even sure they still had the scoop he’d gotten them for
Christmas when he was twelve.

‘Yeah. It pays really well. And I’ll only be over the line for about an hour.’
Linda shook her head. ‘I don’t like it. The C.S. may not shoot us on sight, but they

can be exactly as bad as Lone Star.’

‘Ma, five miles in, hook a load, do some paperwork and five miles out. How much

trouble can I get into?’

She looked at him until he fidgeted. ‘Charles Cornsilk Hummingbird,’ she

enunciated each syllable very slowly and clearly, ‘do not ever ask your mother how
much trouble you are capable of finding.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said softly.
She patted his cheek as Charles set a slice of pie in front of each of them. ‘You’ll do

fine. You’re a good driver and like you say it shouldn’t take more than an hour, all of it
spent working.’

That night, Chuck slept in his old bed, under the blanket Linda had made when

they first relocated to the Tribal Lands. He woke early, and looked around. Everyone

Glad Hands

25

seemed so worried about this trip that it was starting to give him the jitters again and a
feeling of foreboding he couldn’t shake. He reassured himself that next week, he would
be back in this bedroom, under the same blanket, staring at the same thunder rattle
from his first Stomp Dance. He smelled pancakes from the kitchen and decided to get
up.

Early Tuesday morning, Charles took Chuck back to the Hummingbird. Chuck

hugged his dad, lingering there a minute. Charles had said little about the impending
trip during the visit.

‘Your mother’s more scared than she’s letting on.’ Chuck nodded and Charles

continued. ‘Gv-ge-yu-hi, a `tsu tsa.’

Chuck swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Charles spoke Cherokee only

on the most solemn occasions, and he could not recall the last time his father had said,
aloud, that he loved him. Chuck hugged him again.

‘Eh-doh-da-hv-ge-do-da,’ he responded, ‘gv-ge-yu-hi.’ He repeated it, emphasizing it.

‘My father, I love you.’

‘Go on then. Make your raid and return to boast and laugh at your mother’s fears.’

Charles’s grin lit his whole face. He took the Bubblemobile and merged into morning
traffic, off to do whatever a vice president of an ad agency did all day.

Chuck made his walk-around, checking all of the parts of the Hummingbird. He

logged his days off and started the truck, easing out onto International Highway 90.

The long flat drive of South Dakota was broken only by badlands in the distance

and a bad hill around Chamberlain where the highway crossed the Missouri river.
Chuck stopped at the rest area at the top for lunch, enjoying the gorgeous view. He felt
like he could see half the state.

After a pouch of chow, which left him missing his mother’s good cooking and

wishing he’d had sense to bring some of his dad’s pie, he started out again. Most radio
had gone to satellite now, but WNAX kept broadcasting on 570 AM, as it had for over a
hundred and seventy-five years. Chuck remembered it from when they’d been moved
up here, and listened now out of nostalgia.

Iowa was even more boring. Chuck made the border crossing at Sioux Falls, South

Dakota. The men at the customs booth waved him through when they saw the manifest
and his identification. He suspected crossing back in would be less easy.

He crossed about a mile of No-man’s land, then the Heartland side came into view.

The men here looked less pleased to see him. They checked the truck and his
paperwork, eying him suspiciously. They had him get out and one did a thorough
search of his personal belongings for contraband.

Chuck had been careful to only pack the basics this run—a few changes of clothes,

some concentrated food and drink, his paperwork. He’d left even his reader behind,
figuring the boredom on his few off hours would be worth it for not having any of his

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

26

stuff confiscated. Besides, he could always pick up an acceptable newspaper or
magazine in Heartland.

Once through, he rolled down International Highway 29, the trees along the river

bluffs just starting to turn color as fall set in. A few screamingly scarlet sumacs stood
out among the mostly green trees. Some of the oaks were starting to go orange. He had
to admit, it was a pretty drive, if very flat. He found the level road tiring after so much
time spent in the mountains.

He pulled into the Missouri Valley rest area shortly before sunset and parked the

Hummingbird for the night. As he did the walk-around, he saw a man loitering near a
picnic table. Skinny and scruffy, unshaven for days, the man hunched over a
sketchbook, ignoring Chuck in a way that said he didn’t want to be noticed either. At a
second glance, Chuck realized he was younger than he’d first thought, the stubble
making him look older. He assessed the kid’s threat level and decided not to pay much
attention.

He was in Heartland, not the Tribal Lands. Not only was he unlikely to be mugged

for his money and rig, unless they found out what he carried, but he was less likely to
be propositioned. Here, being asegi was worth a stint in reparative therapy, a tattoo so
people would keep their distance and a permanent removal from all databases which
made finding work or a place to live absolutely impossible.

The gay men here lived deeply closeted lives, hiding behind respectability and

wives, cowering in terror of being revealed. The few who served their time found the
barriers to rejoining society so overwhelming that they emigrated or found a way to get
into jail or back into the mental hospitals.

Chuck wasn’t taking any risks. Not here and not in the Confederated States where

being asegi would get him publicly executed. He’d be picking up his load tomorrow,
back here the next day and home free by Saturday.

The loiterer had moved to sit at a picnic table and draw. Maybe he was just a bum,

an itinerant artist out for one last ramble before the weather got cold. Chuck didn’t
think so. Something about the way he moved spoke of desperation and hunger.

Chuck tucked his waist-length hair up under his hat and climbed out of the cab. As

he headed for the bathroom, he passed the kid. He held his breath, expecting the odor
of dirt, unwashed body and filthy clothing. He wasn’t springtime-fresh himself, but he
felt no need to have his nose assaulted.

Like all of Heartland, the bathroom was spotlessly clean and perfectly maintained.

Even the urinals were tucked into quaint wooden stalls. The discovery of a scratch on
the back of the door absurdly delighted him with its small indication of entropy, a sign
he was in a real place and hadn’t wandered onto a stage set. The pedestal sinks gave
only cold water by design.

He came out and saw the young man digging in a trash can. ‘Lose something?’
The man jumped, whirling, guilt all over his face. ‘N-n-no,’ he stammered.

Glad Hands

27

Chuck moved in closer. The vagrant smelled like he’d been living outside, but he

didn’t stink. His eyes were bright blue. ‘Find anything worth eating?’

The man—kid, really, he couldn’t have seen twenty-five yet—looked guiltily at the

crusts from four slices of bread and half a peanut butter sandwich with two bites out of
it. ‘What do you care?’ He shot Chuck a questioning look.

‘Throw it away. That’s nothing for a man to eat.’ He jerked his head toward the

truck. ‘I have some real food. I don’t like eating alone.’

‘Thanks.’ The kid looked almost remorseful and Chuck noticed he set the sandwich

and bread crusts carefully on a clean newspaper at the top of the can. As he did, Chuck
saw the H tattooed on his right wrist.

The boy followed his gaze and twitched the terrycloth sweatband he wore back

over the mark. ‘So now you know.’

* * * * *

Seven didn’t want him to know. When people found out, they always found some

way to hurt him. Even Bruce— He shoved that thought away hard and fast. He didn’t
want to think about Bruce ever again.

He’d spent all day staring down the hill at the Missouri River rolling its muddy

way between the banks. Nebraska was across the river and from Nebraska, he could
walk into the Tribal Lands. The problem remained getting across.

There’d been swimming lessons at the Y and at church camp, but he wasn’t a strong

swimmer and those had been years ago. The current looked strong. He watched a log
tumble through it, marking the ripples and rapids and all the other movements.

He was supposed to be planning his emigration, but he could only think of Bruce.

Bruce and his gang at the pizza parlor, Bruce clearly the leader because everyone
laughed at his jokes instead of clouting him on the head and calling him a jerk. Bruce at
the lake with the guys and Seven’s first taste of beer. He’d gotten buzzed on two cans.
Bruce alone at the lake and the fish and potatoes and washing dishes together which
had led to sex. Bruce in the barn, the day he’d come to talk to Seven’s dad and Seven
had been ordered to show him around. His hands had been soft, not like Seven’s
calloused ones, there in the feed room. He stopped thinking about Bruce.

Seven knew that if he stayed here, he’d be arrested for loitering and vagrancy. Jail

looked better with each passing day. The nights were getting colder and the wind off
the water bit through his hungry body. In jail, he would be warm all winter. He’d have
a bed to sleep in. He’d have regular meals.

It looked a lot better than drowning in a river and washing up on a Kansas City

river dock. But he could see Nebraska and knew that the Tribal Lands, a place he’d
dreamed of since early childhood, were walkable from there.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

28

Freedom beckoned. But the river barrier made him wonder if spending the winter

in jail and trying next summer, when the river ran low from the heat, might be wiser.
He shifted and the discomfort in his rear reminded him why jail was a bad idea.

The minute someone got a look at his tattoo, he became meat. Just like he’d been in

the hospital. Just like he’d been all summer, drifting from quiet town to quiet town,
working hard and living on charity. Charity always came with a price.

He had gone back to staring at the river, remembering the rumors that the Tribals

didn’t hate gays. That all the men up there were anyway, and that the women chose one
to breed with and then sent him back to the boys. He didn’t believe any of it. But
maybe, if some of the stories were true, he might manage to live as a person and instead
of as a nonentity, as meat.

The family in the sedan had pulled in about two hours before. He’d tried to be

unobtrusive, sitting under a tree, his sketch pad on his knee, pretending to draw the
river. He figured he’d glanced at them once too often.

They’d packed up in haste, the pudgy younger son complaining he hadn’t finished

his second sandwich. Once the car was safely out of sight, he’d pounced on the apple
with a bite missing that one of the daughters had left.

It had been crisp and sweet and so good after days of no fruit or vegetables. He’d

seen the ends of the sandwiches had been wrapped in waxed paper, so they would keep
a little longer. He’d planned to get them before dark.

Seven had sat back after they left and took stock of his possessions. He had one

food packet left after two weeks on the road. He was holding that until he really needed
it. ‘That we may eat and die,’ the words of Elisha’s widow-woman came back. He
hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

His wallet was not quite empty. He had two dollars and another two in change. It

could keep him alive out of the snack machine for a week. The apple had helped. He felt
better than he had all day.

It was getting too late now. He’d watched the semi pull in and groaned. The trucker

would probably sleep here. So he’d tried pinching the sandwiches while the big man
went to the head.

Now Seven looked up at the big Indian and waited. He had a million things he

wanted to ask, having seen the Pacifica plate on the truck. He just looked into the
handsome face and waited for the dinner invitation to be rescinded, waited for the
trucker to hurt him.

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29

Chapter Four

The man only smiled, a nice smile, not the greedy one some men got when they saw

the tattoo. He either didn’t know what the tattoo meant or he didn’t care. ‘What’s your
name?’

‘Seven.’
‘Seven? Seven’s not a name, it’s a number.’ He unlocked the passenger door. ‘Or is

that what they tagged you with in the hospital?’

‘Seven A. McCullough. My parents were a little weird.’ Seven found the second

step into the cab a lot higher than he’d thought and had to use his arms to help pull
himself in. ‘I used Asher through school.’

Chuck rummaged in the locker built into the side of the truck. Seven looked

around. It was like a little apartment complete with bed, shelves, three flannel shirts
hanging on a small rack, a couple of lockers, a little TV on the wall.

‘I’m Chuck Hummingbird.’ He passed a handful of pouches up to Seven and took a

couple for himself.

‘For real?’ Seven smiled. ‘And you thought Seven was weird?’
‘Hummingbird is a fine old Cherokee name. And it’s Chuck, not Charles, that’s my

dad. And the second you call me Charlie or Chaz, you’re the new hood ornament.’ He
tore open one pouch and stuck a straw in the second. ‘Eat up, kiddo. It’s not much, but
better than someone else’s sandwich.’

Seven looked at what he held. Three pouches of Purina brand Working Man Chow,

in beef, chicken and ham flavors. A couple of juice pouches, real juice and not a mostly
sugar-water cocktail. ‘Orange juice? I’ve read about oranges, but we almost never get
them this far inland.’ He stuck a straw in and tasted it. Liquid sunshine poured over his
tongue, thick and cool, sweet with a little bite to it. ‘It’s really good.’

‘We get a lot in Pacifica. The Conglomerate exports them.’ Chuck tore open his own

chow pack and nibbled the kibble that tasted like turkey and potatoes with gravy and
green beans.

Seven tossed a handful into his mouth and chewed. ‘This is good too. A lot better

than the stuff in the hospital. That stuff never tasted like anything but corn and soy.’

Chuck tossed a little bit, shaped like a turkey leg, into the air and caught it in his

mouth. ‘Nutritionally complete and it keeps me going. I hate trying to cook in the truck
or find food in foreign countries. But Saturday, I’m gonna pull into Murdo and have me
a big thick buffalo burger and the freshest, most perfect onion rings in the world.’

Seven looked down at the other two pouches. Chuck’s words made him hungry.

Tempted as he was to eat them both, he stuffed them in the pocket of his filthy denim

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

30

jacket. Food like this would keep a long time. He’d spent the summer raiding gardens,
but now, the cooler weather had started setting in and even late crops were getting hard
to find. When Chuck left, he’d steal the sandwich for that day and hang on to the
pouches. He slowed down his consumption of the other package. He looked up from
licking the crumbs out of it when Chuck cleared his throat.

‘Here.’ He held out a small bag for trash. ‘Eat one of the others if you’re that

hungry, Sev.’ He watched Seven throw the empty pouches away. ‘So, were you looking
for a ride, trying to get up the courage to swim the river or just trying to figure out how
to get back in the hospital for the winter?’

Seven started to protest, but Chuck’s fingers lay across his lips, large and warm and

strong.

‘I know you’re asegi.’ Seeing Seven’s blank look, he elaborated, ‘Two-spirited.’

Getting another blank, he used the hated clinical term. ‘Homosexual. The Tribal Lands
never turn our kind away. They need us. We’re closer to the gods.’

Seven nodded. He weighed one of the pouches in his hand. His stomach rumbled.
‘Eat it, baby. There’s plenty more. I’m going south and east for a load, but I’ll be

back here by Friday, day after tomorrow. And Saturday I’ll be rolling into Sioux Falls.
You can ride for a couple days or I’ll leave you some chow and catch you on the
turnaround.’

Seven dropped the straw to the juice pouch. ‘I’ll ride. Never know what could

happen while I’m waiting. Besides, you got food.’ He tried for a casual grin as he bent
to pick it up, but his blue eyes were huge at Chuck’s generosity. ‘Can I get my stuff?’

‘Sure, I’m parked for the night. You think I’d leave you without enough food to

last?’

‘Never know.’ Seven shrugged. ‘I’ve met all kinds.’
Chuck rolled his eyes. ‘Apparently, I’m the kind of guy who takes a marked sex

offender into his truck and offers him a whole life. You think I’m gonna be stingy with a
little thing like food?’

Seven scowled a little. ‘Heard a lot of promises. Most were a ploy to get my ass.’
‘Okay, no ploy. You’re cute. I’m two-spirited. You do the math.’
‘I suck at math.’
Chuck laid it out. ‘I’ll feed you, teach you to drive and get you to a place where

two-spirited folk aren’t persecuted. We don’t do anything here. Once we’re back on
Tribal Lands, we’ll see. Now go get your stuff before it gets completely dark.’

Seven hopped out, ran for a clump of bushes, all the time expecting to hear the

truck’s engine start up and see the taillights as Chuck left him there. He couldn’t figure
why the guy was being so nice, but he had an idea. He grabbed a small backpack with a
two-blanket bedroll tied to it. ‘It’s not much, but it’s mine,’ he said as he climbed back in
the cab, trying to hide his relief.

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31

Chuck looked at the meager possessions and drew the privacy curtains. ‘How long

you been out of the hospital, kiddo?’

‘A few months. Summer wasn’t too bad. Plenty to eat, lots of gardens, even if

there’s only so much corn I can stand. I drifted, did yard work. The last guy threw me
out a week ago when his wife saw the tattoo.’

He didn’t really want to talk about it. The last guy, Colstrom, had let him sleep in

the shed and in a fit of charity had even rigged a clothesline, a small hose-shower in the
corner and dug a pit toilet. In return, Seven had mowed the yard, painted the trim,
pruned the trees, weeded the garden, cleaned the pool and worked on the car. And in
the evenings, he had paid his rent in blowjobs.

Mr. Colstrom had put the word out, discreetly as they always did, and Seven had

found himself sucking half the neighborhood men. Only a couple ever wanted to fuck
him and he had obliged them as well. One was all business, in and out and gone before
Seven could get his pants up. The other liked it dry and rough. Seven had bled for a
couple of days every time he’d visited. On those days, Mr. Colstrom had let him use the
garage sink to wash his clothes. He blinked away angry tears and pulled the ham-
flavored pouch out of his pocket.

Chuck grew serious. ‘Nobody rides free, Seven. You have to earn your keep.’
Seven felt the weight of the food pouch in his hand. He glanced at the bunk and

then laid his hand on Chuck’s crotch. ‘Of course,’ he sighed, sliding off the seat and
starting to open Chuck’s zipper.

Chuck frowned at him, and moved his hand away. ‘Not like that. Sit back up.’ He

touched Seven’s arm, a very gentle stroke of his biceps. ‘Sex is too important to be a
barter item.’

‘Yeah, yeah, sacred, man and woman, pure expression, makes babies, ya, ya, ya,’

Seven droned. The words were automatic, but his mind worked overtime trying to
figure this one out. ‘Look, I want to eat more than I want to do the right thing, I guess.’

Chuck tossed him another pouch of food. ‘If you’re hungry enough to be fishing

your food out of the trash, I figure eating is the right thing.’

Seven ripped it open and ate some. ‘Not if I fuck to eat,’ he mumbled around the

mouthful of beef-flavored nuggets.

Chuck looked at him sharply, thick eyebrows knitting over his dark eyes. ‘Kiddo,

did I say you had to fuck me for the food?’

Seven shook his head. ‘No. But I would. Just so you know.’
‘Hush now.’ Chuck’s tone never changed, but Seven subsided, the big driver’s

anger almost palpable. ‘Sex is sacred, that much is right. It’s the most intense way two
people can connect. Now you’re cute, but I don’t screw every cute guy I see.’ He smiled,
easing a little, and stroked Seven’s cheek. ‘I’d like to know more about you than the
biggest blue eyes in the world and a sad history. You’ll work. I’ll teach you about the
truck and you can help me out on the run. In return, I’ll feed you and get you into the

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Tribal Lands. Now, if once you’re fed up and safe in the Tribal Lands, you come to me
and say, ‘Chuck, you’re gorgeous and I’d like to take you to bed,’ then I’d say yes.’

Seven looked confused. ‘But what if I want to fuck?’
Chuck’s smile broadened. ‘Save it for when we’re safely across the border. Besides,

by then I’ll probably know enough. I will get you out, if you want.’

‘You’re some kind of knight in shining armor or something,’ Seven grinned. ‘Maybe

I’m dreaming all of this.’

Chuck smiled at that. ‘If so, it’s a good dream, isn’t it?’ Seven nodded. Chuck gave a

sardonic look, raised one eyebrow and leered. ‘Or maybe I’m a wicked red devil,
swooping down and carrying you off to a life of sin and debauchery.’

Seven chuckled. ‘Maybe. I’m still willing to go, though.’
‘I can promise you a warm truck, food and a…well, sorta real bed.’ Seven glanced

back at the sleeper bunk again. ‘And when we get into the Lands, I’ll introduce you to
people who can help you get work and a place of your own.’ Seven bit his lip, not
saying anything. ‘You’re thinking too much there, kiddo. I just don’t want you
worrying.’

Seven finished the food packet and drank more juice. ‘It’s kinda what I do.’
Chuck traced the worry line between his eyebrows. ‘I can tell.’
The touch of the big driver made Seven tingle all over. He wet his lips, staring at

Chuck’s mouth. Chuck saw and checked the magnetic seal of the curtains in the cab,
making sure they would block unwanted eyes.

‘Either stop teasing or make a move, blue-eyes,’ Chuck said softly. Seven looked at

the floor, embarrassed. Chuck kissed Seven instead.

Seven startled. He’d never been kissed like this by anyone, man or woman. Even

Bruce— He stopped the thought and paid attention to the kiss. Chuck’s soft mouth
moved very slowly over his. He opened for Chuck’s tongue, letting it play over his
teeth and palate. He sucked at it a little, liking the way Chuck tasted and smelled.

‘Wow,’ he said when Chuck moved away. ‘Nobody ever—’
‘What a shame.’ Chuck kissed him again. ‘It’s flattering to be your first. And, kiddo,

I don’t fuck. I don’t believe in turning something sacred into a violent, cheap
commodity.’

Seven only stared. Very slowly, he reached up and stroked Chuck’s hair, which

he’d wanted to do from the moment Chuck had taken his hat off. ‘This can’t be real.
Nobody would be so good. You’re too gorgeous. This is all going to vanish when I
wake up. If I wake up and haven’t frozen to death and gone to heaven.’

Chuck laughed softly. ‘Not sure your heaven would let an old heathen like me in,

even if I can’t pass up a stray in trouble. I thought my folks taught me your god
frowned on men who love men.’

‘He does. Maybe I’m in Hell.’
‘Or maybe we’re still in Iowa. I mean, I can see where you’d confuse them.’

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33

Seven laughed at that, then leaned in to kiss Chuck. He liked being kissed. It felt

different, right. He’d never bought the happily-ever-after romances all the girls in his
school read. He knew men weren’t like that. He knew that happily-ever-afters quickly
died under too much work, too many babies and never enough money. Hard to hear
violins over children screeching and the jam boiling over and the cow breaking into the
vegetable patch. But just once, maybe…

He shook the thought away. He would ride with Chuck, learn to work, and maybe

become so indispensable that Chuck would let him stay even after they were into the
Tribal Lands. Seven didn’t want to be dumped off on some refugee center’s front lawn.

‘If there’s more kisses like that, I think it’s going to be worth it.’
‘Good. I’d like to think you want it and aren’t just promising to put out because I’m

getting you out. So, no payment until we’re safe.’

Seven nodded. ‘No. I’d want you even if you weren’t doing me the favor. You’re

really hot.’ He looked down a little. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, okay? I liked old
Western shows and movies, the really old ones. And I always had a real thing for all the
handsome Indian braves.’ He looked up fast. ‘It’s okay to call you an Indian, isn’t it?
Some people say—’

Chuck stole another kiss to shut him up. ‘I’d rather you called me Chuck. But

you’re sweet. Let’s start learning before it gets too dark,’ Chuck said, putting his hat on
and opening the curtains. ‘Plenty of time for play later.’

Seven nodded and slipped his jacket on. He followed Chuck out of the cab, hoping

the task would be mundane enough that he’d go soft before Chuck noticed. He caught
Chuck looking anyway. Chuck showed him how to open the hood.

‘You always do a pre-trip and post-trip the same way. That way you don’t forget

anything. My marker lights are good.’ He gestured to the row of amber lights on the
roof of the cab. He raised the hood and took Seven into the engine compartment,
showed him how to check the oil and fluids and wires. Then they checked each wheel,
its brakes and lug nuts and everything. All ten wheels were in good order. Chuck ran
one finger down the water groove in the center of the rear tire of the trailer.

‘Used to be, they put two wheels on each back axle. Now we only use one wide one.

This one is going to need replacing soon. See how shallow the groove is?’ Seven
nodded. ‘That lets water run away from the wheels, gives me better traction.’ He tossed
Seven a tire gauge. ‘Check them. Should be about one-ten each.’

Seven saw the pressure could be checked through the metal caps of the valve stems.

He used the gauge on each tire, reporting they were all between 108 and 112. Chuck
said that was fine.

‘Just take it slow. You’ll get it. The driving part is pretty easy. The backing is what

will get you into trouble. And the curves will kill you, if the mountains don’t.’

‘Oh great. Dangerous too.’ Seven handed the tire gauge back.
‘Yep. Dangerous job.’

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Seven shrugged. ‘What isn’t lately, I guess?’
‘Not much. My usual run is even more deadly, ‘cause I haul a tanker of crude oil.’

Chuck checked the load, then grinned at Seven. ‘You want to try driving in the lot? It’s
empty. I’ll drop the trailer and you can steer in low gear, get a feel.’

Seven tried not to look too eager. ‘All right.’
‘Ordinarily, I wouldn’t drop a trailer in a rest area, but since it’s just us and we’re

staying here, it’s not a problem. Never leave your cargo unattended.’ He led Seven
around on the driver’s side. ‘Gear, hoses, pin. It’s alphabetical. Then hooking is done in
reverse—pin, hoses, gear.’ He had Seven watch how to lower the landing gear, unhook
the glad-hands and pull the pin. He tossed Seven the keys and climbed in the passenger
side.

Seven got in and adjusted the seat. He looked over the controls, overwhelmed. ‘Dad

had a five-speed jeep. I learned to drive on a tractor. This…’

Chuck patiently explained all the controls until Seven’s eyes start to glaze. ‘Don’t

worry about most of that stuff. You’ll get it. The driving is pretty easy. The terrain
following sensor keeps you on the road and in your lane. The cruise manages your
speed, the vorad keeps you from getting too close to other vehicles. There’s a heads-up
display with your map, route and stops, but I’ve got that turned off. It’s easier than a
car, once you get up to speed. Glad you know how to use a clutch. This lady takes a
double clutch. Press it in, take her out of gear, press it in and put her in gear.’

It took Seven a while to get the odd rhythm of the double-clutching down as Chuck

had him shift between second and third as he idled around the parking area. The tractor
was bigger than anything he’d ever driven. ‘Try for fourth,’ Chuck encouraged.

Seven grabbed fourth gear with a grin and slipped up to fifth at ten miles an hour.
Chuck sighed. ‘Now downshifting. This is the fun part. It’s a five-beat instead of a

four-beat dance. Clutch, out of gear, rev, clutch, in gear.’

All of Seven’s progress ground to a very sudden halt. He panic-revved, he ground

the gears. Finally Chuck said, ‘Kick it into neutral, stop it and pull the brake. Time to
knock off for the night.’

Chuck took over and re-hooked his trailer. When they finished, Chuck went to the

men’s room to wash up. Seven followed. They stood at the sinks without talking or
looking at each other.

Once back in the truck, Chuck logged his day’s work and found a blank log for

Seven. ‘Good job. Don’t sweat the downshifting. Hell, took me a month to learn how.
You’re doing fine.’

Seven looked at the pristine log. ‘Thanks. It’s really fun, actually.’
Chuck grinned. ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t do anything else. I got an early delivery in St.

Joseph, kiddo. Sack time for me. You can stay up and read or look at maps or whatever.’
Chuck slid back and sat down on the bunk. Seven pulled the curtains. Chuck yanked

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35

his boots off, then shrugged out of his shirt. Seven watched, then reached over to lift the
hat off. The ponytail tumbled out.

‘You sure like my hair.’ Chuck let Seven play in it.
‘I’ve never seen a man with long hair.’ Seven unfastened the elastics that held it at

two-inch intervals. ‘It’s so pretty.’ Feeling bold, he touched Chuck’s chest and bare
arms. ‘You’re gorgeous.’ He leaned in briefly and then drew back.

Chuck wrapped one arm around him and pulled him close. Very softly, he kissed

Seven. ‘Baby, I know what you’re thinking.’

Seven sighed deeply. ‘Been a while. Too long.’
Chuck’s gaze seemed to look right through him. ‘Too long? Or too long since it’s

been one you wanted?’

Seven nodded. He didn’t want to talk about why he’d drawn back, thinking this

big, beautiful man couldn’t possibly want a scrawny piece of scum like him, not if he
had other men available. His own parents wouldn’t admit he existed. None of the men
he’d worked for would acknowledge him.

Chuck adjusted him into something like a cuddle and stroked him. ‘Yeah, same

here, but wait a while, okay? On the other side of that river, we can do anything you
want to. Here, let’s be discreet.’

Seven nodded again, not nearly as sanguine as Chuck about the delay. He worked

to regulate his breathing, to make his body behave. The results were dismal. Something
in him responded to Chuck like he’d never responded to another man. Then again, the
others had been mostly paying the rent.

Chuck smiled at him and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s okay. I want you too. It’ll be better

for waiting, trust me.’

Seven nestled in, mumbling sleepily, ‘Smell so good.’ Chuck did. He was mostly

clean and had some spicy, grassy shampoo scent in his hair. Seven knew he smelled like
soap.

‘Smell better after a shower. We’ll get one in Holland tomorrow night.’
Seven felt Chuck shift a little and listened to his breathing turn to light snores.

Feeling safer than he had in years, he fell asleep in the arms of the near-stranger.

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Chapter Five

Seven woke in the middle of the night to a pounding on the truck’s window. He

saw Chuck pulling on a shirt. He opened his mouth, but Chuck laid a finger over his
lips. He lay still and quiet.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mr. Hummingbird. We had a report from this rest area of a

suspicious character, a shifty-looking pervert, hanging around. Have you seen anyone
here?’

‘No, Officer. It was empty when I pulled in.’ Chuck had the driver’s window down,

but no cab lights on. He leaned out, his long hair hanging down to the side of the truck.

Seven lay shaking at Chuck’s bald-faced lie to the officer. The minute anyone

checked the rest area’s surveillance tapes, they were both criminals. He hadn’t done
anything more than kiss and here Chuck was, lying for him.

‘We’re looking for a young man, very scruffy, dirty, longish hair, blue eyes. If you

see anyone looking like that, you call us and we’ll be here fast.’

‘Of course, Officer.’
‘Have a nice stay in Heartland, Mr. Hummingbird.’ The cops left, taking their

searchlight and cruiser. Chuck came back to the bed.

‘You okay, baby?’
‘You lied.’
‘Oh hell yeah. Not gonna see you go back to that hospital or to jail.’ He cuddled

Seven in and went right back to sleep. Seven took longer, but he finally relaxed in
Chuck’s arms.

He woke again, very early, to the first rays of light stealing in through the gaps in

the covers on the upper windows. He remained curled up in Chuck’s arms and Chuck
lay flat on his back. The clock said they had twenty minutes until the alarm went off.

Seven propped himself up on one elbow and stared at Chuck. His long black hair

spread over the pillow and bed, tracing against his dark skin. His smooth muscular
chest invited Seven’s touch. A small line of dark hair led down from his navel to the
waistband of his jeans at the top of his hips. This big, beautiful man had lied to cops in
order to save his worthless hide. He deserved something, anything.

Seven swallowed hard. Chuck’s zipper bulged and tempted. He ran one light finger

down the ridge of the fly. With a fast twitch of his hands, Seven unbuttoned the jeans.
The erection beneath pushed against the denim with no underwear in the way. He
eased the zipper down, one tooth at a time, holding his breath. Chuck didn’t wake up.

Seven stifled a soft moan at the sight of the cock that stood straight up. Dark and

red, it pulsed with a life of its own. He swallowed again, his mouth watering for a taste

Glad Hands

37

of it. He ran a finger where the foreskin attached on the underside, then followed the
corona ridge around. He wrapped his whole hand around it and wasn’t surprised to
find he could add a second and the head still rested above his closed hands.

He looked up at Chuck’s face, but the big man was still asleep. As much as he

wanted to taste, he thought Chuck should be awake to consent to that. He stroked,
using his own favorite masturbation techniques, varying his pressure grip. He startled
when Chuck came and glanced up to see Chuck smiling at him.

‘Morning,’ Seven hazarded with a shy smile.
Chuck reached up and turned off the alarm clock before it could ring and then drew

him back into the cuddle. He kissed Seven. ‘Morning yourself.’

Seven cuddled for a bit, feeling and smelling Chuck. ‘I thought you’d like a wake-

up call.’

Chuck kissed him again. ‘It was a lot better than the alarm.’ He ran a hand down

Seven’s chest to stroke him through his thin jeans.

Seven looked surprised. ‘It’s still dangerous here. Should we risk it twice?’
‘You need a helping hand.’ Chuck looked dead serious when he said that. His

fingers were fast, unzipping Seven, pulling him out and stroking him in ways that were
making him crazy before Chuck finished talking. ‘Stay quiet and we’re safe enough.’

Seven covered his mouth with his hands. Moments later, he bit down the fleshy

part under his thumb to stifle the moans Chuck’s clever hands drew from him as they
played with his cock and balls, making him feel like he’d been born with entirely new
genitalia. He came with a muffled cry.

‘Good boy.’ Chuck wiped his hands on a nearby towel. ‘I’d love to taste you, but

let’s get you tested before we start swapping anything more than spit.’

That bluntness again. Seven nodded, looking away. Shame had been drummed into

him since early childhood, and it was going to take a lot more than a couple kisses and a
handjob to do away with it.

Chuck stroked his hair. ‘You okay with this?’
Seven swallowed. ‘Yeah. Just having a few regrets. But it’s too late for those.’
‘We’ll be fine. You kip a while longer.’ Chuck sat up to fasten back his hair, and

stuffed it under the ball cap.

Seven watched greedily. ‘Beautiful hair.’
Chuck threw him a grin. ‘I’ll let you brush it anytime.’
‘Oh yeah. Count me in.’ Seven sat up and started getting his shoes back on. ‘Time to

work, I guess?’

Chuck nodded. They visited the bathroom and Chuck handed him something that

looked like a wet-wipe package. He watched Chuck use it and was surprised to see the
night’s beard shadow wipe away.

‘Beard-wipe. Thought you could use one to get rid of the scruff.’

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Seven took it and tried it. The razor in his pack had gone dull a week ago and

shaving took off as much skin as whisker these days. The beard came off with no
resistance. ‘Good wipes,’ he said.

They did the morning walk-around. Chuck approved all the parts of his vehicle.

‘Time to roll. We’re hitting Holland tonight, getting the load tomorrow. Lotsa deliveries
to make between now and then. And we’ll get you some driving.’

Seven got comfortable in the passenger seat and watched Chuck closely. He

watched the shifting, and how Chuck would overshoot his destination and turn back
into it. Most of all, he noticed how slowly Chuck took curves, sometimes slowing to
forty-five on the highway.

‘Log the inspection, kiddo. I keep a paper log to back up the electronic one.’ Chuck

gestured at the dash clock which said it was 5:00 a.m. ‘This truck is on Pacifica time.’

Seven made the notations in both Chuck’s log and his own, enjoying being useful.

‘Chucklandia,’ he said with a giggle.

Chuck nodded, looking up from the electronic log he was working on. ‘We’re

rolling a little piece of the Tribal Lands through enemy territory.’ He hesitated a
moment and then dropped his voice and enunciated each word. ‘Shhh. Many paleface
lurk over rise. Keep head down, Raises-bottom-high.’

Seven snickered. Chuck sounded just like Tonto on The Lone Ranger. Westerns and

medical shows were the most common sort of evening drama. The Lone Ranger was
Seven’s favorite, and he knew all the trivia of how it had started as a radio show a
century and a half before, about the legendary Clayton Moore and the movies.

Chuck winked at him. ‘Me wily red man. Sneak through lines. Count heap big

coup. Ugh.’ Seven cracked up and Chuck laughed too. ‘John Littlefeather, the manager
at the refinery I drive for, can do this for hours with me. We once went an hour and a
half before either of us laughed. And I only gave because I was starving.’ Chuck
gestured to the food locker. ‘Speaking of which, grab us some chow and juice.’

Seven unbuckled and reached into the cabinet. He came up with two pouches. He

handed Chuck the beef packet and opened the ham one himself. ‘I’ll need a lot more
practice. You’re too cute while you’re doing it. I mean, I know the people up in the
Tribal Lands don’t actually say How and Ugh and all. Do they speak Indian language?’

‘We speak English. Most of us speak our own tribe’s language. And most of us pick

up a few words of other tribes’. I can get myself beat up by,’ Chuck thought a second
and held up fingers as he enumerated, ‘a Crow, an Iroquois, a Cree, a Choctaw or a
Diné.’

Seven laughed again. ‘You’re silly sometimes. I like that.’
‘Are you silly too? What would happen if I tickled you?’ Chuck shot him an impish

look. ‘You look like you’d squeak and giggle and bat at my hands.’

Seven shuddered, his good humor flown. ‘I can be silly. But don’t tickle me. That’s

torture.’

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39

Chuck nodded. ‘If I’m torturing you, I’d rather it be lashes.’ Seven looked horrified,

but relaxed when Chuck winked again. ‘Tongue lashes.’

Seven blushed hard, but smiled and then got an odd look. ‘When’s our next stop?’
‘Check the atlas, kiddo. The next delivery is Booneville. There’s a rest area at

Concordia. We just left Grain Valley.’

Seven checked the paper atlas, the onboard one only confusing him. ‘It’s about

twenty minutes away.’

Chuck raised an eyebrow. ‘Shoulda spoke sooner. If you really gotta go, I can find

us a truck stop.’

‘I can wait.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Chuck sped up a little.
The little wooded rest area at Concordia had plenty of space to park. A Heartland

Express truck, with its curtains drawn, was the only other occupant.

Seven slipped out of the cab and hurried to the men’s room. He took a quick look

around before coming back. Chuck had climbed down and was busy checking his lines
and tires.

‘My turn.’ When he came back, they climbed back in. ‘What was the scenery

checking for?’

‘Seeing if there was anyone else around and looking for security cameras.’
‘How do you people live with every move recorded?’ Chuck sighed. He checked his

list. ‘I have a delivery up here a piece,’ he added as they pulled onto the highway.

‘It’s not living,’ Seven said softly.
‘Is it one of those ‘only the guilty have anything to fear’ things?’ Chuck had heard it

a few times in Pacifica from people arguing that surveillance was the key to a safe
society.

Seven nodded. ‘I’ve heard that enough times. ‘We’re all good people. How does this

affect us at all?’ And they ignore the fact everyone knows what they’re doing.’

‘Yep. Hence the avoiding even the appearance of impropriety. Separate bathroom

breaks.’

‘Noticed. Doesn’t matter. I get to see it again tonight.’ Seven looked at Chuck and

stole a glance at his crotch.

‘All of it you want. Taste too, if you like.’
‘I definitely plan to.’ Seven took out his sketch pad, but tucked it away an hour later

when Chuck needed him to navigate to the delivery point. He followed Chuck out to
help with the doors.

‘I’ve got no more drops from here to St. Louis,’ Chuck said as he backed into the

dock. Seven lurched a little at the gentle bump when they hit the baffle. Chuck dug for
his paperwork and kept talking. ‘One drop in St. Louis, one in Cape Girardeau and then
we leave the trailers in Holland. We’ll fill up there, hook the cotton down in Blytheville

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

40

and head home. You stay put.’ He got out to handle the logistics. Seven jumped as the
truck rocked under the forklift.

Chuck climbed back in, filed his paperwork and tossed the keys to Seven. ‘You

want to try driving? I shouldn’t, but traffic’s light enough it shouldn’t be a problem.
And you gotta learn somehow.’ He looked very serious. ‘If we get stopped, we swap
seats faster than a coyote with his tail afire, you hear me?’

Seven stared, first at Chuck and then at the keys in his hand and then at the steering

wheel. He swallowed hard. ‘Yeah.’

‘You can drive a stick, right, farmboy?’ Chuck teased. ‘Did okay last night.’
Seven grinned, feeling on surer footing. ‘‘Yeah, but Dad’s tractor only had three

speeds . The jeep only had five. And we only made it to sixth last night.’ He opened his
door and got down.

‘How about a license? I know you can drive, but can you prove it?’ Chuck climbed

up into the passenger seat. Seven sat behind the wheel, getting used to the view. He
adjusted the seat and the tilt of the wheel, and looked over all the switches and buttons,
much easier to decipher after a full belly and a night’s sleep. Most of them were
environmental controls and he didn’t have to worry about them.

Seven made sure the windows were up and no one was watching. ‘The hospital

incinerated all my ID. The only place I exist is in the hospital records.’

Chuck wrinkled his nose. ‘All right. We’ll be really careful. Drive the limit, don’t

speed and stay in your lane. The TFS will help there. We’ll get you set up back home.’
He buckled up and stretched. ‘The Bird’s got ten speeds. Your cruising range is between
one thousand and fifteen hundred. See how it’s green on your tach? You want to stay in
the low end. And remember, take your turns wide.’

Seven looked worried, but slotted the key in the ignition.
‘We’ll stay on the service road until you get your shifting. One foot on the clutch,

one on the brake and fire her up.’ Chuck flipped the driver’s sun visor down to show
the Eaton shifter gear pattern. ‘Start her, put her in second, pop the brakes,’ he gestured
to the red and yellow knobs on the dash, ‘and let’s roll.’

‘Start her up,’ Seven repeated, putting his feet on the brake and clutch and turning

the key. The diesel engine roared to life. He checked the shift pattern. ‘Put her in
second.’ He pressed the shifter, but the stick resisted.

‘Easy, don’t force it. Ease out on the clutch a little and try.’ Chuck smiled when the

shifter popped into second. ‘Only press the clutch level to the other pedals. Clear to the
floor engages the clutch brake. Only floor it when you’re stopping.’

Seven’s head spun from all the information. He continued. ‘Pop the brakes.’ He

pressed the buttons and listened to the air hiss.

‘Okay, foot off the brake and ease off the clutch. Always put the clutch in first and

let it out last or you’ll—’

Glad Hands

41

Seven couldn’t digest all the information and he pulled both feet off the pedals. The

Hummingbird rattled and died.

‘Stall,’ Chuck finished. ‘Yep, just like that.’
Seven tried again, got the truck rolling and slid out of the dock without incident.

Chuck had him stop for a minute so he could close the doors.

They eased out toward the highway, Seven not wanting to take it at more than

twenty-five.

‘Flip your hazards on there and upshift at twelve hundred on the tach. We’ll stay on

the service road,’ Chuck instructed.

Seven found the hazards and got the truck into third, then fourth and fifth, exactly

as he’d done in the parking lot. He dropped the rear right two wheels off the pavement
as he turned onto the service road. It wasn’t so different from the tractor, as long as he
remembered to hit the clutch twice with each shift.

‘You’ll get the turning. For now, let’s downshift.’ Chuck talked him through the

peculiar five-step rhythm of clutch, shift, rev, clutch, shift that had so befuddled him the
night before.

Seven ran it up and down between two and five half a dozen times. ‘I’m killing

your schedule,’ he said. They’d been at it for almost an hour and Concordia was less
than seven miles behind them.

‘I’ll make it up on 55. One more time, then we’ll try the upper gears. You feel the

load moving?’

Seven nodded. Under Chuck’s instruction, he took the truck up to fifty-five and

slowed it to five a dozen more times.

‘Ready for the highway?’ Chuck asked after he’d gotten Seven pulled over and

stopped.

Seven shook his head. ‘No, but I gotta, right?’
‘Right.’ Chuck gestured to an on-ramp ahead. ‘Get on right up here.’ As Seven

reached for the shifter, Chuck caught his hand. He held it for a moment, his black eyes
serious. ‘You’ll be fine. Go on.’ Seven got up to speed and merged onto I-70. ‘Now the
hard part is staying awake. Keep ‘er between the lines and roll us all the way to St.
Louis.’

Seven grinned. ‘I can do that.’
Chuck settled in his seat and watched. Seven watched the black ribbon of highway

unfurl ahead of them, keeping his eyes far down the road, as his dad had taught him.
Chuck showed him how to set the cruise control to maintain his speed.

‘Relax, baby. You’re steering with your shoulders and you’ll feel it tomorrow. I’d

offer you something to calm you down, but I don’t have anything except words.’

‘Words are fine. I don’t smoke anymore.’ Seven spared him a glance. ‘Broke me of

that in the hospital.’

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

42

Chuck shrugged. ‘Sorry, can’t help you there. Tobacco’s illegal back home. Clean air

laws and all. Hemp’s fine, but I can’t have it when I’m driving. Illegal to even keep it on
the truck, like beer. You okay?’

‘Okay? Yeah. I’m fine.’ Seven noticed he was coming up fast on a little ancient car.
‘Slide it on over and pass. Gently, gently,’ Chuck urged. ‘Signal.’ Seven turned on

his signal and drifted into the left lane, passing the car. ‘Good. Watch until you can see a
gap between your shadows at least two highway lines long.’ Seven watched and then
signaled and slid back to the right.

‘Good job.’ Chuck smiled at him. ‘When we get home, I’ll get you tested for

anything you picked up.’

Seven cleared his throat and felt himself blush again. People simply did not speak

so bluntly in his experience. He suspected he’d have to get used to this new thing. He
thought about the hospital, the nurses, orderlies, trusted patients further along in their
programs. He thought about the men in the quiet suburban neighborhoods. ‘Yeah,
that’s a good idea.’

Chuck leaned over and touched his hand where it rested on the wheel. ‘I don’t

think a shrink would be out of order, either.’

Seven frowned at that. ‘Been to one of those. He treated me for my sickness.’ He

didn’t want to talk about intensive questioning sessions or the shock treatments ordered
after one where he’d been particularly uncooperative.

Chuck shook his head. ‘No, no, this one will help you process what you’ve been

through, find a way to live with the memories.’ He added a small grin. ‘He won’t cure
you. The one I have in mind is gay himself.’

Seven’s jaw dropped and he looked so stunned Chuck reached for the wheel

reflexively. ‘Gay and a doctor? Pacifica’s some sort of paradise.’

‘Nah, just a country with troubles of its own. Don’t go thinking it’s anything else.

You never read Dr. Seuss? I Had Trouble Getting to Solla Sollew?’

Seven shook his head. ‘Reading fiction wasn’t encouraged. Waste of time.’
Chuck frowned. ‘You got a lot of catching up to do then. I’d think they’d allow

Seuss. He’s not terribly subversive.’ He shifted a little and continued. ‘Basically it’s
about a kid having a really bad day and he decides to leave his home and go to Solla
Sollew, where they never have troubles, at least very few. Anyway, he has a terrible
trip, but finally gets there and they have only one problem. There’s a critter that slaps
their key out of the lock. So the city is walled in and under siege. Basically, what I’m
saying is every place has its problems. We have a lot of crime.’

Seven nodded. Crime didn’t matter.
‘We have alcoholics. We have drug problems. Going to the doctor is cheap, but it

can be a long wait.’

Seven shot him a hard look. ‘None of that would make me not want to go.’

Glad Hands

43

Chuck smiled at his bravery. ‘Just saying it’s going to be different, and more

dangerous than what you’re used to. It’s the price we pay for freedom.’

At that, Seven gave his own smile. ‘Freedom to be myself, that… For that I’ll brave

crime and junkies and anything else. Freedom’s everything.’

Chuck had Seven pull off the Hermann exit. ‘Slow it, slow it down, you’re coming

in too hot, kiddo.’

Seven stepped hard on the brake, and felt the trailer’s momentum pushing him

forward. He remembered the clutch before they stalled. He looked over to see Chuck
clutching the dashboard.

‘Downshift, dammit. Clutch, shift, rev, clutch, shift, what’s so hard?’ Chuck got

louder than Seven had ever heard him and Seven felt his ears getting hot and red. ‘I’m
going to have to replace the gearbox if you keep this up. And we are very damn lucky
we aren’t in the middle of the intersection. Do you know what happens when a truck
hits a car?’ Seven nodded, and wouldn’t look at him.

Chuck ran one hand down his face and took a couple of breaths. ‘Sorry, kiddo. I’m

pushing you a little too hard. Maybe I’d better drive. I get a little antsy when someone
else is handling my girl. And I don’t handle near-accidents well.’ He patted Seven’s
arm. Seven fought not to flinch away from his hand. Some of them would hit him again
for moving away. ‘You’re doing real well for your first day at it.’

They switched seats and Chuck pulled them into an abandoned gas station’s lot. He

parked the truck and drew the curtains. Seven wouldn’t look up from his hands.

‘Seven. I’m sorry. I had no business snapping at you.’ He tipped Seven’s face

around, his hands very gentle. Seven leaned into the touch. ‘I especially have no
business snapping at you when I put you into the situation.’ Chuck kissed him, sweetly
and apologetically.

‘Just don’t change your mind,’ Seven whispered.
Chuck gave him a smile. ‘The only thing I’m changing my mind about is letting you

drive clear to St. Louis. I’m getting too bored there in the passenger seat.’ He kissed
Seven again. ‘Still taking you with me, all the way home.’

Seven nodded, slowly, hoping Chuck really meant it. Chuck stole a third kiss.
‘Who’s been yelling at you, and worse?’
Seven shook his head. ‘No one of any importance.’
Chuck stroked his cheek, clearly unhappy that anyone would hurt Seven. ‘What’d

he do?’

Seven ducked the question. ‘He liked to blow off steam when things didn’t go his

way. The drifter living in the garage was a safer target than the wife and kids. Nobody
ever asks questions about the yard boy’s bruises.’

Chuck nodded. ‘Baby, I get irritated, I’m human. But I will never hurt you on

purpose. Never. Seen enough guys who liked to lead with their fists and I’ve seen the
way their families act around them.’

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44

‘I know you won’t. Guess I’m gun-shy.’
Chuck patted his face and opened the curtains before starting the truck. ‘That’s fine.

You’ll get over it.’

Seven stroked his arm. ‘Thanks.’
Chuck looked at him, a little oddly. ‘For what?’
‘For everything.’ Seven’s gesture took in the truck, the driving and Chuck himself.
Chuck smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’ He navigated them through St. Louis and picked

up International 55. The last two hundred miles to Holland passed cotton fields and
wooded hillsides until Seven yawned with boredom. They stopped in Cape Girardeau
for their last delivery. Seven dozed against the window and heard through his sleep
that Chuck was reduced to counting mile markers.

Car-Mac’s Luckytown was a remnant from Heartland’s early-century flirtation with

casino gambling. The old casino at the Holland exit had been turned into a truckstop
now and the Shell station was still operating. Seven rubbed his eyes as they pulled up
the exit.

‘We’re here. Our home for the night. Come on. I want you to help me drop the

trailer.’

‘Okay.’ Seven gulped the end of the coffee from the thermos bottle.
‘You stinker.’ Chuck grinned.
‘You need a bigger thermos.’
Chuck wiped the rim with mock affront. ‘Take a kid in, feed him, get him out of the

cold, and how does he repay me? Drinks the end of my coffee. Gotta get you your own
thermos.’

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45

Chapter Six

Exit one, Holland, Missouri, was a dingy truckstop with a large parking area. , a

homestyle restaurant with a sagging porch and a little store. A second station crumbled
under the kudzu onslaught. They got out and Chuck walked him through the drop.

‘We’ll drop the trailer, and tomorrow, you can hook the dry van. I get you home,

we’ll find that CDL book and get you licensed.’ He smiled. ‘It’d be nice to have a
partner again, if you wanted.’

Seven shook his head, overwhelmed.
‘I’ll talk to High Chief Mankiller about getting you made a citizen or something.

Shouldn’t be too hard. There’s a few people that don’t like whites at all. And more that
don’t like gays. But being two-spirited is generally honored as long as we keep it
religious.’

‘I’ll take that few over everyone.’ Seven couldn’t believe there was a place where

gay people were considered holy instead of human garbage.

‘Now me, I’m just a dumb truck driver,’ Chuck went on. ‘Never felt a real calling

from the gods. Never had a vision or a spirit animal or any of it. I just participate in all
the dances and sometimes I Dream.’ Seven heard the way Chuck said it as if it were
different from regular night dreams.

‘Can’t wait.’ Seven said it more to his sketch pad than to Chuck.
‘You’re gonna love it.’ Chuck leaned in and whispered, ‘And you’re gonna love

tonight.’

Seven grinned broadly. Then Chuck eased the empty trailer in between two others

and talked Seven through uncoupling procedures.

‘Gear,’ he said, then showed Seven the two stages of the crank, one of which would

get the gear to raise and lower rapidly, the other one moved much slower. ‘Hoses.’ He
showed how the air and electrical lines fastened to the trailer and had Seven take them
off, put them on and remove them again, then hook them to the dummies on the back of
the tractor. ‘Pin.’ He had Seven pull the locking-jaw release on the kingpin.
‘Alphabetical. And coupling is the reverse. Pin, hoses and gear.’

Chuck rolled the tractor forward, stopping while still partially under the trailer to

make sure the landing gear and the parking surface were holding, then he backed the
Hummingbird into a parking spot.

‘We’ll bobtail down to Blytheville tomorrow to hook the load. It’s only about five

miles to our exit.’ Chuck traced it out on the atlas. He pulled a notebook from the
driver’s door pouch. ‘I keep the directions in here.’ He looked them over again. ‘We’re

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

46

done for the day, almost.’ He handed Seven the notebook and some papers. ‘Think you
can fill these out for me?’

Seven looked at the forms, a bill of lading and a delivery receipt. He dutifully

copied the shipper’s name, the consignee’s name and the bill of lading number. ‘Load
number?’ he asked out of the window where Chuck was goosing a last couple of
gallons into the secondary tank.

‘In the notebook, last page.’
Seven found it and carefully transcribed it one digit at a time.
Chuck smiled. ‘You have nice handwriting. Lots better than my chicken scratches.

You want a shower?’

Seven brightened. ‘A real shower? With hot water?’
Chuck nodded. ‘Yeah. All the hot water you want. I need one. Let’s get the

paperwork finished and we’ll have a hot shower and real food for dinner. I’ll bet they
have great fried chicken.’ Seven grabbed his pack, but Chuck caught his hand. ‘You got
anything clean in there?’

When Seven shook his head, embarrassed, Chuck grabbed his own laundry bag

from under the bunk. ‘Okay, change of plan. Laundry during dinner, showers
afterward.’ He stripped the bunk sheets and stuffed them in his bag with the pillow.

Seven looked like he might die of happiness on the spot. Chuck handed him a small

box of detergent while he dug in a compartment and came up with a small round can.
Seven heard the rattle and saw the glint of change inside.

‘Well, damn. No Heartland quarters.’ Chuck shook the change can, shifting the

coins around.

Seven looked at the change can and dug in his pocket. ‘I might have a couple.’
‘I can get change. Hmm, a C.S. quarter.’ The bronze profile of Robert E. Lee stared

up at them. ‘Never been to the C.S. I musta got it in some change.’

‘Laundry, food, shower,’ Seven urged.
Chuck paused a minute and dug in his pocket. ‘I have four keys to the

Hummingbird. One is at home, one is in a magnet case on the back of the cab. One is on
my ring.’ He pulled one from his pocket. ‘And you’re keeping the last for me.’ He
handed it to Seven.

Seven stared as if something rare and priceless had dropped in his hand. ‘I don’t

have a keyring,’ were the only words that came out of his mouth. He cringed at the
banality of them.

‘We’ll get you one inside. You’re earning your keep. And if you decide to give it

back to me the second we hit Sioux Falls, no hard feelings.’

Seven flung his arms around Chuck’s neck and then covered their faces with his

backpack as he kissed Chuck hard. ‘You won’t be sorry.’

Chuck’s grin promised much more interesting activity after dinner. ‘I know I

won’t.’ He got out and led the way to the laundry room. The owner gave him change

Glad Hands

47

for some of the U.S. dollars he carried, after signing him into the visitors’ log and
checking his passport.

‘Hope all your stuff is dark, kiddo.’ Chuck dumped the laundry into the washer,

taking up most of it.

Seven stripped off his jacket and threw it in. He upended his backpack and added

his second pair of jeans, two shirts and underwear and a pair of socks. A bone-handled
switchblade knife clattered onto the white enameled top of the washer, landing on the
button that sent the blade flickering out.

Chuck swore softly in Cherokee. The low syllables made the hair on Seven’s neck

rise. He didn’t grab for the knife, afraid Chuck would see it as a threat. Chuck’s big
hands made the knife vanish into his backpack very fast.

‘Kiddo, this is not a country where someone my color can even think of being in the

same room with a weapon. I want you to stash it in the side-box of the truck when we
get done, hear me?’

Seven looked at him, long and considering. That was not the reaction he’d expected.

Chuck’s face went very stern.

‘Seven, we’re crossing the border tomorrow. Do you want to get me killed?’
Seven swallowed hard. ‘No. It’s just…’
Chuck nodded. ‘I understand. Let’s get this running.’ Seven poured only half the

detergent into the machine. ‘Use it all.’

It sounded like an extravagance, but Seven did and pushed the coins into the

machine. ‘They haven’t been in a washer since the hospital. I’ve washed them in sinks
and dried them on tree limbs.’ He knew it sounded desperate, a blatant attempt to
change the subject. As he shut the washer lid, he could see Chuck wasn’t buying it. He
didn’t want Chuck to think he was some sort of psycho, and he especially didn’t want
to get stranded here at the southernmost part of Heartland.

Chuck leaned on the washer and looked down at Seven. ‘Look, I’m not saying get

rid of it. I’m just saying stash it away so the border patrol won’t decide the colored boy
is getting above himself if they search the truck, okay?’

Seven shouldered his pack. ‘I guess you can be my weapon if someone comes after

me.’

Chuck grinned. ‘Damn straight. I’m a really peaceable sort of guy, though. Let’s go

eat.’

‘Best offer I’ve heard all day.’ Seven followed Chuck to the restaurant.
The pretty buxom girl, her dark hair back in a ponytail, brought water and

silverware and menus. ‘Daddy says it’s on the house.’ She nodded toward the owner.
‘We treat special drivers right.’ She smiled at them.

‘Two fried chicken dinners, please, Suzi,’ Chuck said, reading her nametag. ‘Iced

tea, no sugar.’

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48

She looked at Seven. He nodded. ‘Tea for me too.’ She came back in a few minutes

with cornbread sticks and the tea. Seven sipped his with a look of rapture. ‘So good.’ He
tried not to gobble the hot, buttery cornbread, but the breadbasket emptied very
quickly.

Suzi brought their dinners, three pieces of chicken fried to a golden brown, mashed

potatoes with gravy, green beans and carrots. She set a piece of pecan pie in front of
each man and picked up the breadbasket.

‘I’ll bring more tea too. You haven’t been stopping for meals, I guess.’
Chuck shot her a flirtatious smile. ‘We were in too big a hurry to get here and see

your pretty smile.’ Seven smiled at her, his mouth too full of green beans to talk.

She came back soon with more cornbread and tea. Seven made sure his mouth was

empty. He’d already finished two pieces of chicken and was working on the last of the
carrots.

‘It’s all really good, miss,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
When she left, Chuck gave him a private smile, slipped his last chicken leg onto

Seven’s plate and got up. ‘Eat up. I’m going to move the laundry to the dryer before
dessert. And don’t you dare touch my pie.’

By the time he returned, Seven had cleaned his plate and the breadbasket and was

starting on his pie. Suzi came by and both men took decaffeinated coffee.

‘We’re all set,’ Chuck said, setting a couple of keys on the table. ‘We’ll eat our pie

and then fuel the Hummingbird. By then, the clothes will be done and we can shower.’

Seven ate slowly, the pie’s sweet crunch sending his mouth into raptures. ‘It’s been

ages since I had pie.’ He leaned over the table and whispered, ‘Take me and I’ll die
happy.’

Chuck winked. He ate his own pie and sipped at his coffee. ‘Pick-up is first thing in

the morning. Take as long as you want in the shower. I’ll let you in and drop your
clothes off when they’re dry.’

Seven felt himself getting hard at the idea and hitched his napkin a little higher.

‘I’ve got soap. Promise I won’t drop it.’

Chuck frowned at that, so Seven stopped teasing. They weren’t safe yet. Chuck

tipped the waitress and Seven followed him to the shower rooms. Chuck let him into
number two.

A real, hot water shower. Seven hadn’t had one since he was twelve and had spent

the night at the house of a friend who had city water. His parents still had a well, and
baths were allowed to be an inch deep, no more. Showers at the hospital had all been
cold and fast, taken under the watchful eyes of trustees who took advantage of the
situation as often as not. Even the shower at the lake cabin, with Bruce— He stopped
the thought again. He’d washed from hoses and sinks all summer.

Glad Hands

49

He turned the water to a comfortably hot setting and basked in it. He rubbed the

soap in his hair and then all over. He was rinsing for a second time when he heard
Chuck knock.

‘Your clothes.’ He saw a flash of Chuck’s arm, reaching around the door. Smart

man, to avoid the appearance of impropriety. Seven had no doubt Chuck’s face was
stolidly turned away from the open door.

Seven did one more scrub, feeling really clean for the first time in over a year. He

toweled off and put on clean clothes, enjoying even that simple pleasure. He could get
used to being with Chuck very quickly.

He slipped out to the truck and grabbed Chuck’s thermos, thinking it would be a

nice surprise to fill it up. He waited behind a snack-cake display while the pot of coffee
brewed.

‘Yeah, it is nice. Too nice for the likes of him. You see him sneak that look at his

trainee? Not just colored but one of those.’

Seven ducked lower, wishing the coffee would finish quickly.
‘Shoot, if the kid can drive, he’ll probably thank us. Suzi said the big guy runs the

whole show, even ordering his food. I betcha they’re outta the C.S. and the kid’s
indentured. Maybe he’d work for us if we put the other one out of the way.’ The
younger man scratched his ginger hair and looked at his friend.

The older man grinned and picked up a tire thumper off the hanging peg, handing

it to Ginger-hair. ‘I think we can help the kid and help ourselves. Gettin dark. Coloreds
ain’t allowed out after dark in Arkansas. And the sheriff down in Blytheville owes me a
favor. I found a husband for his ugly daughter.’

Ginger-hair laughed and nodded. His smile showed not enough tobacco stained

teeth. ‘We gonna tell the sheriff?’

Seven watched in horror, rooted to the spot as the men slipped out to where Chuck

was finishing the post-trip inspection. Chuck couldn’t see their approach through the
hood. By the time Seven could move, they had already laid Chuck out on the pavement.
The older one pulled up in a pickup and they threw Chuck into the bed.

Seven had the presence of mind to watch which direction they went as they left.

South along C.S. 61, to Blytheville, exactly as they had planned. He took a deep breath,
collected the thermos without the coffee and went to the truck. He closed the hood,
making sure to latch it down. Something red on the pavement caught his eye and he
found Chuck’s wallet. The money was gone, but all his ID remained in there. Seven
pocketed it. He knew he couldn’t pass for Chuck if anyone really looked, but most
people only saw an ID and went on.

The first order of business was to make sure the thieves didn’t find the truck or him.

Then he needed to get the load, get Chuck and get gone.

He stifled the panic that welled in him and opened the notebook. He could drive

this. Chuck had taught him. Bobtailing seven miles would be nothing.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

50

He needed the directions to the pick-up point. Chuck wouldn’t want to spend any

time getting his load and they might have to make a hasty exit. And Chuck was the
honorable sort who wouldn’t leave without his load. He found the dispatch orders and
memorized the directions until he could repeat them. He was sure they’d make more
sense when he got off the exit. To do this right, he had to take the International, not the
C.S. highway. He bit his lip at the thought, torn between following the kidnappers and
doing the run properly. He decided he could find the sheriff once he the load.

Load, Chuck and run for it. His very pulse seemed to hammer it like a warning. He

knew he wouldn’t get any sleep that night.

Glad Hands

51

Chapter Seven

First, he had to keep the Hummingbird out of the hands of the thieves. He knew

they’d rifle Chuck’s pockets for the keys. He held his own key tightly before inserting it.

The truck started for him and he looked over all the gauges. Carefully, he put the

clutch and brake in and then put the truck into third gear. He drove slowly out of the
gas station, not wanting to be noticed.

He took the exit and headed south. The tractor alone was very overpowered and

Seven steered nervously as he goosed it up to highway speed. He hoped he could spend
the night at the dropyard Chuck told him about in Blytheville. The C.S. border guard
waved him through when he flashed Chuck’s orders.

He got off on the exit and followed the directions through town. He saw the police

station, but knew he couldn’t do anything there. He had considered using the truck to
break down the wall and bust Chuck out, just like the movies, but he knew most
vehicles were mainly fiberglass and he knew it would never break the solid rock walls
of the jail. All he’d accomplish would be destroying the truck and sharing Chuck’s cell.

He turned at Broadway, pleased he didn’t have a trailer to navigate around the

corner. The old man at the post office was lowering the C.S. flag and the Arkansas flag
as he passed. He turned in at the yard with the storage tanks and steel barn. Just as he
had hoped, the cotton trailer stood ready.

He tried to remember how Chuck had taught him to hook. ‘Reverse alphabet,’ he

whispered. He backed the tractor under the trailer, in slow, hesitant rolls, waiting for
the clunk of the kingpin lock. When he heard it, he breathed deeply and relaxed a little.

He took the flashlight from the door pouch and went back to check. He squeezed

the light and then shone the resulting beam up at the fifth-wheel jaws. He smiled.
Locked nice and tight.

Breathing a little easier now, Seven attached the hoses and electrical line. The

landing gear cranked up slowly and his arm ached before he remembered what Chuck
had told him about the second speed of the crank. Once he found the high gear, the
trailer’s supports came up easily.

He crawled back in the cab, certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He’d get the

paperwork first thing in the morning. He’s accomplished the load part of his three-part
plan.

He curled up in the double bunk, smelling Chuck on the pillow under the

detergent. The scent soothed him even while it made him sad. He wasn’t supposed to
be spending the night alone in an abandoned dropyard. He was supposed to be

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52

snuggled up to Chuck, finally getting a taste of the gorgeous cock he’d handled this
morning.

The morning seemed a million years ago. Despite his worry, Seven’s exhausted

body fell asleep. He dreamed of Chuck.

The grassy meadow is a bowl under the summer sun. The pine trees and wild flowers make

everything smell fresh and clean. He’s lying out, naked on his old favorite blanket, the one with
the horses, soaking up all the sun his pale skin can take. Chuck is equally naked as he walks out

from the shadow of the forest, his long black hair loose, his smile white and his cock hard and
bobbing with each step he takes toward Seven and the blanket.

Seven can’t do anything but watch as Chuck sits down beside him and leans over for a kiss.

He gives it eagerly enough, and buries them both in Chuck’s hair, kissing his whole face.

‘Seven,’ Chuck says, turning the silly name into something sensual and loving. He strokes

Seven’s cock, closing one hand around it easily. ‘I want you.’

Seven smiles at Chuck, running one pale hand over his gorgeous coppery skin. ‘So

handsome.’

Chuck kisses him then, slow and deep, before lying beside him to hold and kiss him more.

Their cocks rub together, hard and satiny, with drops of wetness easing their glide past each

other. Seven wants to taste Chuck, but Chuck is already rolling him away, cradling him in

strong arms.

Seven rocks against Chuck’s cock, which lies along the crack of his ass. Now and then it

bumps his opening, sending chills of wanting through him.

Chuck works him with two slick fingers, making him moan and beg and whimper. His other

hand has never left Seven’s cock.

‘Come for me, kiddo,’ Chuck whispers, teasing something inside that makes Seven’s whole

nervous system explode right along with his cock.

He watches as Chuck brings his hand up to taste the sticky mess he’s made. He doesn’t

hesitate to do the same when Chuck offers to share.

‘Taste good. I’m going to make love to you, Seven. Not fuck you. Not even screw you.

Gonna show you how much I love you and treat you like you always should have been.’ Seven
gasps at those words, barely daring to believe. Chuck presses against him, slick, gentle, easing his

way in.

There is no pain as there always has been before. There is no shame or guilt. There is only

Chuck, holding him close, whispering of love and desire in English and Cherokee.

Seven startles as he gets hard again. Chuck keeps moving, handling him like he’s something

rare and treasured.

‘Are you ready, baby?’ Chuck whispers. ‘I’m going to fill you up. Make you all mine, inside

and out.’

‘Yes,’ Seven whispers back. ‘Yes, please.’

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53

Chuck presses deep and stiffens before going bonelessly limp. Warm wetness spreads over

Seven’s back and hair. Heavy steps, shoes he recognizes, and Seven is looking up at his father,

who aims a silenced revolver at him.

‘Pervert. Abomination. Filth. You broke your mother’s heart with your sickness. The least I

can do is stop you from practicing your twisted ways out in the open, in front of God and
everybody.’ He nudges Seven with the workboot. ‘Get up on your knees.’

‘Dad, please.’
‘I don’t have a son. My son died of pneumonia in Peaceful Valley Hospital.’
Seven shudders at the name of the facility that stole years of his life trying to cure him. He

gets up on his knees, incapable of disobeying the paternal order. The gun that killed Chuck
hovers in front of his mouth. He turns his face away.

‘Suck it, you sick little monster. Suck it like you sucked the mayor’s son.’
Seven shudders again. Only Bruce, the mayor’s son, the mayor, his dad and two bodyguards

knew the whole story of how he was caught on his knees, sucking Bruce’s cock, to the eternal
mortification of the mayor’s family. They had sent him, with his father’s full consent, on a one-
way trip to Peaceful Valley.

Seven takes the gun barrel into his mouth. He hears the click of the hammer—loud in his

ears—as his father prepares to blow his head off.

Seven opened his eyes, thrashing for something familiar. In a moment, he

remembered he was in the Hummingbird’s sleeper and that he had to save Chuck. He
glanced at the clock. Three in the morning. He burrowed into the pillow that still
smelled of Chuck, but knew he wouldn’t get any more sleeping done.

After a while, he pulled out the onboard atlas and navigation software and played

with it until dawn, getting a good picture of Blytheville and their route out of the C.S.
He’d walk over to the jail in the morning. He had no idea how to get Chuck out.

* * * * *

Chuck woke up to a pounding head and stomach that felt like he’d eaten one too

many pork chops at two a.m. during the Stomp Dance, heavy, oily and very unstable.

The last thing he remembered was putting the oil dipstick back. He looked around.

Gray stones walls, concrete floor, barred window and door, iron cot. He’d never been in
jail, but he watched movies like everyone else. So, he’d been knocked silly and dumped
in jail. He couldn’t figure out the how or why.

It didn’t really matter. He had to get out. He sat up, feeling at the tender goose egg

behind his ear. His stomach rebelled at the motion and the cell spun.

‘If you sick, you gonna mop it up,’ said a slow, soft voice from the hall. An elderly

black man, leaning on a push broom, looked in at him. ‘You an Indian, right? Sheriff
says you a pervert too. I ain’t moppin’ no puke all fulla disease.’

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54

‘I’m not going to puke.’ Chuck tried to sound more sure of that fact than he was.

‘Chuck Hummingbird. Where am I, other than jail?’

‘Blytheville.’ It sounded like ‘bly-vul’. The old man shrugged. ‘Sheriff sending you

to Birmingham at first light. Fresh meat for the Stoneyard.’

‘Ridiculous. I can’t be executed. I haven’t even been tried.’
The old man laughed. ‘Boy, you surely ain’t from here. Judge done heard your case.

Two witnesses, two white witnesses, say you getting nasty with a white boy. That all it
takes. You gettin’ the rocks, boy.’ He slid his push broom on down the hall.

Chuck looked out the window and saw the first fingers of light to the east. Not long

left. He got comfortable on the bunk and prayed softly in Cherokee until the sheriff
rattled the bars.

‘You ain’t the next musical sensation, boy,’ he laughed.
‘I was praying,’ Chuck said, standing up, very carefully.
‘Yeah? Well tell your Great Spirit you’re a-coming to see him real soon…in Hell!’

He laughed and tossed a pair of handcuffs through the bars. ‘Put these on, behind your
back.’

Chuck saw no recourse other than to obey. The sheriff checked the cuffs and then

unlocked the cell. He tapped Chuck’s shoulder with his nightstick.

‘Got no qualms about breaking parts of you, sodomite.’
‘No, of course not.’ Chuck didn’t mean for it to sound sarcastic, but the sheriff took

it so. He landed a hard tap on Chuck’s upper arm, sending a wave of pain from
shoulder to wrist when he hit the nerve plexus.

‘That’s your only warning. Keep your mouth shut, big chief, and we won’t have no

more trouble.’

Outside the jail, Chuck ducked into the fortified police car. The young deputy

stared at him, his blue-gray eyes tired and washed out, like his lank pale hair and
sallow face.

‘Birmingham, Stevens. And don’t be lollygagging on the way. He’s not got too

much fight in him, but that might change.’ The sheriff counted out a few brownish tan
bills. ‘Buy some lunch on the way, but don’t unlock him. Feed him if you have to.’

Stevens nodded. ‘Yes, sir, Sheriff.’ He started the car and the unmistakable smell of

frying permeated the air. Waste vegetable oil engine, Chuck decided, hoping he
wouldn’t gag on the fumes before they got to Birmingham.

Chuck rode silently in the back of the cruiser. The waste-oil engine made it much

like riding inside a rancid French fry. Even the cop had opened both front windows for
air. It didn’t help much, October being warm and muggy. The ones in the back didn’t
go down, of course.

The Arkansas delta unrolled even more singularly boring than the drive from St.

Louis. Flat fields, crumbling shacks, ancient equipment out harvesting cotton and rice,
as the residents had for three hundred years. Chuck watched black women, some with

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babies tied to their backs, some with toddlers helping them, picking up scraps of cotton
that littered the roadside, blown off trucks. One, her bag full, headed across the fields to
a gray, weathered barn.

Stevens punched buttons on the radio, the two-way turned down to a low hiss of

static. He flipped through a male soloist, a men’s choir, a traffic report for Memphis, a
preacher inveighing against immodesty in women, the news, a men’s quartet, more
news and another preacher reading from Ezekiel. The cop turned it off.

Chuck looked up to catch the glance the cop shot him in the mirror, hungry, fearful,

appraising and disgusted, all at once. Chuck knew that look. He’d seen it on other two-
spirit men from repressive countries. He pitied the officer. If life for Seven had been bad
in Heartland, he could only imagine how much worse it was here, with the threat of
death hanging over every look, every touch, every encounter.

Chuck had a bad feeling he knew what was about to happen. The officer would

take him someplace really private and demand to be serviced, either by promising
Chuck his freedom or by threatening to shoot him on the spot. Chuck almost smiled.
Not that being shot would be so bad.

‘Somethin’ funny?’ the cop asked.
‘Just a thought,’ Chuck said.
‘Shut your—’ the cop shut his own mouth very fast. After he swallowed, he

finished, ‘Mouth.’

Chuck filled in the various epithets, his race, his parentage, his hygiene, his

orientation. From the pallor of the cop’s face, he figured it was the last one.

He was unsurprised when the car pulled off in West Memphis. An overgrown road

led to a pine stand behind the derelict dog-track. It turned into a mud track. Chuck
noticed the track wasn’t as overgrown as the rest, the weeds not window-high as they
were outside the car, but only up to the bumper.

The track terminated among a bunch of tumbledown shacks, the remnants of the

kennels where the racing greyhounds had lived in the early part of the century. No
dogs had lived here since the balkanization and the closing of the track and casino.

The officer got out and helped Chuck out of the backseat.
‘Do you always bring condemned sodomites here for a quick blowjob?’ Chuck

asked, making a fast decision. He could live with the memory of an unwanted
encounter if he lived through this. He could not live with the memory that a cop had
raped him, not on top of everything else. There had to be a way to get the upper hand in
this little nightmare.

‘Shut up.’ Stevens looked at him with loathing. ‘You don’t have any idea what it’s

like here. So just shut up.’

Chuck could make some good guesses, based on the ramblings of the Mormon kids

he sometimes found cast out in northern Idaho. He fed them, listened to them all the

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

56

way across Idaho and Washington and turned them over to the community center,
where the GLBT youth shelter took care of them.

‘Every time, you promise yourself it’s the last. You’re never going to do it again,’ he

started softly. He had to keep control of the situation. He could handle making the
choice to blow the officer. He couldn’t even think of being forced. ‘And you watch them
stone the guy, and know you should be there too. Then you’re good for weeks, maybe
months. Until men start creeping back into your dreams. Then your showers. Then,
when a sodomite comes along, you need it so badly you can’t help yourself.’

Chuck watched his soft words hit the cop like palpable blows. He dropped to his

knees, wincing as his shins complained from the ground. The cop stood, eyes squeezed
shut, fists clenched, face to the sky, as if praying to a God he believed didn’t hear him at
all. Chuck worked his way over to where the cop stood, almost aching for the boy—not
much older than Seven—reduced to coercing condemned prisoners.

Chuck opened the cop’s fly with his teeth. The cop slapped him.
‘Don’t. I ain’t your ‘boyfriend’,’ the last word came out sneered and harsh. ‘I don’t

want your pity.’

Chuck looked up. ‘Not my pity. A gift. A gift between us. A willing partner for

you.’ He paused and didn’t say, ‘A last good act for me.’ He thought about what the
cop would expect to hear. ‘A last taste for me. The only gift I have to give, a pleasure
given of my own desire and not because you threatened or bribed.’

Stevens looked at the sky again and Chuck thought he saw tears on the cop’s cheeks

as he whispered, ‘Yes.’ The cop finished fishing his cock out and Chuck sighed softly as
he licked along the shaft.

The cop’s hands settled in his hair, resting, occasionally stroking. Chuck thought

about Seven, hoped he was all right, hoped he’d had sense to take the bobtail and run
for the Tribal Lands and Pacifica. He put thoughts of the blue-eyed boy out of his mind
as he sucked, keeping his mouth gentle, making it one of the sweetest he’d given. It hurt
to do this on a coercive foreigner when he’d rather do it for Seven, but he remembered
the boy before him was not much different, only more capable of hiding the fact he was
asegi. Seven had loved and paid for it.

Stevens came very quickly. He stood looking down in wonder as Chuck swallowed

and then took a deep breath before pulling away as if Chuck’s mouth had burned him.
He zipped fast and yanked Chuck to his feet.

Chuck kept the same soft tone he’d used clear through. ‘Go north on 65 after you

leave me in Birmingham. Leave the cruiser on the Tennessee side of the line so you’re
not stealing it. Walk into Kentucky. The U.S. will let you live free and without the fear.’

‘You make it sound so easy,’ the cop sneered as he pushed Chuck into the backseat.

‘I got a wife. I got two babies. Who’s gonna take care of them if I go running off all
selfish-like? That’s all this is. Selfishness I should have outgrown a long time ago.’ He
started the car.

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57

They swung through the drive-thru and the cop ordered a nutrition shake for

Chuck, which he could drink without removing the handcuffs. Chuck sipped the nasty
faux-chocolate thing and noticed the boy wasn’t eating his own meal.

Outside the window, Memphis decayed from I-55 and all the way down I-22.

Skeletal semi-trailers behind rusting fences told of the once-vital transportation hub.
Chuck sipped at the shake, not wanting it. The city gave way to rolling hills and piney
woods, but Chuck’s heart wasn’t in the looking.

He hoped he’d saved Seven. He wished he could help the cop. There were no more

glances in the rearview, but Chuck wasn’t looking there either.

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Chapter Eight

Seven tried to look casual as he sauntered into the Blytheville Police Station. He had

left the truck parked down at the cotton storage silos, five blocks away with Chuck’s
cargo safely loaded. He’d signed the paperwork, forging Chuck’s name on the line.

‘Morning, Officer,’ he said, glancing down to make sure his work gloves and watch

on his right wrist covered the tattoo. ‘Heard ya got an Indian in. Never saw a live one.’

‘This ain’t a zoo, sonny. ‘Sides, that one’s gone. Sent him to Birmingham not an

hour ago. They’ve got his execution time blocked on tomorrow’s TV already. Lots of
‘em going down tomorrow. We ain’t the U.S., where they treat garbage like that better
‘n real people.’ He clicked over and showed the schedule to Seven.

‘Well, rats.’ Seven was careful not to swear. ‘Looks like I just get to watch him on

TV. Boy, I wish I could go down to Birmingham and see it.’

‘Long way down. Three hundred miles and more.’ The sheriff made it sound like

the far side of the moon, and Seven hid a smile. He’d done almost five hundred with
Chuck yesterday. ‘I love watching the executions at the big ol’ stadium. They got those
rock-throwers in a couple years ago. Just like the pitching machine for the batting cages,
‘cept the criminals don’t get no bats and they’s about ten of them pitching all at once.’
The officer looked lost in contemplation.

Seven tried not to gag. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to weep. Instead he said,

‘Yeah, that’d be something to see. Thanks, Officer.’ He ambled out of the building as if
he had nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there. Every impulse
screamed at him to run, to get the truck, to save Chuck.

He walked back to the Hummingbird and dug out Chuck’s C.S. atlas. He could

almost hear Chuck saying, ‘Plan your run, then run your plan.’ He had until nine
tomorrow morning. That’s when they’d take Chuck to the Stoneyard and the pitching
machines would start.

‘All right. International 55 to Memphis is seventy miles,’ he mumbled, writing it

down. Seven had always had trouble with numbers and if he didn’t write it down, he’d
lose it for sure. ‘Then I-22 to Birmingham, looks like a straight shot.’

He flipped to the mileage chart and traced the grid, Memphis on the side,

Birmingham on the top. 245 miles. And the roads were all four-lane according to the
key. He had no idea where the Stoneyard would be.

He looked at the Mississippi map. The Birmingham inset showed—miracle to end

all miracles—the Stoneyard was where I-22 crossed International 20-59, right before 22
ran into C.S. 11. The little red square labeled ‘C.S.A. Stoneyard’ sat in the triangle of the
roads, and he wanted to kiss the horrid thing for being labeled and being on his map.

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59

He took a deep breath and felt all his confidence go. He’d hated math and he had

the sinking feeling he always got when the teacher had announced a timed
multiplication test, but more rode on this than just a ten-point quiz. In fact, Chuck’s life
was riding on his math skills. That thought left his stomach knotted until he almost
wanted to climb out and barf.

He took a drink of water to quell his rebellious stomach, but ended up climbing out

to vomit behind the drive tires anyway. He felt better afterward and rinsed his mouth.
His hands shook so violently, he almost dropped the water bottle.

He very slowly added the seventy and two hundred and forty-five miles and came

up with three fifteen as the cop had said. The stoning machines in his head made the
‘ka-chunk’ pitching noise he remembered from batting cages in Little League. Three
hundred miles. Chuck had told him it took an hour to go two hundred miles. No, wait,
that couldn’t be right. He heard the phantom ‘ka-chunk’ again.

He hit his head to clear it. Mom had always gotten on him about that. She said it

made him look like a crazy person. One hundred miles in two hours, that was it. He
looked and saw he had three hundred miles to go. So three times two made…he
hesitated a moment. Six hours.

He had six hours to drive. Maybe seven if Memphis and Birmingham had bad

traffic. He looked at the Memphis map. He’d pick up I-22 where it crossed I-55 and go
like—he grinned—like a hummingbird out of Hell.

He could do this. 55 to 22 and then into Birmingham. He walked around the truck,

checking the tires and the kingpin latch. He didn’t want a blowout or the trailer falling
off.

He sat down in the driver’s seat and pressed the clutch and brake, just like Chuck

had said. He turned the key. Chuck had fueled before they took him, and Seven was
very glad of that. He put the shifter in third, pushed in the brake knobs, eased off the
clutch…and promptly stalled.

‘Shit!’ He turned the key again, starting the engine. This time he remembered to let

off the brake first, then the clutch. The truck rolled to the street and he turned it hard
onto Broadway, praying desperately not to hit the big wooden pole in the front with his
tractor or the one in the back with his trailer. He skinned by, barely breathing.

He rolled up to the four-way stop and turned left, easing around the corner. He had

to stop for a train and forgot the clutch when he braked, stalling it again.

‘Come on, girl,’ he pleaded. ‘You don’t do this for Chuck.’
When the train passed, he started the engine again, and putted out of town in sixth

gear. No other cars on the road harassed him as he took the serpentine curves leading
out of downtown and the second one leading to the highway. He found them narrow
and distressing, but kept himself under control.

He took the crumbling exit and made sure he drove southbound on I-55. He walked

up the gears, slowly, almost too nervous to accelerate. They shifted easily, just like

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60

Chuck had shown him. Finally at seventy, he turned on the cruise. He had an hour to
Memphis. An hour of unrelieved cotton and rice and shacks in the fields.

Exits passed by. Luxora, Victoria. Osceola. A boarded-up rest area. Then Marked

Tree, Gilman and Jonesboro. The numbers on the green posts grew smaller, the sixties,
and fifties and forties dropping to the twenties and teens. A long gray limousine flashed
past him.

He flinched, realizing the driver must be doing ninety or a hundred. He took the

curve at West Memphis very carefully and followed the split. ‘High Loads Prohibited’
the sign read, and he hoped the clearance reached 13’6’ or Chuck’d be mad. But he
rolled onto the bridge without mishap, doing his best to ignore the wide expanse of
water beneath him.

He slowed on the bridge, seeing the sign that said ‘curve 45 mph’. Chuck had said

something about curves… Seven thought hard and tried to remember it. ‘The speed
limit is for the four-wheelers. You take it ten miles slower.’ He slowed and heard the
engine lagging. Oh shit. Downshifting. Seven had been terrible at downshifting, unable
to get the clutch, shift, rev, clutch, shift pattern.

He stepped on the clutch and knocked it out of tenth. Then he stomped the gas and

clutch together, trying to ram it into ninth. He was so busy shifting that he almost
scraped the side of the curve.

The exit said ‘25 mph’ and Seven wanted to cry. He felt his stomach clutch and his

eyes sting, but he put on the turn signal and stepped on the brake again.

A little scream escaped him as the truck slowed and the engine sounded funny

again. He shook himself. Chuck wouldn’t scream or cry. He tried for eighth gear and it
wouldn’t go in. But he got it into seventh and took the curve at twenty miles an hour,
his palms sweating and his arms board-straight holding the wheel. He locked his
elbows to keep his hands from shaking.

Once on the highway, he breathed again and started speeding up, upshifting more

easily. All the bridges were labeled 14’, which made him more comfortable. He had to
slow again for the I-22 exit, and that left him sweaty, with his jaw clenched and tears on
his face.

He relaxed a little once on 22, knowing that road would take him straight to

Birmingham. Seven set the cruise at highway speed and wiped his face with a hand that
shook so hard he dropped the tissue.

‘I’m coming, Chuck,’ he whispered.
Five hours of driving, he thought, swallowing hard again. He could do it. He held it

steady between the lines and listened to the wind whistle past. Mississippi rolled past,
all red clay hills and pines. He didn’t pay any attention.

There were fewer vehicles on the road than there had been in Heartland, but that

suited him fine. Once, he pressed the play button on the radio and brought up the
music Chuck had been listening to. An old-fashioned-sounding male voice talked about

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61

‘if they buried all the truckers lost in those woods, there’d be a tombstone every mile’.
Seven shut it off fast, not wanting the bad luck.

Out of habit, his lips formed a little prayer, although he knew God didn’t listen to

him anymore. Maybe Chuck’s gods would.

Birmingham lay nestled in a valley of wooded hills barely turning orange. The

scenery looked gorgeous, but all Seven could do was worry about the curves. He found
the exit he’d memorized and managed to make it up the ramp, letting gravity slow him
and actually managing one good downshift.

Heartened, he pulled into the lot of the former sports arena, now the Stoneyard, and

shut the Hummingbird down. He did the walk-around like Chuck had taught him. It
was midafternoon. The executions were first thing in the morning.

He climbed back in the cab and stared at the food locker, trying to decide if he

wanted anything. He left it alone and stretched out on the bunk, trying to figure out
how to get Chuck out.

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Chapter Nine

Seven woke to a rapping on the Hummingbird’s window. The sky outside gleamed

rose and gold in the twilight. He sat up, groaning at the ache in his chest and legs.
Everything hurt from unaccustomed exertion. His left knee felt badly used from the
clutching and his whole chest hurt like a heart attack.

‘You can’t park that here, Mr. Hummingbird.’ The security guard shone his light on

Chuck’s name stenciled on the side of the truck. He looked up at Seven’s face.
‘Hummingbird?’

‘Don’t you have Cranes or Birds in this part of the country?’ Seven was tempted to

duck as his smart mouth let that slip, but didn’t.

The guard nodded. ‘Yeah, got a few. Never thought of that. So you still can’t park

here, unless you’re wanting to haul for the procession tomorrow.’

Inspiration hit Seven like a tire thumper.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. It was a long drive over, but I just had to

see the show. Sorry, I’m still not quite awake.’

‘It’s all right. So, Brother Chuck, I’ll send someone around to sign you up in the

morning.’ The guard strolled off.

Seven lay back in the sleeper, amazed at how fast he’d gone from being Mr.

Hummingbird to Brother Chuck. He laughed. They thought he was Chuck. As if
anyone could mistake little scrawny him for the big handsome Cherokee. The
procession. If he remembered right, the C.S. paraded its condemned prisoners through
the streets before executing them, kind of as an object lesson. He could drive it. He
knew he could.

Then he’d find a way to get to Chuck and get him out. He dozed off and woke at

the first light coming in through the windshield. He put on clean clothes and deodorant,
combed his hair, used a beard-wipe and tried not to look nervous when the C.S. police
officer came up.

‘You Chuck Hummingbird? I understand you want to pull for the procession.’
‘Yes, Officer.’ Seven wasn’t exactly lying. He did want to drive.
‘All right, Brother Chuck. We’re putting you second in line. That’s the sodomite

cage. It can get a mite hairy, since people get riled about ‘em and throw stuff. Can you
handle it?’

Seven’s heart sang. ‘Yes, sir, Officer.’ This was too perfect. He’d had a huge stroke

of luck. He hoped one of Chuck’s gods was responsible or there would be a big ugly
payback later.

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‘All righty. Be at the front gate, bobtail, at seven thirty sharp. You can drop your

load back in C lot. Glad to have you along, Brother Chuck.’ He handed up a clipboard
with some papers.

Seven signed the contract stating he understood the route and would not hold the

C.S. prison authority responsible for any damage to his truck or person. The officer
handed him fifty C.S. dollars, and a map of the route. It was only about two miles long.

‘There’s fifty more after you unload. Our little way of saying thanks. We have coffee

and doughnuts for the drivers too, up at the gate.’

Seven stared at the money and studied the map, drinking tepid coffee from the

thermos while keeping an eye on the clock. At seven, he shoved the money in Chuck’s
wallet and took the cotton trailer back to C lot.

Carefully, remembering everything Chuck had taught him and all he’d learned

doing this last night, he dropped the trailer and bobtailed to the front gate.

Two other tractors were parked there and Seven put the Hummingbird in next to

them. A youngish balding blond man drank coffee, while the older man, gray and thin,
helped himself to another doughnut. Seven got himself some hot coffee. His stomach
couldn’t face the doughnuts or corn muffins. A single whiff had been enough to make it
flop dangerously.

‘Kinda young to own a rig, ain’t cha?’ the older driver asked, picking up another

muffin.

‘Old enough.’ Seven scowled and took another drink of coffee, wincing at the thick

chicory-laced taste of it.

‘Well, Old Enough, you’re in for it.’ The young driver washed down his doughnut

as a fourth bobtail pulled up. ‘They always make an owner drive the sodomites. Nothin’
rouses the crowd like butt bandits. Most company drivers can’t take that kind of risk
with company equipment.’

Seven stuffed a bite of muffin he didn’t really want into his face to keep his smart

mouth shut. He watched the convicts brought out from the holding cells under the
Stoneyard. Dressed in scarlet, thin and ill-fitting, the convicts’ demeanor belied the
bright colors. They shuffled in the thong sandals, ankle-chained in coffles, to the trailer
marked ‘1’ where a guard unchained them one by one as they entered. Two more at the
door with cattle prods kept them from making a bid for freedom.

Seven watched as one desperate man slammed his shoulder into the guard with the

keys and wrested his prod away from him. He attacked the other guards before
running. The guards twitched for a minute and then radioed for help. Two more
emerged from the Stoneyard and shot at him, taking him down with a leg shot. The key
guard stayed put, catching his breath while the others shocked the convict into
unconsciousness. Even after the only motion he made was the jerk as each jolt hit him,
they kept zapping him. Two of them dragged the limp body back to the cage and threw
it in.

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‘Well, Old Enough, that’s some excitement for you,’ said the old driver. ‘Don’t allus

get a runner. He’s prolly dead, but they’ll stone him to be sure.’ Two more drivers had
joined them and nodded agreement.

Seven spotted Chuck in the second coffle. He shuffled, his chained ankles making

any other motion impossible. But while it looked broken on the others, he made each
step as deliberate as a dance. He held his head high and his mouth moved. Seven
suspected he was singing.

Various whispered slurs ran through the crowd of drivers, each making Seven

cringe.

‘Take a long look, Old Enough,’ said the younger driver. ‘That’s something none of

us will likely see again. Ain’t no more Indians around here. All of ‘em went to the Tribal
Lands because they’re godless heathens who wouldn’t accept the Lord’s way of doing
things.’ The other drivers muttered agreement and he pointed the end of his doughnut
at Chuck. ‘Lookit him, singin’ like a savage. Ain’t humane to execute mud people, I say.
Wouldn’t execute a dog, it wouldn’t understand. They don’t understand no more ‘n a
dog. Oughta just put ‘em down quiet like the animals they are. Execution like this is a
death for them as know what they done wrong.’

Seven stopped listening. He wanted to slug the young driver. Instead, he watched

Chuck walk up the ramp. He saw Chuck say ‘thank you’ as the guard unshackled him.
Chuck walked into the cage, head still high.

When Chuck saw the Hummingbird in with the other rigs, he smiled and sought

out Seven in the crowd of drivers. He gave Seven a quick smile and went back to
singing to the rising sun.

‘All right, drivers. Hook your trailers and pull around to the gate.’ The guard

checked the tally list. ‘Follow the prescribed route through the city, come back here,
drop your trailer right by entrance D of the building and collect your other fifty. Older
drivers, keep your eyes open, we got a couple new kids this week. Channel 650 on your
radios, but keep the chatter to a minimum. Let us know if they get feisty. That little
escape attempt may put some fire in ‘em. We’ve got extra officers on the route.’

Seven climbed into the Hummingbird and hooked trailer two. He tried to make the

kingpin latch maneuver as gentle as possible. Chuck caught him as he cranked the gear.

‘I’ve got the load and I’ll get you out,’ Seven whispered.
‘Good kid.’
Seven found the radio and turned it to channel 650. He heard other drivers

chitchatting as they lined up. He had no idea which button to press to talk. He was
relatively sure it wasn’t the blue one marked ‘Dispatch’ or the red one marked
‘Brkdown’. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have anything to say to these people.

‘Hurry it up, Old Enough. You’re out the gate next. You tell us if them perverts start

to rocking your butt,’ came the blond’s voice, followed by a burst of laughter.

Seven rolled up to the gate and followed the old blue Freightliner and its cage of

murderers as it turned left and out into the streets of Birmingham.

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65

He stayed far enough back that the vorad didn’t go off. The route was smooth and

empty of traffic. There were three right turns, which would put them in a loop that
ended back at the Stoneyard. They took their half out of the middle of the street. Police
were everywhere on motorcycles.

The all-white crowd jeered and catcalled. The procession made the first and second

turns. ‘Heads up, Old Enough. Might oughta put your window up.’ The old driver
came through loud and laughing. ‘The coloreds are down on this stretch and they are
armed for sodomite.’

Seven took the advice and none too soon, when a rotten tomato hit the windshield.

A couple of eggs, an ugly cabbage and a wormy apple all hit the cab. He watched the
worms slither down the apple pulp. He heard more projectiles hitting the trailer and his
blind side.

‘Hoo boy. They got rocks today! Hang on, Old Enough.’
Seven flinched as half a brick spiderwebbed the windshield. His palms were slick

and shaking as the crowd chanted ‘per-vert’ over and over. More rocks hit the cab. He
heard someone in the cage yell in pain. He sped up, taking the last quarter mile at
twenty instead of ten. He slowed only after he entered the Stoneyard lot, having heard a
very large rock hit the back at the end.

The guards waved him to drop the trailer near the lower entrance of the Stoneyard.

Seven recoiled to see the parking lot starting to fill with people, buggies, motor scooters
and the occasional car. He pulled the truck in, knowing he was crooked and not caring.

‘Gear, hoses, pin,’ he muttered as he climbed out of the cab. A guard lowered the

landing gear for him. He detached the hoses and pulled the kingpin release. The guard
busily unlocked the back of the cage.

In a fit of the courage that had deserted him in Holland, Seven made as if to climb

back into the cab, but grabbed Chuck’s tire thumper instead. He slipped down the
length of the trailer, keeping out of the guard’s sight and clouted him behind the ear
with the lead-filled cedar length of it. The guard went down and the trailer door stood
open. He didn’t know if he’d killed the man, but he didn’t have time to think about it.

‘Get out,’ Seven snapped. ‘Get out and run for it.’ The men in the cage were unable

to process this and stood gaping. ‘Go and sin no more. Whatever!’ He searched
frantically through the men. ‘Chuck!’ he yelled.

Chuck helped herd the milling men out the back door. Most, scarcely able to believe

they were free, stared for too long and then bolted in various directions. Chuck dashed
for the cab and Seven ran for the passenger side.

‘The load’s in C lot,’ Seven gasped as Chuck fired up the truck and pulled out from

under the trailer. He gave directions and hopped out to help hook it. It was the fastest
hook Seven had ever seen. Chuck barely lined the truck up and had to be doing at least
five miles an hour when he slammed into the kingpin. Seven slapped the glad-hands
into place while Chuck cranked faster than a human arm should move.

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66

They headed for the rear gate of lot C. Two C.S. cops had old wooden sawhorses

barricading the exit. Chuck never slowed and shifted to sixth as he screamed over the
barrier.

‘Turn here,’ Seven said. ‘It’ll put us on 65, which is a straight shot to the U.S.’
On the freeway, the Hummingbird shuddered and complained as Chuck pushed

her past seventy and on up to eighty. Seven stole a look and saw Chuck’s knuckles were
very pale on the wheel and his jaw was set hard. He held his breath as Chuck took one
of the curves on the hills too fast.

Once out of the city, they both breathed a little easier. Chuck shook his head. ‘I can’t

believe we just did that.’

Seven gave a shaky grin. ‘I shoulda given them the finger too.’
Chuck’s laugh held something a little to close to hysteria. ‘My god, we’re alive! Oh

kiddo, you got more balls than a shinty tournament.’

‘U.S., here we come.’ Seven stole a glance in his mirror. ‘Chuck, we got company.’
‘Don’t sweat it. The cars are all governed at seventy-five these days. The Bird does

eighty. We won’t lose ‘em, but they can’t catch us. I can’t outrun a radio, though.’ His
face went grim and he flipped to the police band of his radio. ‘If they try intercepting,
I’m going through it. Just hang on.’ The chatter on the radio did not reassure them.
Eight cars in pursuit and every one had radioed ahead to the Mississippi border and
Nashville for assistance.

‘We’re not going back,’ Seven said firmly. ‘We’re not stopping.’
Chuck, reminded uncomfortably of all the movies where the heroes had locked

hands, then charged out to certain death, gripped Seven’s hand anyway. ‘Not stopping
until Kentucky.’

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67

Chapter Ten

One fine April night in 1865, Dr. Samuel Mudd set the broken leg of a late caller, in

proper accordance with his medical ethics. For this act, he spent four years in federal
prison as a traitor to the United States of America, barely escaping the hangman’s
noose.

Harland Mudd often thought on his ancestor’s fate, brought on by being the wrong

man in the wrong place at the wrong time. As a consequence, he’d worked hard to keep
his head down and not put himself in the way of destiny. He’d married a pretty girl.
They reared five fine children. Even the turmoil a few years back when Kentucky had
seceded from the Confederated States and rejoined the United States had not disrupted
his life. It didn’t matter to him which country signed his paycheck, as long as he got
one.

All of that changed for Harland Mudd one fine October morning in 2091. He came

to work at the Mitchellville-Franklin border crossing tollbooth on I-65. Rick Elias was
already there. He had the morning executions feed from Nashville running.

‘They just finished with the murderers down in Birmingham, Har,’ he said as

Harland took his seat and looked over the day’s status. ‘Sodomites are up. Hear they
got a bunch of ‘em this month. Rounded up a club or something.’

‘Yeah. Heard one of ‘em’s an Indian. Ain’t never seen a real Indian.’
Instead of a group of shamed-looking men being led into the Stoneyard, the

announcer cut in. ‘There’s been a disturbance here at the Stoneyard. The sodomite cage
has been dropped from its truck, and opened. Not one man is here to be found.’ He
checked a note someone handed him from off-camera. ‘Officers are in pursuit of the
driver, believed to be the fornication partner of one of the prisoners. They are traveling
north on I-65. If you see this truck,’ here a picture of a black semi with a hummingbird
painted on the side of the sleeper flashed up, ‘stay out of the way. The driver is believed
to have freed one of the criminals and the fugitives are dangerous. Repeat, do not
attempt to apprehend. These men are dangerous. With God’s grace, we will see them
both in the Stoneyard before sunset. And now the blasphemers.’

Rick looked at Harland and then out at the road. ‘I-65.’ He looked at the map.

‘Birmingham is about two hundred miles straight down the road.’

Harland has visions of a noose and heard the mournful drumbeats. ‘How fast does

one o’ them trucks go, Rick?’

‘Dunno. Speed limit’s seventy, but I reckon they’ll be in a powerful hurry. Figure

maybe three hours? And they been stonin’ murderers for forty-five minutes. Yeah.’ He
looked back at Harland. ‘Y’know, Har, I think we might take an early lunch break.
Together, if you catch me.’

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68

‘Maybe down at Nell’s,’ Harland suggested. Since rejoining the U.S., women were

again allowed to work. This had the salutary effect of allowing Widow Jackson, Nell
informally, the best baker in four counties, to run the diner in Franklin, about five miles
north and west of the tollbooth. ‘Piece of gooseberry pie sure sounds good. It frosted
last night, so maybe she’ll have persimmon cookies.’ He could feel the Semi of Fate
bearing down on him despite his best efforts.

They spent the rest of the morning with one eye on the chase feed and tracking the

fugitives on the wall map. Only two border crossings occurred, a young man on a fuel-
cell motorcycle coming up from Nashville, flashing a pass saying he was on
government business to the U.S. and a couple headed south on a guest card to see their
family on the other side of the line.

They watched as the semi crashed a roadblock of wooden barricades in Nashville.

When the escapees were north of Nashville, a large tank from the Kentucky Home
Guard Armory in Franklin rolled down the road. The toll-takers eyed the tank and the
two sheriff’s cars.

‘Might be time for lunch, Har.’
Harland nodded. They headed out to Rick’s motorbike.
‘You are government employees during a national emergency,’ bellowed the

bullhorn. ‘Return to your post.’

Harland could definitely see that noose looming a lot clearer. He sat back down and

waited miserably. He used the binoculars and could see the guys on the C.S. side of the
border trying another roadblock.

In twenty minutes, the semi crested the distant hill. It got bigger very rapidly.

Harland couldn’t take his eyes off it. ‘Sorry, Grandpa Samuel,’ he muttered.

‘Raise the toll arm,’ barked the bullhorn.
Rick opened the gate and the men watched. The truck, black and shiny, the

hummingbird on the side visible, two men behind the windshield, barreled down on
them. It crashed the sand-filled plastic barricades the C.S. had set up and roared up
toward the U.S. booth.

‘Screw the inspection and border paperwork,’ Rick muttered.
The driver lowered his window and threw something in the general direction of the

change basket as the rig screamed through. The passenger gave a sheepish sort of look
and waved at them. The truck vanished quickly over the next hill and twenty C.S. cars
followed, hot on it.

The tank rolled into the middle of the highway.
‘Lower the gate,’ the bullhorn instructed. ‘Attention, Confederated Police, you are

trespassing on U.S. soil. This is an international incident. We will overlook it if you
return to your side of the border at once. Continue pursuit and we will fire.’ The tank’s
gun tracked and followed the lead car.

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69

The C.S. police seemed to consider a moment and turned tail, scooting back over

the border as fast as they could.

The sheriff got out of the car and came to the tollbooth. ‘You boys kept your heads

just fine.’ He spat on the ground. ‘Letting ass-bandits and fugitives in. What a country.
But orders came in from Frankfort and they had it from Philadelphia. We don’t want
trouble with Pacifica or the Tribals. Good lads. I’ll see there’s a little something extra for
you on payday.’ He turned and headed back to the car. The tank rolled off.

Harland stepped out to check the toll-basket. Two gold Pacifica salmons gleamed in

it. He flipped one to Rick. It’d make quite a story for that grandbaby his oldest girl was
expecting.

The Hummingbird sped up I-65 until Chuck spotted the rest area sign near mile 38.

He pulled in fast, letting the hill up to the parking area slow them some, parking badly
and taking two spaces. He pulled the brakes, but didn’t turn the truck off as he swung
out of the cab, missing both steps and sliding down the hand rail to dash for the
bathroom at the top of the ridge.

Seven took a couple extra minutes to shut the truck down, take the keys and follow.

He heard Chuck heaving in the stall and his own stomach revolted. The muffin and
coffee came up and he felt better—clean, almost, as if he’d rid himself of the end of the
C.S. garbage. Chuck, pale and shaky, leaned on the stall.

‘You okay, kiddo?’
‘Oh hell no.’ Seven clung to Chuck’s waist, unsure whether he was supporting the

big man or using him for support. They stood that way for a long time, coming down
from the adrenaline and sheer terror of the day. Chuck’s color came back and Seven’s
hands finally quit shaking, so they washed up and rinsed their mouths.

‘Let do some trip planning, Seven,’ Chuck said as they walked back to the truck.

‘Going back through Heartland would be a bad idea.’

‘Yep.’ Seven climbed back into the passenger seat and got out a water bottle. He

fired up the atlas. ‘Chuck, I can’t get anything but Heartland routing,’ he complained
after a few minutes.

Chuck lowered the paper atlas and traced it out for him. ‘We’ll take 65 to Gary

today. Then tomorrow we’ll brave Occupied Chicago to I-90. 90 rolls us right home to
Seattle.’

‘That’s like a thousand miles to get to the Tribal Border.’
‘Same distance as the Heartland route, and this is U.S. all the way, except for that

stretch in Illinois, but the U.S. holds that.’ Chuck fumbled the keys when Seven handed
them back.

‘I’ll drive,’ Seven said. ‘You’re still all shaky.’

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70

‘I’m a rotten passenger. Let’s check the truck until I calm down. We can lay over in

Gary if we need to get her fixed.’ He gave Seven a smile. ‘See you figured out the
onboard. Good job.’

Seven felt his whole insides light up at the praise. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said.
‘You got a helluva nerve.’ Chuck didn’t bother closing the curtains before kissing

Seven.

Seven melted under his mouth, clinging as if still afraid of losing him. Busy hands

groped in Chuck’s hair, stroked his back and shoulders as Seven pressed hard against
him. When they parted, Seven laughed sheepishly.

‘You would not believe how hot I am for you.’ He pressed up close again,

reassuring himself that Chuck was really still here with him.

Chuck smiled and shot a glance at Seven’s jeans. ‘I’d believe it.’ He stroked his own

fly. ‘Ridiculous as it sounds out of a man who came real close to getting executed, I
could pound you through the mattress right now.’

‘Not safe,’ Seven said. ‘We’re too close to the C.S.’ The memory of Holland haunted

him.

Chuck gave him a grin. ‘I can hold out until,’ he checked the map for the next rest

area, ‘Cave City, but no longer. Nothing like almost dying to make you appreciate life.’

‘I’m starving too.’ Seven felt silly even saying it.
‘You flushed your breakfast, kiddo.’ Chuck laughed when his own stomach

growled. ‘And I didn’t have any.’ He tossed Seven a meal packet and set one on the
console for himself. He pulled the privacy curtains and started stripping.

‘Are we eating or screwing?’ Seven asked.
‘You’re eating. I’m changing clothes.’ Chuck stripped off the thin scarlet prison-

issue broadcloth, and his own underwear. ‘Damn, they confiscated my favorite shirt
and my boots.’ He pulled on jeans and socks, and dug in the locker under the bunk,
finally producing a pair of battered sneakers. He shrugged into a long-sleeved tee shirt
showing a wolf howling at the northern lights.

Seven watched all this, nibbling at the food pouch. Any other man would have been

cussing and ranting about injustice and having a general fit about things. Sometimes the
way Chuck stayed so calm all the time scared him. His stomach decided to accept the
food and he watched Chuck tie his sneakers.

‘I’m gonna burn the C.S. crap.’ Chuck bundled it all, jumpsuit, underwear and flip-

flops into a paper bag. He scrounged in one of the cubbies and found a lighter and
fluid.

Seven hopped out of the cab with him and followed him to a barbecue grill under

the pine trees. Chuck shoved the bag under the grill, doused it in lighter fluid and set
his lighter to the edge of the bag. It went up fast. The smell of burning cotton and plastic
gagged Seven.

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71

‘Watch it for a minute.’ Chuck went back and grabbed his thermos. He filled it with

water and used it to douse the flames. A second trip had it all out. He scooted a trash
barrel under the grill and scraped out the burned remains with a stick.

‘Ready to roll?’ he asked Seven.
‘Yeah,’ Seven said, buckling up.
They headed up I-65. Chuck still hadn’t eaten, but Seven knew he would when he

was ready. Instead, Chuck, clearly horny, talked about sex for the forty miles until
Seven squirmed in his seat, hard against his seat belt.

‘Once we get you tested, then you’ll sure get a shot at me. Been a long time since

anyone’s topped for me.’ Chuck shot him a quick smile. The part of Seven’s mind that
wasn’t blown by learning Chuck liked to be fucked was thinking it might have been a
long time for the other way too.

Chuck stroked his face across the gap in the seats. ‘You ever been on top?’
Seven shook his head, still scared of the words, excited yet terrified by what Chuck

rambled on about so casually. ‘No.’

‘Crying shame. You’re going to love it. I’m gonna love it too.’ Chuck caught Seven’s

smile. ‘I’d kiss you if I could reach you. We get parked, I’m gonna kiss you all over. Just
taste you.’

Seven’s smile got bigger. ‘Like I did you.’
Chuck smiled. ‘Yeah. Seven, would you help me out? I want to watch you.’
‘Huh?’ Seven stared, flabbergasted at the statement.
‘Unzip your jeans and get your cock out for me, babe. I want to watch you play

with it.’ Chuck sighed. ‘Since I can’t have it for another twenty miles, at least let me see.’

‘Chuck, you’re driving,’ Seven reminded him. ‘I don’t want to distract you.’
Chuck frowned. ‘Yeah, there is that.’ He tore open the food pouch with one hand

and his teeth, then dumped a handful in his mouth. Seven felt better watching that. ‘I’m
sorry, kiddo. Here I am talking dirty as any phone-sex line, treating you like a cheap
slut and I should be thanking you. That was too damn close.’

Seven shot him another smile. ‘It’s all right. Your prayers worked.’
Chuck shook his head. ‘Nah, the Beings don’t listen most of the time.’
Seven persisted, reared on stories of miracles and revelations. ‘The solution was put

right in front of me. I couldn’t have thought of it on my own, but there it was.’

‘It happens that way sometimes. Doesn’t mean they’re listening. Doesn’t mean they

aren’t.’ Chuck gave him a half-grin. ‘My gods are rather less predictable than yours and
my parents’ one god.’

‘Not my god. I don’t want him, if he’s what the doctors say he is. I like yours better.

Even if you knew they might not listen, you called on them anyway.’

Chuck shrugged. ‘Why not? Couldn’t hurt anything and they might decide to help

out. Not much else to do where I was.’ Seven smiled more and Chuck caught his hand

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

72

and squeezed. ‘Maybe it even helped. But you helped too. If you hadn’t thought fast
and moved fast, you wouldn’t have been in the place to work.’ He pulled them into the
very large Cave City rest area. A dozen trucks were already parked there.

Seven waited until he’d set the brakes. ‘Wasn’t any other option.’
Chuck leaned across the seats and stroked his hair. ‘Oh baby.’ He kissed Seven

again, steadier this time, more back to himself. ‘So brave.’

Seven yanked the curtains shut and started stripping. Chuck tipped the steering

wheel up and watched him, rubbing his hand along the ridge under his zipper.

‘So pretty, my blue-eyes,’ Chuck said. Seven sat down on the bed, and smiled. ‘Let

me taste you.’ Chuck didn’t strip. Instead, he went to his knees between the seats and
licked a long stripe along the bottom of Seven’s cock before sucking it in deeply.

Seven closed his eyes and leaned back, spreading his legs a little wider. Chuck’s

mouth on him felt even sweeter than he’d imagined it could. A few of the men had
done this for him, but none with such tenderness and care. He braced his elbows,
feeling like he wanted to melt right into the mattress.

Chuck sucked all of him, creative and amazing; taking him deep and then just

sucking at the head, and then licking in a spiral up and down his cock. When Chuck
moved off to lick and suck at his balls, Seven shuddered and slipped a little on the bed,
almost sliding into Chuck.

Chuck flashed him a big grin and rose, hooking Seven’s legs over his shoulders as

he turned them and joined Seven in the bunk. Seven gave a noise of surprise.

‘Oh yeah,’ he whispered. ‘Drop ‘em for me.’
Chuck kissed the head of his cock again, then rolled his legs back to lick at his

perineum. Seven moaned, past ready to be fucked, wanting this man inside him.

‘In time,’ Chuck said, licking the head again. ‘I want to know all about you.’ He

made a long slow circuit of exploration, sucking at the head, then swallowing the whole
cock for a few minutes. He followed it with a retreat to the head and then a slow lick
down to suck Seven’s balls. Long tongue swipes from the back of his sac to his ass and
Seven shuddered at the first touch of Chuck’s tongue there.

Some part of him that was always aware of danger made him pull away. ‘What if

I’m not clean? What if I’m infected?’ he whispered.

‘Just skin out here,’ Chuck said. ‘We can both get tested if we need to. Trust me.’
‘Chuck…’ Seven moaned, and let him lick. Just the light press of Chuck’s tongue

and mouth on his ass were making him melt even deeper into the mattress. Chuck
worked his way back along the circuit to suck the head of his cock.

‘Gonna come,’ Seven murmured.
‘Good.’ Chuck grinned at him and then sucked him deep and hard.
There was no time for a second warning. Seven shoved into his mouth, yelling, and

came.

Chuck swallowed and held him there until he stopped. ‘You taste great.’

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73

Seven opened one eye to his lover’s smile. ‘You swallowed…’ He couldn’t believe

it.

‘Yeah. Why not?’
Seven smiled, still gasping. ‘Yeah…why not?’ Chuck said it as if it were the most

natural way to end a blowjob, as if he wasn’t disgusting and bad, and as if the nasty
white spunk was actually a good thing.

‘I’m gonna get inside you too.’ Chuck had already worked out of his jeans where he

half knelt, half sat between Seven’s legs. ‘And by the way, the sun goes down at night.’

‘Yeah, does it?’ Seven reached for his jacket. There were still a few condoms in the

pocket and he pulled them out. Chuck had already retrieved one from his kit and had it
on. He gave quite a show with the lubricant too, and Seven’s cock twitched at the sight.

‘Ambitious brat, aren’t you?’ Chuck teased.
‘I’m sure after all that talk, you got more than one in you.’ Seven set the condoms

on the little shelf at the head of the bunk.

Chuck laughed. Seven didn’t tense as Chuck started easing his way in, being too

relaxed from his orgasm. Chuck didn’t force or shove. He pressed, soft and steady,
letting Seven’s body open to him, moving with its rhythm, not his own.

‘Mmm, big.’ Seven had taken larger, but Chuck was nicely hung. Even better, he

seemed to know how to use it and didn’t ram or hurt. It felt so good as Chuck went
deeper into his ass, slow and gentle.

Chuck moved up and kissed him. ‘That’s because white boys get toys to play with.

Red boys on the reservation? We had to make our own fun.’ He gave a chuckle and
moved deeper. There had been no reservations since the creation of the Tribal Lands.

Seven laughed with him. ‘Never had a toy like this.’ He gave a long moan when

Chuck slid fully in to him.

Chuck kissed him again. ‘Baby, you can play with me all you want.’
Seven pulled him in close. ‘Fuck me,’ he said, knowing a lot of men liked it when he

talked like that.

‘Already am, sweetie.’ Chuck’s movements were still slow and stayed very gentle,

seeming to savor the feeling of being inside Seven.

‘More…please more.’ Seven knew he sounded like a slut, but didn’t care. Chuck felt

too good, but the snail’s pace drove him mad. He scratched his nails down Chuck’s
arms, hard enough to leave red streaks.

Chuck gave a playful scowl. ‘Hey, hey. Who’s doing this?’ He moved faster, going

deeper and harder and Seven gasped under him. ‘Better?’

Seven couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than two seconds at a stretch. He

panted now, little moans slipping into it. ‘Yeah.’

Chuck held the pace, a nice steady one. ‘Oh, kiddo.’ He moved in and kissed

Seven’s neck.

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74

‘Chuck, so good.’ Seven’s hands clenched tight in Chuck’s hair. He relaxed them so

he wouldn’t be pulling, but he held on.

Chuck stopped for a second and broke the small elastic that held his hair, sending

the black ponytail cascading over them both. He kissed Seven’s cheeks and lips. ‘Seven,’
he whispered, and pumped him faster.

Seven loved the feel and smell of Chuck’s hair practically burying them. He lifted

up to kiss Chuck and moaned as his lover moved as slowly and deeply in his mouth as
he thrust in his ass. It had never been like this. He felt Chuck stop moving and give a
little gasp. He could feel the pulsations in his perineum and the tight ring, now
stretched.

Seven slipped a hand between their bodies to finish himself. Chuck caught it and

kissed him, breathing normally again.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said, kissing Seven’s cheek.
Seven let go, but squirmed, rubbing up against Chuck in his need. Chuck eased out,

so slowly that Seven whimpered at the delay, and then was down on him again, fast
and hot, that clever mouth driving Seven to explosive, screaming completion in
seconds.

He looked startled again when Chuck swallowed and realized that something

important had changed, something between them and not merely what country they
were in.

Chuck loomed over him for a kiss. ‘All better?’ Seven nodded and kissed him,

hoping it would never end. He’d be happy if this day lasted forever. Chuck smiled, lay
down beside him and drew him close. Seven had no words for the moment as he lay on
Chuck’s smooth chest, listening to his heart and feeling Chuck’s calloused fingers on his
face.

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75

Chapter Eleven

They left Cave City in the small hours of the morning, the Hummingbird’s

headlights cutting a cone of light through the Kentucky darkness. Louisville and
Indianapolis went by. Before noon they were pulling into Gary, Indiana. Chuck checked
his phone.

‘I have reception now. I can call over to Billings and let Ma know I’m fine and call

Butte and tell them I have the load.’

Seven stared. Chuck made it all sound so routine. The gaping hole in the

windshield, surrounded by spiderwebbed cracks, made him shudder every time he saw
it. And the chill October wind blowing off Lake Michigan didn’t help.

Chuck put in at the Cummins shop on 15th Avenue. The mechanic walked around

the Hummingbird, making notes and grumbling.

‘What’d you do to this baby?’ he finally asked.
‘Ran a gantlet of killers who wanted our hide,’ Seven supplied and then sat back,

covering his mouth at his boldness.

The mechanic looked at Chuck and the truck. ‘Shit, yeah! You’re the one who

escaped the C.S., aren’t cha? That was a helluva chase. Yeah, we’ll fix her right up.’

The shop foreman found them in the break room, sipping soda and not saying

much. ‘I called for a hotel shuttle. It’s going to take a while to get your truck finished.
We’ll cover the room. It should be done tomorrow afternoon.’

They took 80 across Occupied Illinois, the big toll road deserted except for other

trucks. A night’s sleep in a big bed and a hot meal of real food had improved both of
their dispositions immeasurably. Seven began to believe they just might get away with
this. About eighty miles in, they turned north on I-39.

They’d spent the evening in the hotel planning the trip. Chuck was very

conservative in his driving habits and he refused to cross the border when he was close
to out of hours.

‘I can almost taste it,’ Seven implored. ‘We can stop in Sioux Falls.’
‘No, baby, that’s eastern tribes. They aren’t real friendly to my people. We won’t

end up dead, but I’d rather not get hassled or refused service in the restaurant. And
we’ve already been knocked awake once this trip. That’s my limit.’

‘Twice,’ Seven said, and told him about the lot at the Stoneyard.
In the end, they’d done it Chuck’s way. Seven suspected they’d always do things

Chuck’s way when it came to the truck. That was all right, he decided. Chuck knew
better than he did in this regard.

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76

An hour and a half on I-39 took them to Wisconsin. Seven spent that time drawing.

He sketched the wind farms, their turbines churning in the prairie wind he could feel
even in the truck. He drew the crumbling cooling tower of the defunct nuclear fission
plant. Fields of biodiesel hemp, on their third harvest of the year, were being cut by
men with scythes. He drew them as they passed. The oil from the plants would become
fuel, the leaves paper and the tough stem fibers would be made into cloth. All the THC
and other psychoactives had been bred out of the industrial species.

Seven flinched as he saw the man with the rifle patrolling the harvesters, his horse

picking its careful way through the fields. Prison labor apparently wasn’t only used in
the C.S. and Heartland. Minnesota was more of the same, flat, pine trees and nothing
much.

They pulled into the last rest area before the border. Seven grew restless and Chuck

looked worried.

‘I’m late with the load. Tomorrow is Monday and I’ll only make it into Billings. I

was supposed to deliver Monday. Guess I can kiss my nice run good-bye.’

Seven rolled his eyes. ‘Chuck. You were almost executed. That’s gotta be a good

excuse.’

Chuck gave a wry smile. ‘Ya think?’ He sighed and pulled Seven close as they lay

on the bunk. ‘I’m making an appointment to see Dr. Mike. This whole thing still has me
all shaky. And you’re having nightmares.’

‘You only know that because your own wake you up,’ Seven said and covered his

mouth with both hands.

Chuck kissed his hands and moved them away. ‘Yeah. The dreams are bad. They

will be for a while.’

Seven determined right then he would make Chuck run out of condoms this trip.
At the U.S.-Tribal border, the guard stopped them. Chuck patted himself down and

swore in two languages until Seven realized what he needed. Reaching into the cubby
above the driver’s seat, he handed Chuck his wallet.

Chuck kissed him, to the guard’s evident consternation. ‘Seven, you are a wonder.’

Chuck handed his license and logs out the window. He dug for his permits and bills of
lading. Seven had put them in his notebook.

‘It fell out of your pocket when they beat you up.’
‘Unh-hunh. Chuck Hummingbird, Pacifica, Cotton from Blytheville, C.S. You’re

way farther north than you need to be, driver.’

‘We had some difficulties that made it prudent to avoid Heartland and stay in the

U.S. for the trip,’ Chuck said smoothly.

‘Got info on your co-driver there?’
Seven fidgeted as Chuck explained. ‘No ID, sir. He’s a fugitive from Heartland.’

Chuck pulled Seven’s arm to the window and showed the hated tattoo. ‘We’re seeking
political and religious asylum for him. They destroyed all records of him in Heartland.’

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77

The guard’s whole demeanor changed. ‘Hold on a minute.’ He ducked back inside

the post and came out with a packet of paperwork. ‘We always grant asylum to the
gifted. Here’s the forms for asylum and ID. You’ll need a license before you can handle
this thing.’ The information finally clicked and the guard smiled at Seven. ‘You did a
heck of a job on that rescue, though. I’m sorry to say we’re going to have to hold you
guys up.’

‘What? Why?’ Chuck asked.
‘We’re doing agri inspections. All agricultural products coming from outside the

country have to be double-checked.’ He gestured around back, where about five trucks
were already waiting. ‘It’s gonna be a while. I’m really sorry.’

‘It’s all right.’ Chuck followed the directions and got in line. He shifted the truck to

a low idle and they waited. To kill some boredom, Chuck poked around on the radio
and found a channel that played old radio shows, stuff a hundred and fifty years old,
the actors all long dead, but the mysteries still suspenseful and the gags in the comedy
shows still funny. The first truck finished.

Seven listened, absorbed in favorites he’d only heard on old media discs from the

library. He practically bounced in his seat when the announcer came on.

‘Hi-Yo Silver— A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty

Hi-Yo Silver…the Lone Ranger!

‘With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked

rider of the plains led the fight for law and order in the early West. Return with us now
to those thrilling days of yesteryear. The Lone Ranger rides again!’

The William Tell Overture started and Seven turned to look at Chuck. Chuck smiled.

They listened as the usual run of bad men was foiled by the Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Seven gripped his seat when the baddies set fire to the settlers’ house and smiled when
the settlers finally accepted Tonto enough to let him fight the blaze.

The end theme soared and Seven sat back, smiling as if he’d gotten a gift he’d

always wanted. ‘They never had those at the library. And the new TV show was
nothing like that.’

Chuck gave him another smile. They rolled forward as the second truck finished.

He flipped the channel to some vintage rock and roll, only slightly newer than the radio
plays had been.

Seven bopped along, knowing all the words to all the songs. The newest rock that

played in Heartland came from 1967, before the psychedelia and the punk and all the
craziness. Seven had read about the past styles, but he’d never heard most of them. But
he could still sing every Elvis song and most early Beatles in his slightly squeaky tenor.

Lunchtime came and went. Chuck handed out meal packs and flipped over to the

gay channel for afternoon political talk. Seven listened, dumbfounded. The calls came in
from all over the continent, except, of course, the C.S. A trucker even called in from
Heartland. They discussed news from all over the world and its ramifications for the
people living in those areas.

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Seven was surprised when the host devoted the whole third hour to him and Chuck

and their escape. The host thought they were incredibly brave, but got the facts wrong.
Seven itched to call and correct him. Chuck rolled up to the inspection area.

‘Chuck, can I call in?’ Seven asked as they got out of the truck. Chuck handed over

the phone and started working with the inspector. Seven dialed the number on the
radio’s readout and waited.

‘Free-talk with Bill Freeburg. Who is this and where are you calling from?’
‘My name’s Seven McCullough. I’m calling from the Tribal Lands. I was the one

driving the truck in that rescue.’

‘Hold on, we’ll get you right on.’ Seven climbed out of the cab and paced as the

commercials played. Finally, he heard a click.

The host said, ‘Free-talk. You’re on with Bill Freeburg. Go ahead. Who is this?’
‘Um…hi.’ Seven hoped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. ‘This is Seven

McCullough, the guy you’ve been talking about.’

‘For real? Where are you right now, Seven?’ Freeburg sounded very enthusiastic.
‘I’d rather not say exactly where we are. But we’re in the Tribal Lands right now.

And I just wanted to correct a few things.’

‘So, Seven, tell us about it. We like to be accurate.’
‘Okay. We didn’t make a display of ourselves. Chuck got beaten up and taken into

the C.S. because some guys wanted his truck. We were scheduled to pick up there, sure,
but we weren’t kissing on Main Street or even touching in the restaurant.’

‘I’d wondered about that, because I really didn’t think anyone would be stupid

enough to publicly make out with a same-sex lover in the C.S.’

‘No. It was entirely robbery motivated. We were just minding our own business.

Chuck was checking the oil and I was getting coffee.’ Seven heard his voice shaking as
he remembered that part of it.

‘So you’re his husband? Is that right?’
Seven swallowed hard. The very ease with which the host asked the question

rattled him. ‘No. We’re not married. We only met a couple days ago. He was getting me
out of Heartland.’

Freeburg rattled some papers over the mic and cleared his throat. ‘So after two

days, you risked driving three hundred miles into some of the most hostile territory
known to gays for him? That doesn’t add up.’

Seven shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant. ‘He saved my hide. The least I

could do is save his.’

‘So you’re a driver too?’
‘No. I’m still learning. I’m not even licensed.’ Seven hated to admit it. He didn’t

want to get Chuck into more trouble. But he’d only driven in the C.S. Since they were
both wanted fugitives there, driving without a license was the least of his worries.

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79

‘That’s either the bravest or the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Did you both come

through okay? The reports from the C.S. and U.S. have been conflicting. The C.S. says
one of you was shot and killed.’

‘Liars. We’re both fine. No injuries at all.’
‘That’s great. So basically, you two were strangers, he offered you a ride and he got

mugged. You rescued him and now you’re safe. This is great. Anything else you’d like
to say?’

‘Yeah. Heartland may treat us terrible, but C.S. is absolutely disgusting. What

happened to us shouldn’t happen to anyone. And it’s happening every day. There were
fifteen or twenty other men in that cage with Chuck.’

‘You’re right about that, Seven. It shouldn’t be happening, but the theocrats don’t

listen to anyone but their God. I’m sorry, Seven, but we’re out of time. Thank you. It’s
been a real a pleasure to talk to a hero.’

Freeburg hung up and the call-screener came on. ‘If you’ll stay on the line, sir, Mr.

Freeburg would like to arrange an on-air interview with you and Mr. Hummingbird
when you get home.’

‘Okay,’ Seven said.
When Chuck finally came up beside him, he had hung up. ‘All finished, finally. I

thought they were going to make me spin half the load into thread to prove it was
cotton. How’d it go for you?’ Chuck didn’t wait for him to finish, but headed around to
get back in the truck.

Seven got in and handed the phone back, looking a little apprehensive. ‘I hope you

don’t mind an interview when we get home.’

‘With Bill Freeburg?’ Chuck logged the inspection and started the truck. ‘You’re

kidding.’

‘No. Not kidding. Why? Is that bad?’ Seven fastened his seat belt and folded an

origami swan out of sheer nervousness. His hands were shaking again.

Chuck smiled at him once they got back onto the highway and up to speed. ‘No, it’s

amazing. Gay authors wait months to get on his show. Politicians wait weeks. And you
got us dumb truckers on in five minutes.’

Seven stammered and the guard at the border waved them on through.
Chuck gave him another grin as they rolled into the Tribal Lands. ‘Looks like you’re

an international celebrity, kiddo.’

Seven sat with a stunned look on his face. ‘I’m free,’ he said. ‘I’m free! I’m able to be

myself.’

Chuck nodded, but his smile faded as he checked the time. ‘That ate the whole darn

day. We’ll stop in Chamberlain. It’s a great view,’ he decided. ‘Crash there, hit Billings
tomorrow and then deliver the next day. We’ll take this all nice and slow. I’m not in a
big hurry, since I’m already late. High Chief Mankiller says take my time and be safe.’

Seven laughed. ‘Not like you don’t have a whole life in front of you now.’

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Chuck ruffled his hair. ‘Yeah, thanks to you. I still owe you, kiddo.’
South Dakota was really boring, Seven decided after an hour. Just flat, with low

hills on the horizon. The pink color of the road amused him. There were a lot of trees,
though, more than he’d expected. He asked about them.

‘Yeah, this part of the Lands is settled mostly by eastern forest tribes. Some folks

want to go back to ancestral ways, some are happier living modern. So the old-ways
folk planted lots and lots of trees. Makes it a nice drive, doesn’t it?’

Seven nodded. ‘A lot nicer than the pine scrub I drove through to get to

Birmingham. You’re one of the modern ones?’

Chuck nodded. ‘Oh yeah. I gave the old ways a try when I was a lot younger.

Believe me, one Montana winter spent freezing on the ground in a tipi was plenty. I like
my apartment, my big bed and my stove. Building a fire to cook every meal is buffalo
chips, especially when you’re using buffalo chips. Hunting, gathering, dancing, trying
to find potable water, digging your own latrine… Sure, it sounds like fun at fifteen or
sixteen. And it is, for a couple weeks. As the weeks go on, you get tired of washing in
mountain streams and ache for a real hot shower. And the food, well, it’s monotonous.
Buffalo and weeds. After three months, I was more than ready to go home.’

Seven laughed. ‘I know all about gathering. I spent the summer raiding every

garden I could find. I was so sick of tomatoes by the end of July, you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Made you look good. Healthy. Did you see how pale and unhealthy the folks in

Gary looked? That comes of eating too much processed soy and not enough real food.’

Seven beamed at him. ‘Yeah, I’m all gorgeous, tan and sexy,’ he teased.
Chuck nodded. ‘You really are. You don’t see it, but I do.’
That night they lay together in the bunk, Seven still smiling as Chuck dozed beside

him. Feeling very daring, Seven whispered. ‘I think I’m in love with you.’

Chuck opened one eye. ‘Just now figuring that out?’ He kissed Seven’s nose and

settled back in.

‘It’s my first time. I wasn’t sure what I felt at first.’ Seven knew he looked like a

wide-eyed innocent.

Chuck kissed him again, on the lips, slow and light. ‘I knew. Knew it from the

minute I saw that tattoo on your wrist.’

Seven brushed a dismissive hand over his wrist. ‘Maybe I’ll keep it. If it doesn’t

matter where I’m going. If no one is going to think badly of me for it.’

‘It doesn’t.’ Chuck lifted Seven’s wrist to his mouth and kissed the tat. ‘Or we can

get it incorporated into another design, one just for the two of us.’ He kissed Seven
again, this time deep and slower than ever, his tongue and lips moving until Seven got
hard and rubbed against him. ‘Seven, I know I love you.’

Seven whimpered and moved in even closer. ‘Thought I’d never hear that in my

life.’

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Chuck squeezed him more tightly. ‘You’ll hear it from me a lot. And maybe from

my folks.’

Seven tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry I’ll have to introduce you to mine over the phone.

But I think they’ll like you.’

Chuck looked at him. ‘You’ve really never heard them say it?’ Seven shook his

head. ‘That’s terrible.’

Seven shrugged. ‘Just not that kind of family, I guess.’
Chuck kissed his temple. ‘We say it a lot. And we show it.’ He breathed against

Seven’s neck ‘I wanted to wait until we were safe until I said anything. But I suspected
since I fed you and known since you came for me.’

Seven teased, ‘The way to a man’s heart and all…’
Chuck lay there beside him, looking a little misty. Seven swallowed hard, trying to

wrap his head around the hugeness of this. No one had ever said they loved him.

‘It’s big, isn’t it?’ Chuck asked softly. ‘Big and kinda scary?’
‘Oh yeah.’
Chuck chanted softly for a couple seconds. ‘A blessing upon us then, to stop the

fear.’

‘I think it’s working.’ Seven whispered. Chuck stroked his hair. ‘And they lived

happily ever after in Chucklandia.’

Chuck laughed, ‘Nah, we’ll work hard, love hard and live well. But no more

adventures.’

‘That works for me,’ Seven decided.
‘Won’t always be happy. But we’ll be safe and together.’
‘No more crazy runs like this one?’ Seven verified.
‘Nope. Next time the high chief asks me, I’m saying ‘you hire white boy, me no go

to town’.’ He grinned and Seven giggled.

‘Good. My next rescue might not be so good.’
‘Ya did fine, kiddo. Damn, I was figuring on some seriously hard rocks coming my

way and here I am cuddling the sweetest guy I know.’ Seven shuddered in Chuck’s
arms, and Chuck rewarded him with a squeeze. ‘Bad way to die. I was going to dance it
as long as I could and go when I couldn’t.’

‘Hope you had hope in me.’ Seven knew he wasn’t trying to sound petulant.
‘I hoped, but shit, you only had two days driving. I wasn’t sure.’ Seven giggled and

the giggles sounded creepy, almost hysterical. ‘I didn’t know if you could make the
three hundred miles safe.’

‘So fucking scared.’ Seven knew he was close to the edge if he was being crude.

‘Trying to remember all things you corrected me on, because if I broke the truck…’ He
buried his face in Chuck’s shoulder and let the hot tears come.

Chuck held him very tightly. ‘If you broke it, you were stranded.’

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‘And you were dead. And I was going to have to watch it happen in a roomful of

assholes who were cheering about it.’ Seven felt anger and venom behind his tears as
well as his fear.

Chuck must have heard it too. He stroked Seven’s hair and face and back. ‘You did

fine. I’m so proud of you. Such a brave kid.’

‘Had a good teacher.’ The sobs slowed. ‘So you saved me, I saved you. Guess we’re

even now.

Chuck kissed the top of his head. ‘Got plenty more to teach you, kiddo. We’ll drop

this load, get our pay and head home. And even is exactly the way I like it. No
obligations, just staying together because we want.’

‘Home,’ Seven whispered, trying not to hurt at how the word sounded. Home

wasn’t the little green farmhouse in Iowa anymore. Home was Chuck. He tried the
words out with more assurance. ‘I love you. I wondered for quite a while how I’d repay
you.’

Chuck smiled and stole another kiss. ‘I wasn’t going to ask you to. Just figured I’d

have to take care of you. Since I saved your life, that made you my responsibility.’

Seven smiled even more broadly. ‘So I guess that makes you mine too. There’s

nothing else for it. We have to get married.’ He meant it to be teasing, but didn’t miss
the thoughtful look on Chuck’s face.

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Chapter Twelve

Dawn silvered the river and Seven stepped out into the morning chill. Snow had

fallen in the night, barely enough to cover the ground. He stretched a few times, his
chest and legs still aching from the fast trip to Birmingham, and looked out over the
rolling landscape and along the river.

It was all so beautiful here. And best of all, he was free. He could be whoever Seven

Asher McCullough really was and not who the whole town thought he was. Not who
the doctors said he was. It would be interesting finding himself. He reached back in the
cab and grabbed Chuck’s heavy coat, since his own thin denim jacket wasn’t much use
against the north wind. He set his drawing stuff on the step.

He’d do fine finding himself, especially with Chuck’s help. His handsome lover

hadn’t stirred yet, so Seven slipped to the bathroom. He came back and sat at the picnic
table for about half an hour, drawing until his fingers were numb from cold. He stole a
last look at the gorgeous landscape and ducked back into the sleeper, shivering.

A gorgeous landscape met him in the sleeper too. Chuck splayed across most of the

mattress, snoring softly, his mouth a little open. His braid had gotten tangled around
and reached almost to the blanket. He tossed a little as Seven, very carefully, picked up
the braid and twitched the end of it over one nipple.

Chuck snorted in his sleep and batted at it. Seven grinned and did the same to the

other. Then he fastened his mouth to one for an instant before sliding down to suck the
very prominent erection that Chuck sported. Big hands came down to stroke his hair.

‘Good morning to you too.’ Chuck urged him up for a kiss.
‘It is a good morning,’ Seven said. ‘It’s cold and beautiful outside.’
‘And what’s inside looks a lot better than what I saw on the other side of my

eyelids.’

Seven’s face got serious. ‘Yeah, I figured.’
‘You too?’ Seven nodded. ‘Whatcha having?’
Seven’s voice went very quiet. ‘Automatic stoning machines. Coming at me.’
Chuck pulled him close and they lay together, clutching as if drowning. ‘Yeah.’

Chuck’s voice was just as soft. ‘You didn’t get me quick enough and the auditorium is
full of cheering white folks.’

‘Oh god…people suck.’ Seven tucked his face into Chuck’s shoulder, burying

himself in Chuck’s hair until he was sure he wouldn’t cry.

‘Who told you about the machines?’ Chuck asked. ‘They showed us videos so we’d

know what to expect. God, it was heartbreaking. Sad old queens who’d gotten caught,
looking almost relieved. Pretty girls whose only crime was liking boys too much, all so

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young. One was a senator’s daughter and died clutching a letter from her fiancé and a
bunch of daffodils.’

Seven didn’t say anything, knowing Chuck needed to get this out. ‘The sheriff in

Blytheville told me. I found out everything. I nearly puked on his desk.’

‘Damn him.’ Seven heard the vehemence in Chuck’s words, almost as if he was

actually condemning the man. ‘That’s one little piece of you that died and I wish didn’t
have to.’

‘It’s all right,’ Seven said, cuddling close. ‘As long as you’re alive.’ He could really

believe it now. Now that stoning machines and hospitals and hateful laws were
hundreds of miles behind them.

‘I am. And you are. And all’s right with our little piece of the world. Or so I hear

from an ambitious morning scout.’ Chuck teased.

‘Chucklandia is saved,’ Seven grinned and kissed him again.
‘Ah good. Now how about the handsome blue-eyed prince finishes what he started

on the Supreme Ruler of Chucklandia?’ Chuck grinned and lounged back on the bunk.

Seven smiled and went down to suck him. He liked doing this for Chuck, because

he knew it would always be returned. Very few of the others had ever returned it and
none at all with Chuck’s delight in him. He licked under the foreskin and sucked at the
head of Chuck’s cock until the big man’s breath came hard.

‘Seven, please, you’re killing me.’
At that, Seven took all he could manage, not quite the full length, but as much of it

as fit in his mouth and sucked slow and hard. His tongue pressed Chuck’s cock against
the roof of his mouth and he tried swallowing. He’d long since learned how to breathe
through his nose for these encounters. He felt the shaft pulse hard against his lips and
then Chuck came, bland salt hot on Seven’s tongue. He swallowed it, trying to ignore
the mild burning sensation.

Chuck pulled him up for a kiss. ‘Nothing like a brush with death to make you need

to feel alive.’ He kissed Seven again. ‘Anything you need, baby.’

‘In me, please?’ Seven offered a condom.
Chuck took it. ‘You think I got a lot of stamina. How about I suck you?’ Seven

blushed. Chuck pulled him close. ‘I’m sorry. I keep embarrassing you. I’m a crude ol’
trucker with no refinement sometimes, despite all the work my folks did. All right. I’d
like to kiss you all over, Seven, let you know how loved you are?’

Seven relaxed in his arms. ‘Yes, please.’
Chuck made good on it, kissing his whole face and then all over, in unexpected

places. Seven giggled as Chuck kissed behind his ear and on the insides of his arms.

‘So sexy,’ he sighed as Chuck ran his tongue over his hipbone to lick his cock. Then

he had no words as Chuck worked his cock, sucking, licking, swallowing, a swirl of
tongue leaving him breathless. No one ever spent time like this before. Seven rode the
waves of intensity—which in his mind looked like rippling wheat fields, one gust after

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another—until he exploded, shooting into Chuck’s mouth and coming down, feeling
only the soft, strong tongue licking him clean.

He kissed Chuck and curled close. ‘Amazing.’
Chuck kissed him. ‘Thanks for coming after me,’ he whispered.
‘I couldn’t not come after you,’ Seven protested.
‘You coulda run. It was only about fifty miles to the U.S. line.’
Seven shrugged. ‘And you could’ve left me at that rest stop.’
Chuck smiled and nuzzled his hair. ‘Guess we’re both the good guys.’
Seven smiled back. ‘Yeah.’
Chuck cuddled him a little longer, then looked at the clock. ‘Time to roll.’ He tossed

Seven a breakfast pastry and a package of juice and started the truck.

They coasted down the big hill and across the river. Seven sketched furiously,

committing the whole sight to memory. He’d been seeing signs for a place called Wall
Drug since they crossed the state line. To amuse himself, he kept count.

Chuck stopped in Rapid City for a quick bathroom break and a fast-food lunch.

Seven looked at the variety available while Chuck used a bank kiosk. Aside from fifty
dollars in C.S. money, he knew Chuck’s wallet was empty.

They’d had fast-food places back in Heartland, but most of their selections weren’t

this varied. Most went for the burger and fries and there were no ethnic foods on the
menu. He pointed at a picture on the menu that looked good, but he wasn’t sure how to
pronounce.

Chuck ordered. ‘I think we need two of the flat-bread tacos and make it two

medium super-nutri-Cokes. That’s to go.’ Seven listened closely and watched Chuck
count out the money to pay for the meal. Tribal money wasn’t the boring green of
Heartland cash, but rather yellow and red and blue in the different denominations. All
the coins were pearly white like shells or buttons.

Seven picked up the bag and Chuck got the drinks. He sipped one and made a face.

‘I hate the vitaminized soda. But if we’re going to drink it, we might as well go for the
healthier stuff. Shoulda had them hit it with a shot of vanilla.’ He set the drinks in the
cup holders and unwrapped his taco.

Seven sipped the sweet drink that tasted mostly like Coke with a slightly medicinal

tang. He watched Chuck with the sandwich, trying to figure out how to eat it with the
least mess. The meat and cheese and lettuce and spicy sauce were all folded in a thick
piece of crispy bread. He saw Chuck had only unwrapped about half of it and was
eating his way to the paper. Seven did the same, and found he really liked it.

‘This is good.’
‘You picked pretty well, kiddo. It’s one of my favorites.’ Chuck washed down the

first half with a gulp of soda and peeled the paper down a little more. ‘We’ll be at the
folks’ at about suppertime.’ Seven must have looked as nervous as he felt because

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Chuck patted his shoulder. ‘They’ll like you. If they don’t, it won’t be a first, but it will
be unusual. Ma only ever disliked one of my boyfriends.’

‘Why?’ Seven asked. Then he added, ‘I’m your boyfriend?’
‘Yeah.’ Chuck flashed him a grin. ‘I thought you were. I don’t take every stray I

rescue home to meet Ma and Dad.’ He finished his pop. ‘Walks-softly-two-moons was a
stockbroker. Most folks called him Walker. Ma called him Walks-with-cell-phone. He
made a bad impression by never getting off the phone the whole visit.’

‘What happened? Between you, I mean.’
‘He answered the phone while we were having sex and responded with ‘oh nothing

much, what are you doing?’ That was when I knew we were over. I couldn’t live with
someone who was having a bigger affair with Bell Pacifica.’

Seven shook his head that anyone could possibly even think of answering the

phone while having sex with Chuck. His encounters had left him breathless and
inarticulate, a far cry from the ‘nothing much’ of the ex-Walker.

They paused at the rest area above Sheridan and Chuck checked his phone signal. ‘I

need to make a couple calls.’ Seven frowned as Chuck hit the speed dial. ‘Hey, Sarah,
Chuck Hummingbird here. I need to make a couple of appointments to see the doc. One
for me, one for a new patient, Seven McCullough.’ Seven listened as Chuck spelled his
last name. ‘Yeah, Tuesday will be great. Thanks.’ He went through the same with a
receptionist called Michelle, then closed the phone.

Seeing Seven’s frown, Chuck asked, ‘What, baby?’
‘One of those was your Dr. Mike. Who was the other?’
‘Dr. Singh. She’s my general practitioner. We’ll get you tested out, babe. And if

you’re clean and only doing me, you can have me bare.’

Seven sat and stuttered. The thought of Chuck, skin on bare skin, Chuck’s cock

entering him with nothing between them, sliding into Chuck, feeling him and only him,
left Seven shaking with the enormity of it. He swallowed hard. ‘I want that,’ he finally
managed.

Chuck nodded, ‘Me too. Never had it. I always wanted to wait for the right person.

Been waiting a long time.’ He glanced at Seven. ‘It’s been two years since I’ve been with
anybody at all.’

Seven bit his tongue to keep from asking why. He couldn’t believe this big sexy

man hadn’t been laid for two years until his pasty ass crossed his path.

Chuck saw and smiled. ‘Just haven’t met anyone I wanted to take to bed. Until

you.’

They watched a hawk soar on a thermal for a moment and Seven laid his head on

Chuck’s shoulder. ‘Thank you.’

Chuck stroked his hair. ‘Biggest blue eyes I ever saw. And so pretty.’ He grinned.

‘And I’m a sucker for a hard-luck case. Ma will tell you all about that.’ He played in

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Seven’s hair, twisting the slightly unruly curl above his ear. ‘Your hair’s getting long.
You gonna put it back like I do?’

Seven smiled. ‘Yeah. Once it gets long enough.’
Chuck pulled it back like a ponytail. ‘Getting there.’ He kissed the nape of Seven’s

neck.

Seven moaned. ‘One more time, before we face the folks?’ He looked up earnestly,

‘Just so I know I’m yours.’

Chuck climbed back into the cab. ‘Come on then.’ He pulled the curtains and

pressed Seven back onto the bunk. ‘All of you.’ He kissed Seven, teasing his lips, his
neck and sprinkling light touches on his cheeks and eyelids. He peeled away the thin
flannel shirt, too light for a Rocky Mountain winter, and licked at Seven’s chest before
sliding down to suck him.

Seven knew Chuck had to have had bigger lovers, lovers with better cocks than his

little worm. But Chuck always sucked it like it was the best thing he’d tasted, always
told him how gorgeous it was, so perfect for his mouth. Seven hoped he felt that way
when it went into his ass. He was going to make love to Chuck someday, after the
doctor’s visit, once they were safe in Seattle. But that plan went right out of his head
when Chuck did his favorite tongue trick, a sort of swirling trough. He came hard and
watched Chuck swallow, still not able to believe that sight either.

They lay quietly for a few minutes and Seven got to thinking about Seattle. The

very thought of another head-doctor made him shake. Chuck cuddled him in closer.

‘What is it, Seven?’
‘This Dr. Mike. He’s good, huh?’
Chuck nodded. ‘He is. You’re really scared about this, aren’t you?’
Seven drew a shaky breath. ‘If he brings out the injections and the electrodes, I’m

gone.’

‘None of that, I promise. I can’t say the same for Dr. Singh. She may think you need

vitamin shots or something. But the worst Mike will do is offer a prescription.’

‘Medicine?’ Seven looked even more scared.
‘Offer, not force, kiddo. Up to you if you think you need it.’
Seven relaxed a little. ‘Okay. I’ll try.’
‘He’ll listen,’ Chuck said. ‘He’ll talk a little. He’ll make some suggestions.’ It

dawned on him. ‘I can go with you, if you want?’

‘Please?’ Seven clutched him a little tighter.
‘Sure.’ Chuck kissed him softly. ‘Seven, I’ve been seeing Dr. Mike off and on for six

years. He’s helped me a lot. I wouldn’t take you to anyone that would hurt you.’

‘I trust you.’ To his surprise, Seven found he actually meant that. He pulled his

clothes on while Chuck made another call.

‘Ma and Dad expect us in for supper,’ he announced.

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Seven dropped his sneaker. Parents. And so soon. He was still nervous. He bent to

pick it up.

‘Babe, they’re just folks. They aren’t ogres gonna eat you for dinner.’ Chuck buckled

his own belt. They checked the truck and started out on the last few hundred miles.

‘I don’t want them to hate me.’ Seven looked at his worn jeans. ‘Is this okay? Should

I get new clothes?’

‘Yeah, we’ll hit a store on the way. You’re looking a little frayed.’
Seven smiled, remembering Chuck’s first impulse in the Kentucky rest area. ‘I

should burn these.’

Chuck shot him a grin. ‘And ride naked?’
Seven laughed and blushed and then felt very bold. ‘Maybe on you.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Chuck gave a huge grin, then reached up and blew a loud whaaa-

whooonk on the air horn. Seven jumped and laughed some more. ‘Ride ‘m, cowboy.’
For good measure, he added in his best Hollywood tone, ‘Get ‘m up, Scout.’

Seven laughed until he gasped for air. He wiped mirth-tears off his face and smiled

for several more miles. Every now and then he’d giggle at the mental image of him in a
black mask and red neckerchief riding Chuck, waving a white hat in the air with one
hand like a bronco rider.

Chuck took it in stride. ‘We’ll shop in Billings. It’s cheaper than Seattle.’ He winked.

‘And I know a great store.’

Seven took a big breath. ‘Yeah? You gonna dress me now? Not happy with bossing

me around and screwing me through the mattress? How about a leash?’ he teased.

Chuck grinned. ‘Blue to match your eyes. And little black posing pouch with your

name on it in gold embroidery.’

Seven leaned across the gap in the seats and kissed his cheek. ‘Good. But I’m not

wearing them to dinner.’

‘Of course not.’
They pulled into Billings, and Chuck got permission to drop the trailer. That tugged

at Seven. They’d been through so much for that trailer full of cotton that leaving it on a
public lot, even with a kingpin lock to prevent theft, seemed like an abandonment. They
showered, enjoying the hot water after days of beard-towelettes and baby wipes. Seven
put on his last clean shirt and pants.

Chuck bobtailed them into the parking lot of the megastore and parked them. Seven

stared. They’d had big retailers back in Heartland, but mom-and-pop stores were more
encouraged. Chuck seemed to know where he was going and led them straight to the
men’s section.

While Seven looked, Chuck tugged at the size tag on the back of his jeans. Getting

the measurements, Chuck pulled three jeans and a pair of slacks in Seven’s size and a
pair of jeans in his own.

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‘Grab yourself about four long-sleeved shirts,’ Chuck said as he added two

packages of socks and two of underwear to the cart.

Seven picked out three heavy flannel shirts in his usual size. He tried one on over

his current shirt and it still billowed a little.

‘Gonna grow into them, huh?’ Chuck teased. ‘Try going down a size.’ That shirt

was too tight, so Chuck relented. ‘I’ll have to feed you up.’ He found a blue button-
down shirt on the rack. ‘This would be great with your eyes.’

Seven held it against his chest. ‘Wear it tonight?’
Chuck nodded. ‘Definitely. Talk about a good first impression.’ He picked up a

shirt to replace his lost favorite and then headed for the shoes. ‘I hate breaking in new
boots.’

Seven watched as Chuck tried on several pairs of cowboy boots before settling on

some very basic brown ones. He glanced at the ones in his size, unsure he was up to
wearing them.

‘You want a pair? Your sneaks are looking a little battered.’
Seven glanced at the three-digit price tag and shook his head. ‘They’re a lot of

money.’ His dad would have blown a gasket at the tag. Back home, he could have
dressed the whole family for a season with what the boots cost and had enough left
over to get the tractor serviced as well. Seven wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that much
money in one place. And he knew Chuck didn’t have it in the wallet.

Chuck smiled. ‘I can afford it. Just make sure they’re comfortable.’
Reassured, Seven tried on a few, not sure he liked the feeling. Finally, he found a

pair that hugged his feet and felt great around his ankles. He set the box with the black
boots in the cart.

‘Very sharp.’
‘Black will go with anything.’
‘Yeah, and I’m thinking tight black jeans, a black leather jacket and a t-shirt that

matches your eyes,’ Chuck said, his face eager and hungry. He detoured them through
the jeans again and got a pair that was a half-inch tighter than Seven usually wore. ‘One
last thing.’

He went to the coat section. ‘It gets a lot colder up here than in Iowa.’ This time, he

picked out a black leather jacket with a thickly quilted fleece lining, matching gloves
and a hat. Seven didn’t even want to think about the grand total.

‘Thank you,’ he said very quietly, a little awed by Chuck’s whirlwind shopping.
‘Welcome. Now let’s check out, because if I have to wait more than five minutes to

kiss you, I’m going to go nuts.’

‘All the kissing you want in the truck,’ Seven promised. Anything at all Chuck

wanted, he promised himself.

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Chuck gave a heavy sigh. ‘I can hold out. But barely.’ Seven smiled, knowing some

of it was an act, but Chuck really did seem to be getting more antsy as they got closer to
the register.

Seven’s jaw dropped when Chuck swiped a piece of plastic and then tapped with a

stylus. ‘The mark,’ he gasped before he realized what he’d said.

‘What?’ Chuck looked at him, confused. ‘It’s only a credit card. Well, a debit card.’

He licked his thumb and pressed it to the screen for the DNA and thumbprint
confirmation. The cashier handed him some bills and the screen got hot before he
remembered to pull his thumb away so it could self-sterilize for the next customer.

‘And all, rich and poor, great and small, received a mark on their head or hand and

they could not buy or sell or do any business without it,’ Seven quoted.

Chuck rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a stupid debit card. I use it instead of writing paper

checks. It works just the same, except my signature is my thumbprint.’ Seven stood
there. ‘Get the bags. You ever see your folks write a check?’

Seven picked up the clothes he wasn’t sure he wanted anymore. Maybe the church

was right. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen checks.’

Chuck explained, very patiently. ‘A check is a letter to the bank saying ‘pay this

person from my account’. My card is the same thing, except it’s an e-mail to the bank.
Just faster, and since MasterCard backs it up, I can use it in most countries.’

Seven thought it over. Chuck made sense. ‘Just a plastic check. Okay.’ They hiked

back to the cab and set the purchases in before climbing up.

Chuck kissed him. ‘I know you still have a lot of religious baggage, kiddo. It’s

inevitable. Now get out of those ratty things and into your fine new clothes. Regular
jeans. Save the black for me.’

Seven stripped down to the skin. ‘Five minutes first?’
‘Only if I can watch,’ Chuck grinned.
Seven licked his lips. ‘Not watching.’ He straddled Chuck’s lap. ‘Five minutes,

starting now.’ He wrapped his arms around Chuck’s neck and kissed him, shoving
impatiently at Chuck’s lips with his tongue, rubbing his already-hard cock against
Chuck’s belly.

Seven dug his hands into Chuck’s black hair, devouring his mouth, licking at his

neck and pressing his whole body against his lover. He lost track of time, thrusting hard
against Chuck’s thigh, and as he came, it took a minute to realize the ringing wasn’t in
his ears.

Chuck stilled him and covered his lips with one finger. ‘Yeah, Ma. We finished

shopping. We’ll be there soon.’

Seven laughed as Chuck hung up. ‘At least you didn’t say nothing much.’
Chuck kissed him. ‘She says to get our butts up there before she burns the potatoes.’
Still laughing, Seven got off his lap and wiped up with a wet-wipe before dressing.

Chuck changed too, the two of them tangling around each other in the tight space.

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Seven realized he’d never laughed as much in his life as he had in these days with
Chuck. And now he was Chuck’s boyfriend. That meant he was being kept.

He ran a comb through his hair once he finished dressing. Chuck looked him over,

boots, jeans, blue shirt and leather jacket.

‘Sexy, sexy.’
‘Yeah, but am I presentable?’
‘Hop down and catch yourself in the east-coast mirror.’
Seven looked at himself in the large panel mirror on the passenger side. He looked

really good, even if he did need a haircut. The nice sort of boy to bring home to the
folks. He hoped Chuck’s folks would think so.

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Chapter Thirteen

As they pulled onto McBride, and drove up the hill, Seven fretted a little. Chuck

kept driving, his calmness steadying Seven. He turned around at the dead end and
parked in front of a large cream-colored house with chocolate trim.

Seven took a deep breath. He could do this. Chuck leaned over and kissed him.
‘Just be yourself, kiddo.’
Linda Hummingbird stood in the doorway, hands on her hips and a mock scowl on

her face. ‘About time you boys got here. Any longer and dinner wouldn’t be fit to eat.’
Seven flinched at the sharpness, but Chuck laughed and hugged his mother.

‘You know how it is, Ma. Comanches, landslides, poisoned water holes. We had a

rough trip.’

‘Go on with you.’ She swatted Chuck as he headed in the door. Linda turned and

beamed at Seven. ‘Hello, Seven. Chuck’s told us a little about you. It’s very nice to meet
you.’

Seven extended his hand. ‘Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Hummingbird.’ He shook and

followed Chuck into the living room, where a man who looked remarkably like an
older version of Chuck stood up.

‘You must be Seven.’ He extended his hand.
Seven shook it. ‘Yeah. Hi. Um…hello.’
Chuck’s dad had the same smile as his son. ‘Charles Hummingbird, but Chuck’s

already told you that, I’m sure. Go wash up. Dinner’s ready and Linda’s getting antsy.’
He went to help set out the meal.

Chuck was washing when Seven found the bathroom by the sound of running

water. He’d looked around, enjoying seeing the pictures of Chuck as a kid and a teen on
the walls.

‘You still okay?’ Chuck asked.
‘Yeah, I’m good.’ He took his turn washing, enjoying the hot water. The

monogrammed towels fluffed over his hands as he dried. ‘It’s a nice place.’

Chuck stole a kiss. ‘Let’s go eat. Ma and Dad are great cooks.’
The table held a roasted chicken, stuffing, peas, a salad and sweet potatoes. Seven

sat down, realizing it was the first meal he’d had in a real kitchen, at a real table, in over
two years. He flinched when the elder Hummingbirds folded their hands and bowed
their heads, but noticed Chuck did the same out of respect. He braced, but Charles only
said a thank-you for the food and for their safe journey addressed to a generic God. He
could handle that.

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The first few minutes were quiet as they passed the food. Charles carved the

chicken with the calm air of a man who did this regularly. ‘Dark or light, Seven?’ he
asked, sliding a leg and thigh onto Chuck’s plate.

‘White, please,’ Seven said. Charles laid two neat slices of chicken breast on his

plate. Seven helped himself to a moderate-sized serving of dressing and the vegetables.
He was hungry, even though he’d been eating steadily for the last few days, but didn’t
want to look like a pig. The chicken melted in his mouth, tasting of garlic and herbs and
wine. He looked amazed.

‘This is really good, ma’am,’ he said to Linda.
She rolled her eyes. ‘And now he ‘ma’am’s me.’ She smiled at Seven, who blushed

and stopped eating. ‘Sorry, Seven, around here ‘ma’am’ is over seventy. He has better
manners than you do, Chuck.’

Chuck grinned and helped himself to more sweet potatoes.
Linda’s face lost all its humor. ‘And if you don’t think that little stunt of yours

caused some international trouble, you just better think again, mister. The office has
been insane all week.’

‘Sorry, Ma,’ Chuck said, sounding sincere.
Seven was startled at how fast the tiny woman could reduce his lover to a

misbehaving eight-year-old. ‘My fault entirely,’ he put in.

She smiled at Seven again. ‘Not at all. I told Elizabeth this was a bad idea, that we

should hire all white drivers to make the run. But my idiot son gets a case of the macho
and had to go try to count coup like he’s Attakullakulla.’

‘Famous Cherokee warrior,’ Chuck supplied, seeing Seven’s puzzlement. ‘He took

five hundred men into battle for George Washington.’

Linda passed more stuffing Seven’s way. ‘I’m glad you were along to bail him out.’
Charles changed the subject. ‘So, Seven, what do your folks do?’
‘They’re farmers. Have been for generations. We have about eighty acres in central

Iowa.’

‘My grandparents were as well.’ Charles smiled. ‘They grew corn and sunflowers,

squash and beans. We’ve been city folk for a couple generations now and I keep killing
Linda’s rock garden. So, you were planning to be as well?’

‘I don’t think I planned it. They always assumed I would take over. But it didn’t

work out that way.’

Linda nodded. ‘Yes, Chuck filled us in a little. I’m sorry you had such a dreadful

experience.’ She passed more peas Seven’s way. ‘You aren’t the first stray he’s brought
home.’

Seven smiled at her and took thirds on the peas. ‘I’ve heard there were a few.’
‘Ma…’ Chuck rolled his eyes, and Seven was struck by the resemblance to his

mother. Chuck’s physical appearance might be his father’s, but his mannerisms were
pure Linda.

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‘But you are the most articulate,’ she said, pretending not to hear him. ‘He’s sweet,

Chuck. Hang on to this one.’

Feeling bold at the approval, Seven put his hand on Chuck’s knee under the table.

Chuck covered it with his own and made small talk about the town and people they
knew. Chuck checked the clock.

‘Ma, don’t you have Altar Guild tonight? Or did they move that again?’
Seven concentrated on worrying the end of the chicken from the carcass. He didn’t

want to be preached at tonight.

‘We moved it to Thursdays. Hannah is pregnant and goes to the doctor on

Tuesdays. She and Mother are very excited. Mother Vivian would love to have you visit
while you’re here.’

‘I’ll go by tomorrow and give them my best. Who’s the donor?’
Seven wasn’t sure he was following the conversation, but listened anyway as they

discussed the priest’s wife, her due date and the choirmaster who’d donated. It was all
very strange.

Linda made a face. ‘I’d skip if it was tonight. I think we’re embroidering choir stoles

this week. I hate satin stitch.’

Chuck set his silverware in his plate and grinned at her. ‘I’d go for that.’
‘Seven,’ Linda noticed he was cleaning up the end of the sweet potatoes, ‘doesn’t

Chuck feed you? Silly question, he eats those nasty meal pouches. There’s some cake for
dessert.’

‘It’s delicious,’ Seven said. ‘I haven’t had anything like this in…’ he hesitated, ‘a

long time.’

‘So, Seven, any hobbies?’ Charles asked, getting the cake from the refrigerator.
‘I draw a bit when I can. Nothing much really. Just doodling.’
‘Don’t believe him, Dad. He’s brilliant. And he made a flotilla of origami swans that

sail my dashboard now. Keeps the rattling down.’

‘Art is always a good one. I keep telling Chuck he needs a good hobby.’ Charles set

out slabs of rich-looking chocolate cake.

‘I have one. Rescuing strays.’ Chuck laughed and Seven laughed with him. ‘I read

and sometimes I do needlework. That’s enough. And I work with the center.’

Linda perked up. ‘How is that going? I heard they were expanding the youth

shelter to fifty beds. I know Mother and the guild kicked in.’

Seven took a bite of the cake, which was as tasty as it looked, and listened with

interest. Chuck had mentioned the gay youth shelter in Seattle. He wondered if he’d
end up there.

‘Oh yes. That was generous enough to let them go to fifty-five and put up a plaque

in you ladies’ honor. There’s about thirty kids in long-term residence. The other twenty-
five beds are pretty much short-timers that reconcile with their folks.’

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Seven said softly, ‘Too bad someone can’t camp outside the hospital to pick up the

discharges.’

Linda looked very sad and Charles seemed to be thinking far too much about the

simple statement. ‘If Heartland weren’t a sovereign nation, we would. Two-spirits are
needed here in the Tribal Lands.’

A light dawned across Charles’s face. ‘Linda, can’t you talk to Annie over in the

Heartland office and get some folks put on staff who can get the discharges across the
border? What’s the hospital name, son?’

‘It’s a thought,’ Linda said, ‘but I know there are hospitals all over the country that

do it.’

Chuck looked at her. ‘Ma, what was it you always said? ‘It matters to this one.’ You

know, the starfish story.’

‘Peaceful Valley Hospital and Sanatorium,’ Seven supplied. ‘It’s officially a

tuberculosis recovery center.’

Linda sighed and looked at her husband and son. ‘I’ll suggest it. I make no

promises.’

Charles gave a soft chuckle. ‘We may get an underground railroad started yet.’
‘That’d be awesome. Because walking out of there into nothing isn’t fun,’ Seven

said.

Chuck shook his head. ‘Quakers and Anglicans. Always making trouble.’ His voice

was good humored and teasing. ‘First you threaten the Massachusetts theocracy, then
you start abolitionism. Then you undermine the church and marriage with women and
gays, and now you’re back to running an underground railroad.’ He gave a mock sigh.
‘What am I going to do with you? I’m sorry, Seven, my folks are radical do-gooders,’ he
said, in tones that suggested they’d fallen into the hands of the completely insane.

Linda laughed, but she did thump Chuck with the handle of the spatula as she

passed. ‘Brat.’ She looked at Seven who laughed as hard as Charles. ‘Seven, I’ve made
up the guestroom for you.’

‘Okay. Thank you.’ He glanced at Chuck, wondering if he heard right, worried that

they were going to get split up.

Chuck shrugged. ‘Sorry, kiddo, my bed’s a single.’
Charles leaned over and stage-whispered to Seven, ‘And it still has horsy sheets.’
Seven snickered, remembering the choo-choo trains on his own bed in Heartland.

Some things about parents were universal.

Linda checked the clock and stepped into a pair of good shoes and freshened her

makeup in the hall mirror. ‘The guest bed is a double, but it is right across from our
room and I’d rather not eavesdrop. I have a late call. The high chief has a video meeting
with some VIPs from overseas. I’ll be home late.’

‘Thank you again,’ Seven said.

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Linda kissed Charles and Chuck and hesitated a moment. Then she pecked Seven

on the cheek and wiped away the lipstick smudge with her thumb. When the purr of
the Bubblemobile was out of range, Charles took out a pipe.

‘Chuck, do you want some?’
‘Yeah. Sev?’ Chuck picked up one of the small clay pipes from the drawer and

offered it to Seven. ‘Been a while since I had any.’

Seven nodded and took the pipe. ‘Yeah. Haven’t smoked in months.’ He tamped

down the nut inexpertly.

Chuck caught his hand. ‘That’s not entirely tobacco. It’s DreamStuff. If you dream,

tonight, write it down. It will be important.’ His hand was much more practiced as he lit
the small amount of stuff in the bowl.

Seven, unsure what he was getting, took an experimental draw. The little pipe drew

hot and harsh and he coughed. Chuck only took a few puffs. Seven took the hint and
stopped after four himself. Chuck leaned over and kissed him with a mouthful of
smoke, passing it as they kissed. Seven started to moan, but cut it off. He saw Chuck
had let his pipe go out and followed suit.

Charles chuckled. ‘Don’t be telling your mom I let you dream-journey tonight. She

thinks I’m sliding into paganism as it is.’

‘It’s just culture, Dad. And Seven needs it.’
‘I’ll clean up in here. If you boys want to make love, now would be good. Linda will

be in late.’

Chuck dropped the pipe, looking more shocked than Seven had ever seen him.

‘Dad!’

‘We’re all adults. Is there any reason to be coy?’ Charles asked. Seven stared

between father and son with wide eyes. ‘I can tell by the way you two look at each other
that you’re serious. I’m just saying, I’ll stay on this end of the house and let you have
some privacy.’

Seven tugged urgently at Chuck’s shirt, feeling his head starting to swim and

knowing if he didn’t kiss the man, he would explode right there. He thought he would
scream in frustration when Chuck helped his dad finish stacking the dishes.

Then Chuck kissed him and it was no kiss ever before and every kiss ever after and

all he ever needed to live as they breathed for each other. He clung to Chuck, needing
the support and never wanting this to end.

Chuck broke it and looked down at him, staring into his eyes. Seven thought he

could get lost in Chuck’s black eyes, black of night and space and sleep, with nothing
evil in them like he always thought the night would have.

‘One puff too many, kiddo,’ Chuck said. He looked at Charles. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ He

guided Seven down a hall that seemed far too long, stealing kisses, his hands sliding
into the pocket of Seven’s jeans to feel his ass, and then up the back of his shirt.

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They shut the door to the guestroom and Chuck kissed him again, working the

buttons on his shirt and jeans to shove them out of the way. Seven fumbled with
Chuck’s own clothes.

‘Gonna go quick,’ he said as he got Chuck’s jeans open and ran his fingers over the

hard, cotton-covered cock that bulged out of the zipper.

Chuck peeled and stretched out on the bed. He had the presence of mind to put a

condom on and hand the lube bottle to Seven, but otherwise he focused on a spot
somewhere to the left of the ceiling light. His cock stood straight up instead of lying
along his belly as it usually did when hard and Seven had to have it right then.

He rubbed a little lube on and climbed over top of Chuck, settling himself down

onto Chuck’s cock with nothing more than a soft sigh. He leaned forward and kissed
Chuck. Chuck’s mouth moved very slowly on his and the dreamy look wasn’t gone
from his eyes.

Seven rode him, posting up and down on his cock, lying atop him and rocking,

thrusting with his hips. He shot all over Chuck’s stomach and carefully slid off to lick it
clean, only to see that Chuck had come already, but was still hard.

Seven grinned up at him. ‘I get another.’
‘Anything you want to do.’ Chuck stroked his hair. ‘C’mere, need to suck you a

little.’ Seven slid up and Chuck moved down to suck him. It wasn’t a purposeful
blowjob, rather a light touch of lips and tongue. Chuck seemed to be playing with his
cock, using his mouth, and Seven found himself sliding into the same dreamy state. It
took him a long time to come from this.

When he did, Chuck was still hard, but his eyes were more focused. He rolled them

onto their sides and curled around Seven. ‘Let me make love to you,’ he whispered.
‘Love you like you always should have been.’

Seven startled at the words from his dream, then relaxed. He was safe here. ‘Oh,

yes.’

Chuck spooned in closer and slid into him without any pain at all. All Seven heard,

after the rustle of packaging, were whispers of how much Chuck loved him, how sweet
he was. He had never imagined anything could be so intense. It wasn’t the painful
intensity that had sometimes left him clawing at mattresses and tile trying to get away,
but a wash of love and gentleness that rolled over him like a wave. He could only gasp
out ‘yes’ and make desperate little sounds in his throat as Chuck moved. He wasn’t
hard again, but this felt too good to be real.

‘I love you,’ Chuck said softly, kissing his neck and ear and shoulder and cheek,

anything he could reach. He pressed in deep, clutching Seven tightly and shuddered as
he came.

‘Love you,’ Seven echoed, reaching for the tissues beside the bed. He didn’t want to

leave Chuck to go wash up. He was almost asleep, Chuck’s big body still wrapped
around him.

‘Seven. Oh Seven,’ Chuck whispered, waking him up. ‘The folks really like you.’

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‘I like them too.’ He nuzzled Chuck’s arm and Chuck kissed him.
‘Sleepy,’ Chuck mumbled. ‘The stuff always does that.’
‘It’s good. Gonna go dream now.’ Seven nestled in.
‘Mmmhmmm,’ Chuck murmured, almost there himself.

* * * * *

Seven stands on a rocky outcropping at dawn. He recognizes it as the one in the Upper

Pasture, where they take the cows in June and August. Below him, a snake rests on a sandy
bank. The snake’s skin is cloudy and its eyes are blue, like his own.

As he watches, it rubs against a rock, working at something. Slowly, the dull skin peels back,

dead and drab. The snake slithers out, his scales in a red and yellow pattern that Seven
recognizes as Chuck’s tattoo. He watches as the sun rises, fascinated by the process of renewal.

The snake isn’t poisonous, he knows this. He knows it will never hurt him, because it’s

really Chuck. And it gleams shiny and new, the red and yellow scales bright as it basks in the
morning sun for a minute and then slithers off.

Seven sits and smiles, basking a little in the sun himself. The old snakeskin crumbles and

blows away as he watches.

Seven woke up. It was late morning by the light. He heard male voices from the

kitchen. He pulled his sleep-pants on and slipped down the hallway.

‘He’s a great guy, Chuck,’ he heard Charles saying. ‘I like Seven. I just worry that

you’re moving too fast. I think you feel you owe him your life and that’s clouding
everything right now.’

‘Dad, he owes me the same. He was going to try swimming the river to get into the

Lands.’

Seven heard the clink of china. ‘A life-debt between you is not the best basis for a

relationship, son. And he’s white.’

‘Dad!’ Chuck’s voice grew sharp. ‘I can’t believe you’re holding that against him.’
‘I’m just saying mixed marriages aren’t always the wisest, regardless of what you’re

mixing. Marrying outside your culture, especially marrying someone who doesn’t
understand your culture, has the potential to be as disastrous as if you tried marrying a
woman.’

‘Nobody’s talking marriage,’ Chuck mumbled.
‘Oh, and what were you going to do? Take him to Seattle, dump him on the shelter

lawn and say ‘so long, kiddo’? Or were you planning to keep him with you until it went
sour and then abandon him in a city he doesn’t know?’

Seven slipped back down the hall and ran himself a shower. He felt very uneasy

now. He would never let Chuck know he’d overheard, but he did wonder what the
plan was.

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‘Morning, babe,’ Chuck greeted him, lifting his coffee cup as Seven walked into the

kitchen a while later. He looked over the top of the Gazette. ‘There are some pancakes in
the oven.’

Seven got his breakfast and sat next to Chuck. ‘I had a weird dream. Kind of scary.’
‘Yeah? I got a visit from Grandmother Owl. She comes to me sometimes.’
Seven told him about the snake. ‘It was weird, because I knew I should be scared, a

snake and all, but I wasn’t. Snakes are evil. And since it was you, it means you’re
tempting me to evil. And I don’t want to think that.’

Chuck sipped his coffee. ‘Are you so sure about that?’
‘Uh-huh. Snakes are cursed. They lost their legs for tempting humanity.’ Seven

shuddered, horrified to hear his religious baggage coming out of his mouth. ‘Oh crap.
Religion getting me again.’

‘I think Mother Vivian would be better to talk to on that point. You game?’ Chuck

asked, washing out his cup.

Remembering what he’d heard about the minister and her wife, Seven nodded.

‘Yeah.’

‘Mother Vivian doesn’t walk the old paths, but she has a good working knowledge

and respects the old ways. And I need to see her anyway.’

Chuck made a phone call as they walked to the bus stop. They caught the bus to St.

Andrew’s, Seven getting a little nervous on the ride, and Chuck greeted the pregnant
lady at the secretary’s desk. Her copper skin glowed and her green eyes smiled as much
as her mouth when she saw them.

‘Congratulations, Hannah. When are you due?’
‘March. It’s a girl. Good to see you, Chuck. You gotta get home more often.’

Hannah smiled. ‘Viv’s waiting.’

‘Thanks.’ Chuck led the way into the priest’s office. Seven clutched his hand, having

sat through more than one lecture in a room like this. To his surprise, Mother Vivian, a
completely average-looking lady, smiled up at them as they entered the book-lined
room. Her brown ponytail bounced as she looked up over her half-moon glasses from
the paper she was writing. A framed picture of her and the secretary, kissing under a
rose arbor, sat on the desk. Seven swallowed hard.

‘Chuck, what a nice surprise.’ She took off her glasses. ‘Have a seat, gentlemen.’
Chuck sat down. ‘Hello, Mother. This is Seven. We’re having theological questions.’
‘Nice to meet you, Seven.’ She nodded his direction. ‘Questions are what I’m for. I

don’t guarantee answers, though.’ She smiled.

‘Nice to meet you, ma’am.’ Seven decided he liked Mother Vivian. Most preachers

seemed to think they had all the answers to everything.

‘So tell me about the questions.’

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Seven told her about the dream, the snake and the pattern and all of it. ‘But I wasn’t

afraid…and I don’t even like snakes. They’re cursed.’

Mother Vivian nodded. ‘What you had, Seven, is what Chuck’s faith tradition calls

a Spirit Dream. The snake is only a symbol. And none of God’s creatures are cursed.
God made them all and pronounced them good, remember?’

‘So it’s not bad?’ Seven felt more relieved now.
‘Not at all. In most traditions, the snake is a symbol of wisdom, and oddly enough,

female wisdom. Which is why, when they wrote Genesis, the patriarchs felt the need to
denigrate it. They wanted their wisdom heard, not that of the other religions, and
especially not that of the priestesses who talked to snakes.’

Seven looked at her, horrified that a minister would not think Genesis descended

from the mouth of God to the pen of Moses. He was shocked to think it had been
written with politics and religious power in mind. A little thought that people were the
same in all times and places nudged into his head. ‘Wisdom…’

Mother continued. ‘And dreaming of a snake shedding its skin, that’s always a sign

of new life.’ She glanced at the tattoo he no longer bothered to hide. ‘I can only imagine
that applies a great deal to you right now.’ Seven nodded and she went on. ‘Seven, I
don’t know what path you follow, so I’m going to come at this from mine and from
Chuck’s. God is telling you your life is going to change, and that if you listen to
wisdom, wherever you find it, it’s going to be beautiful.’

Seven smiled hugely. ‘That helps. Just look for the wisdom.’
‘Exactly,’ Mother Vivian nodded. ‘And don’t miss the beauty either.’ A mischievous

twinkle came into her brown eyes and she gave Chuck a grin. ‘So, are you going to let
me do the wedding, Chuck?’ she teased.

Chuck stammered a little and laughed it off. ‘We aren’t that far along yet, Mother.’

Seven nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly with that statement.

Mother smiled, licked her lips and looked wise and a little snakelike herself. ‘I think

the word I heard most was ‘yet’. So, is there anything else I can help you with?’

Chuck thought a second. ‘Um, got a booklet back there on how Christians don’t

have to hate gays? Heartland…well, you know.’

‘I know.’ Mother rummaged in a wooden filing cabinet and came up with a booklet.

‘Do your best, Seven. And try not to hate those who claim to share my faith too much?’

Seven glanced quickly through the book, seeing it had Bible passages, stories he’d

known all his life in it, Phillip and the Ethiopian eunuch, Jesus healing the Centurion’s
servant. He flinched a little at David and Jonathan. He didn’t see any of the ugly verses
so often used to clobber him.

‘I don’t want to hate anyone, Mother,’ he said. ‘And I’m trying not to.’
She smiled. ‘Good. Because God, the Lady, the Divine, the Cosmos—whatever you

want to call the life-energy that surrounds us—loves you and made you unique and
special. Regardless of what anyone who claims to speak for God says.’

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Seven smiled. ‘Thank you.’
She stood up and offered her hand to Chuck. ‘You call your mama more often, you

hear? And don’t go pulling those stupid hero runs again.’ She offered it to Seven. He
shook. ‘And I know that if it wasn’t for you, neither of you would be sitting here asking
me theological questions. You’re a good, brave man. And it is a real pleasure to have
met you.’ Seven blushed a little. ‘And I mean it about the wedding. I can do a
traditional ceremony.’

Chuck smiled widely and laughed. ‘Mother, trust us, you’ll be the third to know.

Mom and Dad get dibs on that news.’ After too long of a pause, he added, ‘If and when
I ever do get married.’

‘Best blessings on you, boys,’ she said, holding up both hands. Seven followed

Chuck’s lead and made a little bow as they left, considerably easier in his mind about
his new life.

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Chapter Fourteen

Chuck parked the Hummingbird in the lot of the petroleum shipper. He took a few

minutes to bundle up his stuff, then glanced at Seven. Seven had already filled his
backpack and put on his jacket.

‘We’ll catch a late trolley.’ Chuck locked everything down and made a last walk-

around.

‘You have trolleys too?’ Seven stared in surprise. They were common in Heartland,

but seemed like such an old-fashioned thing in this shiny modern city.

‘We have a lot of mass transit. Cars are strongly discouraged in the city. Really high

taxes, monthly parking fees even for your own driveway and gas is fifteen a gallon.’
Seven whistled under his breath. Even in Heartland, gasoline had been only seven
dollars a gallon. Diesel was a lot cheaper, only three. ‘Trolleys and buses run all night.
Slide-walks and subways are pretty popular. There’s light-rail in from the suburbs.
Most of the stuff is solar-battery powered.’ He glanced up at the cloud-cover with a wry
grin. ‘Our sun farms are out by Yakima and so are the battery plants that make them
and recharge them.’

Seven listened and walked with Chuck to the trolley-stand four blocks away. After

all those hours in the truck, it felt good to get out and move. The bright red car pulled
up and Chuck paid their fare.

They transferred to an orange car and then walked toward a high-rise apartment on

the west side of town. Chuck stopped about a block away. ‘A lot of people around the
building. I’m not sure what the problem is.’

They walked up slowly and saw the microphones and mini-cameras of the crowd of

reporters. As soon as one of the crowd saw Chuck, they started clamoring. Seven
clutched Chuck’s arm and tried to duck behind him.

‘Mr. Hummingbird! Mr. Hummingbird! Can you tell us about the incident with the

Confederated States? Is it true you were almost executed?’ Questions hurled at them
like rocks and Seven wanted to bury himself inside Chuck’s big shearling-lined suede
coat.

Chuck smiled and elbowed his way through without seeming to be rude. One big

arm encircled Seven, drawing him along so that the reporters couldn’t separate them.
Once he had his back to the door, Chuck scooted Seven a little farther behind him and
faced the reporters.

‘All your questions should go to Linda Hummingbird at the Tribal Lands Embassy.

She has the prepared statement ready.’

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‘We don’t want a prepared statement,’ a cub reporter from the back yelled. ‘Did you

really end up almost executed?’

‘Speak with the embassy, please. We just got in after ten days on the road and

would like some rest.’ Chuck had punched the security codes to his building without
looking and shoved Seven through the door, shutting it in the reporters’ faces.

Seven shook all the way up the elevator and wouldn’t let go of Chuck. ‘That—oh

God.’ Chuck kissed him until they reached the twenty-fifth floor, which steadied him
more. The walls were clean. The tile floors gleamed. Smells of cooking—at least Seven
assumed it was cooking—came from the apartments they passed. He’d never smelled
anything like them, sweet and savory and making his stomach growl, even though he
didn’t know what it was.

Chuck licked his thumb and put it over a pad, then punched seven digits into the

keypad. The door opened for them and the lights came up before they went in. Seven
shook his head.

‘What happens if there’s a blackout?’ he had to ask. ‘Are you locked in? Are you

locked out?’

‘Building has its own emergency solar batteries. Nobody’s ever gotten trapped in

sixty years, so I’m guessing we’re safe enough.’ Chuck slung his laundry bag next to the
washer. ‘So this is the place, home sweet home.’

Seven looked around the kitchen, living room and utility closet. ‘Oh, wow, it’s…’
‘Small,’ Chuck supplied.
‘Yeah.’
‘Big enough for one. Not sure how two is gonna do.’ Chuck read the instructions

posted on the wall and reprogrammed the lock. ‘Put your thumb here.’

‘I’ve managed so far to not take up too much space.’ Seven put his thumb on the

pad and let it scan him. Chuck gave him the seven-digit lock code.

‘We do fine in the cab. Bathroom here.’ Chuck showed him the little room, big

enough for a toilet, shower stall and sink. ‘You can have dibs on the shower if you let
me take a leak first.’ Chuck continued the tour. ‘Kitchen—the fridge is empty, of
course.’ Seven looked at the two-burner stove and the refrigerator that fit under a
cabinet. ‘Front room, and this makes up for it all.’ He opened the balcony blinds,
revealing the amazing view of Puget Sound. A couple of plastic chairs sat on the tiny
balcony.

Seven gaped. He knew what he was going to be drawing and painting. ‘Amazing. If

you can stand all my papers around everywhere, you’ll never get rid of me.’

Chuck grinned. ‘Good.’ He showed Seven an odd niche near the door where the

bedroom wall protruded into the living room. ‘Good light, and it should be big enough
for an easel and a desk.’

Seven stared even more. ‘My own studio!’ He flung his arms around Chuck and

kissed him long and hard. ‘Thank you.’

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‘Want to take that into the bedroom?’ Chuck opened the door. The queen-sized bed

filled most of the room. There was a very large closet.

‘Every good apartment complex comes with a playground,’ Seven teased. ‘How

often are you here?’

‘On my usual run, about three days a week. I make one run out to Great Falls a

week and I take it slow.’ Seven nodded slowly, worrying he wouldn’t see much of
Chuck. ‘We get you licensed, we can be home four days and work three, or even five
and two if we push it hard.’

Seven felt more relieved. ‘That’s perfect. Might want to take some classes or

something.’

‘Yeah.’ Chuck looked him over. ‘How much school did you get anyway?’
‘Eighth grade diploma. Dad said I didn’t need more to farm and made me finish

then.’

‘We can arrange a GED if you want and some community college classes. But we’ll

work on that Monday. I’m starving.’

Seven nodded. Chuck checked the security feed from the front of the building. The

reporters were still hovering.

‘I think we call in delivery. You like pizza?’
Seven’s eyes got big. ‘I love pizza.’
Chuck smiled and picked up the phone. ‘How long’s it been since you had really

good pizza?’

Seven shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it. They’d gone out for it with

Bruce’s friends a couple months before the night in the campaign office. The other guys
had ordered the supreme, which had onions. He hated onions on his pizza.

‘No onions,’ he said. Then he added, ‘Please?’
‘How does pepperoni, Canadian bacon and mushroom sound?’
‘Like I’ve died and gone to heaven.’ When Chuck hung up, Seven came in close and

wrapped his arms around Chuck’s neck. ‘Yep. Took me out of Hell and brought me to
heaven on the wings of a hummingbird.’

Chuck kissed him. ‘Poke around until the ‘za gets here. You might measure that

alcove for a desk. I’m gonna start the laundry, then grab a shower.’

Seven looked around Chuck’s place. It really was a nice apartment, way up, though.

Pretty sparsely furnished, a couch and a coffee table were all he saw in the front room.
The only decorations on the walls were a framed shirt and a little band of embroidered
cloth that Seven recognized as Chuck’s tattoo.

‘Chuck?’ he asked, turning to where his lover was dumping all of their laundry into

the washer, including the shirt he’d stripped out of. ‘What are they?’

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Chuck smiled. ‘This,’ he tapped the embroidery, ‘I did to remind me of the evil in

the world.’ He closed his eyes for a minute, seeing again that dreadful day in
Oklahoma. He braced and told Seven the story.

He was three and the Lone Star Posse knocked on the door during breakfast. Mama

had made bacon and Chuck loved the treat.

‘You have ten minutes to come with us or we shoot.’
Chuck stuffed his eggs into his mouth and gone to his room to grab his bear. Mama

threw things helter-skelter into a bag and Dad finished his coffee, very slowly, then
packed.

Chuck remembered his mama throwing all his clothes—clean and dirty—into his

small suitcase. She looked at him and put in some of his favorite books and small toys.
‘Get your winter coat, baby.’

He’d put it on, grabbed his bacon from the table and eaten it on the big school bus

that took them to the old grade school. He remembered the gym and all their neighbors
there.

The adults had been clever and packed bedding and food and small things to pass

the time. The children ran and played and collapsed on the bedrolls for naps.

Any government can be brutally efficient and Lone Star was no exception. The

Cherokee Nation tattooing began that day. Chuck received his that night.

He never forgot being in line with his friends and hearing them cry one by one.

Mama had stood with him, holding his small hand in hers. She had said, ‘Just a shot, to
keep you healthy.’

It was the only time Linda Hummingbird had ever lied to her son.
Chuck approached the white man with the big silver gun thing. ‘What’s your

name?’

‘Jack. You need to take off your shirt.’
Chuck did. ‘I’m Chuck Hummingbird.’
Jack nodded. ‘Gonna write that on your arm, kid.’
Chuck had glared at him at the first needle-stick and refused to cry. Jack had

tattooed an inch-wide bracelet of red and yellow on his upper arm. Chuck decided he
didn’t like Jack. Little Rachel Cornsilk, one of his cousins who was barely two, came
next. She cried at the strange man and Jack cuffed her upside the head and told her to
‘shut up and take her mark’. Chuck had slugged Jack for that and been gut-punched by
the tattoo artist before Linda could hustle him away.

Seven ran his fingers over the stretched and faded ink on Chuck’s arm.
‘If the kid could walk, it got tattooed. I was one of the youngest.’

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‘People are horrible,’ Seven whispered. He kissed the tattoo and then stretched up

to kiss Chuck.

‘Nah,’ Chuck said when they parted. ‘Most people are pretty decent.’
Seven scowled. ‘I’ve had my share of decent people. They’re all liars and

hypocrites. The men will let me live in the garden shed and think it’s an act of charity.
They take the shed rent in head and out of my ass and tell themselves they’re virtuous.
But the second anyone sees my tattoo, they’re at the head of the ‘how could you deceive
me’ party that’s throwing me out of town.’

‘There’s decent and there’s decent,’ Chuck said. ‘Those folks look decent, but aren’t.

Most I know are hard workers trying to get by.’ He held Seven close to his chest and
stroked his hair. ‘Good people who act on bad convictions are the problem, kiddo.’

‘Idealist,’ Seven whispered, curled into Chuck’s side, smelling his slightly sweaty,

mostly clean scent. ‘They tattoo you, deport you and would shoot you on sight and
you’re still an idealist.’

‘I’m an optimist, Sev. Better for my stomach and better for my sleep. But that shirt is

to remind me I’m as susceptible as anyone to evil.’

‘Not you.’ Seven’s voice held the conviction of absolute certainty.
‘Oh yeah, me. That’s a Ghost Dance shirt, Lakota style.’
‘Ghost Dance?’ Seven looked very puzzled. He looked at the blue shirt with its stars

and eagles.

‘A really long story. I’ll tell you when the pizza gets here.’ Chuck ducked into the

bathroom and Seven stared at the shirt. It was really gorgeous. He knew Chuck had a
little bit of a temper that he kept reined in very tightly, but evil? He couldn’t imagine it.

Chuck came out, his hair bundled in a towel, wearing only fresh jeans. Seven felt

himself go hard right there at the sight of all of the gorgeous bronze skin, bare chest,
bare feet. The intercom buzzed as Chuck shook out his wet hair. Seven’s mouth went
dry with wanting and he swallowed hard.

‘Papa Luigi’s!’ came a very young voice over the clamor of the reporters. It cracked

on the last syllable.

‘I’ll buzz you in, Matt. Twenty-five K is the apartment.’
‘You’re on first names with the pizza boy? I thought you cooked,’ Seven teased,

unable to resist a moment more. He got up and ran his hands over Chuck’s chest and
down onto the soft, faded denim of his jeans, then down and into the jeans, feeling the
soft, smooth skin of Chuck’s ass. ‘No underwear? Oh, you’re bad.’

Chuck grinned. ‘I am.’ He poured a couple glasses of juice from the fridge and got

his wallet from the bathroom, where it was still in his dirty jeans.

The pizza boy looked all of seventeen. ‘Hi, Chuck. Got company?’ he asked as he

handed over the box.

‘Yep, another stray followed me home.’ Chuck paid him and added in a nice tip.

‘You doing okay, kiddo?’

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‘Yeah. Gonna be out of the shelter in another three months. I got a deposit and first

month’s rent all saved up.’

Chuck slipped him another fiver. ‘Go out the back way and avoid the media

hounds. Tell Luigi we’ll be over in a week or so. Once we can set foot outside the place.’

‘Thanks, Chuck. Enjoy the pizza.’
Seven glared when Chuck looked at him. ‘Kiddo?’ Seven asked.
‘I found Matt in Idaho about a year ago, starving at a rest area like you. Brought

him to Seattle, took him to the youth shelter the Gay Community Center runs. They got
him a job. That’s why I order from Papa Luigi instead of a bigger chain.’ He got a plate
out of the cupboard. ‘Let’s see how sober Luigi was when he made this one. He’s a great
pizza maker, but he likes his wine.’

The pizza was hot and fresh, the crust thick and chewy and the cheese deep enough

to get lost in. Seven ate two pieces and was stuffed. Chuck put the remaining pieces in
plastic storage containers and refrigerated them.

‘So the shirt?’ Seven asked, sipping at the end of his juice.
Chuck sighed and sat down, his elbows on his spread knees, looking at the floor. ‘In

the late nineteenth century, a Paiute prophet had a vision. He taught the people the
Ghost Dance. If they lived well, didn’t lie or steal or make war, they would have good
hunting and be reunited with their ancestors. It swept the west. The Diné never took to
it. But the Lakota took it up with the notion that it would drive the white men from
their lands and there would be buffalo and peace. Chief Sitting Bull was killed because
he wouldn’t stop his people doing the dance.’

‘That shirt’s over two hundred years old?’ Seven asked, taking his glass to the

kitchen.

Chuck looked up and gave a very small smile. ‘No, that one is about twenty. The

Ghost Dance enjoyed a revival in the Tribal Lands when I was about sixteen. It was the
first thing I ever defied my folks over. I announced I had been called to be a Ghost
Dancer and was leaving their white church and their fake white life to follow the old
ways. I paid for my clothes and joined the dancers, trying to call the spirits to purge the
white man from our lands.’

Seven looked shocked at this confession and Chuck went on. ‘I lasted three months

or so as a Ghost Dancer before my brain took over from my anger. I understood, my
own personal revelation, that what I was doing was exactly what had been done to me.
I wasn’t dancing for any spiritual reason, just for revenge. And months of slow dancing
all day and all night, every day and night, in a Montana winter will exhaust even the
most righteous anger. I went home, apologized to my folks and had a long, serious talk
with Dad.’

‘Your folks are good people, Chuck,’ Seven said, sitting down on the couch and

wrapping his arms around Chuck.

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‘Yep. And now I have even more reason to be glad it didn’t work.’ He squeezed

Seven. ‘Have a shower while I clear some drawer space and figure out how you’ll fit in
here.’

‘I like the way I fit right here.’ Seven smiled up at him.
Chuck bent down and kissed him. ‘Yeah, me too.’

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Chapter Fifteen

Seven dressed slowly, looking out at the Sound. They’d slipped out to an all-night

supermarket when the reporters went away. For a laugh, Chuck had caught them on
the evening news. Seven hadn’t laughed. Privately, he thought Chuck looked braver
than ever. He hated the startled, frightened expression on his face and way he clung
and cowered behind Chuck. Thankfully it only lasted a few seconds, and the program
moved on with the other news of the day.

He was surprised Chuck had let him buy a six-pack of beer and some chips at the

grocery store. Here in Seattle, even the chips were nutritious, enhanced with fiber and
protein and vitamins. He wasn’t sure what kind of place would make a snack food into
a real side dish.

Chuck loaded the cart up on vegetables and fruit, a couple of pieces of meat, some

fish and some soy. Seven looked at the prices and their selections. ‘No wonder you’re
gorgeous. You eat much better than I ever did.’

‘Now you can eat like this too.’ Chuck kissed him, there in the dairy aisle. Nobody

seemed to notice or care. ‘Produce is cheap, fish is cheap. Soy and meat are more
expensive. Gotta import it from Heartland.’ He wrapped one arm around Seven’s waist.
‘I like my import better.’

Seven wanted a beer for breakfast to calm him down before their appointments, but

he knew Chuck would hit the roof about that. Instead, he ate his oatmeal breakfast
cookie and juice, swallowing hard when nervousness made it keep getting caught in his
throat. His hands were jerking again, making getting his coat on and fastened difficult.

‘Seven,’ Chuck’s quiet voice comforted him as Chuck opened the door of the

apartment, ‘I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought it’d be bad for you.’ He wrapped Seven in
his arms and cuddled him. ‘I know you have a problem with shrinks. I know you’ve
been badly used by them and tortured with methods the good ones haven’t used for a
century. What Dr. Mike does is provide a neutral listener, someone who will give you
tools to work through your history. He’s not going to ‘fix’ you or ‘cure’ you. But he
might be able to help the nightmares.’

Seven smiled a bit, still nervous. Sleeping without nightmares would be a good

change. He put on his bravest face and let Chuck guide him through the maze of
streetcars and subways to the doctor’s office. The trip made a nice distraction and his
fear subsided a bit along the way with all the new sights and sounds.

The mellow lights of the office complemented the neutral wallpaper. The

receptionist signed them in and gave Chuck a smile. ‘We’ll call you back soon.’

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Seven picked up a newspaper off the side table closest to him to read while he

waited. He was taken aback when, turning to page two, he saw his own face staring
back at him. The reporters from last night had caught him with a look of near-panic,
one hand clutching desperately at Chuck’s jacket. He nudged Chuck to show him, but
closed the paper without reading what they had said in the article. He didn’t want to
know.

A tall man, his black hair long enough to start to curl in an unruly way, came out

and greeted them after a short while. ‘Hello, Chuck.’ He turned a dazzling smile on
Seven. ‘Hello, Mr. McCullough. I’m Dr. Spinoza.’ Seven stared. Chuck was gorgeous,
but the doctor looked like a movie star. He wore khakis and a white shirt that made him
look like he should be sitting in a sidewalk café, sipping wine and looking at the
Adriatic.

‘Hi,’ Seven managed after realizing he was staring.
‘Come talk with me for a while and then Chuck can join us later. Would you prefer

for me to call you Seven?’ He glanced at Chuck. ‘Have some coffee, it’ll be about thirty
minutes.’

‘Seven’s fine,’ he whispered. He followed Dr. Spinoza back to the office, which had

a big striped sofa, a couple of matching chairs and looked like anyone’s living room.

‘Seven, I tape the sessions so I can review them afterward for my notes. Are you all

right with this?’

Seven nodded, somewhat intimidated.
‘Speak up please. I need verbal consent or refusal on the tape.’
‘Taping is fine.’ Seven tucked his hands between his knees to stop the jerking.
‘Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee? A soda?’ The doctor

found his own chair.

‘No, I’m fine.’ Seven perched on the edge of the sofa. It was much nicer than the

straight-back wooden chair he had expected.

‘So, Chuck tells me you’re new to Seattle and Pacifica. How do you like it so far?’
‘Brand new.’ Seven relaxed a little. He thought he could do this. Dr. Spinoza hadn’t

started with personal questions about his sex life or his fantasies. ‘I like it a lot. The
people are a lot happier. Less afraid. It’s much more calm.’

‘I’ve never been to Heartland. What’s it like? You say folks are happier and calmer

here?’

‘It’s really uptight. It’s a whole lot of work to keep up appearances there. I haven’t

seen that here. People seem…’ he looked for the word, ‘more real.’

‘Chuck tells me you’re asegi, like we are. That’s kind of difficult in a place where

keeping up appearances is vital.’

There it was, the stuff he’d been dreading. ‘There are a lot of them. Just miserable

and hiding. Pretending to be respectable, getting married and hating their wives.’ He

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closed his eyes, remembering the seemingly endless parade of them and the things they
said when it was the two of them, alone in the dark.

The doctor nodded. ‘And you hid too?’
‘I did…except for a couple times.’ He saw the doctor motion him to keep talking. ‘I

know I took a chance. But I loved him. Or thought I did. I was Jonathan. He was David,
going to be king and keep me safe.’

‘But you were caught.’ Seven nodded. Dr. Spinoza consulted his notes. ‘My

information says hospitalized, including electroconvulsive therapy.’ He looked at Seven
for a long minute. ‘Is that accurate?’ Seven nodded, not talking about it. He watched the
doctor as horror went over his face. ‘Dear lord. Would you consider having an MRI to
make sure there is no lasting brain damage?’

At the suggestion, Seven crumbled. This was it, another treatment, another sterile

white room with strange machines to hook him up to. He wouldn’t do it. Not again. Dr.
Spinoza patted his shoulder, moved the tissues closer and called Chuck into the office
immediately.

Chuck sat them back on the couch and held Seven close in his arms. ‘Baby, what is

it?’

The doctor said, ‘Chuck, since you said he’s had ECT, shock therapy, I asked if he’d

be willing to have an MRI to check for brain damage.’ He looked at Seven. ‘I’m sorry,
Seven. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘No more treatments.’ He saw the men flinch at the flat deadness of his voice. ‘No.

More. Treatments!’ Chuck held him against his chest and rubbed his arms and hair until
he could breathe normally again.

‘Seven, this would be like an X-ray. Just taking a picture of your brain and how it

functions. ECT always leaves brain damage. Have you had any symptoms?’

Seven took a deep breath. ‘My hands shake sometimes, and I can’t stop them.’ He

held both hands out in front of him, palms down. ‘They’re doing it now.’

Dr. Spinoza nodded. ‘The treatment for that would probably be physical therapy,

working with clay, throwing balls, a little exercising, retraining your brain and body
together so that it all works.’

Seven calmed down a little more. Chuck kept hugging him, constant and strong.

Just like the man himself seemed to be.

‘Can we see what Dr. Singh says?’ Chuck asked.
‘Yes, that’d be fine. You have a checkup soon?’
Chuck grinned. Seven had almost pulled himself together and relaxed in his arms.

‘In a couple hours.’ Chuck stroked his face. ‘Babe, I’ve seen pictures. You just lie on a
table and they take a few readings and you’re done. It’s not going to hurt.’

Dr. Spinoza cleared his throat. ‘The MRI will not hurt. The therapy may be

uncomfortable. If the brain damage has led to muscle weakness, you’re going to have to
build that muscle up.’ He made a face. ‘And that’s never fun.’

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Seven heard his breath shake as he pulled it in. Here he was, being the coward

again, like on TV last night and the newspaper this morning. The shame of it nagged at
him. ‘I’ll do it. I’m just acting like a fairy again.’

The doctor reached out and touched his hand. ‘No, Seven. you’re acting like

someone who has been very badly hurt by doctors who claimed they were helping you.
Thank you for being brave enough to try this. Dr. Singh and I will work together with
what the images show. We want you healthy, Seven, because even in these few
minutes, I can see how happy you make Chuck. And that’s a very good thing.’

Seven looked up at Chuck and hazarded a smile. Chuck made him happy too. He

could definitely do this. Dr. Spinoza was all right.

The doctor grumbled, ‘Barbaric. A step above drilling holes in your skull to let the

evil spirits out.’

Seven spoke up. ‘Lobotomy would have been the next step…so they said.’
Dr, Spinoza looked at him, shocked to the core. ‘No wonder you didn’t want to

come see me. Right now all I’m going to do is order an MRI to evaluate the brain
damage and set an appointment for next week. We’ll see if you need medication to let
you think clearly during the adjustment period here. I don’t think you will.’

‘I don’t think so either. I’m doing fine.’ He squeezed Chuck.
‘Chuck says you have nightmares often.’
‘Yeah…but so does he.’ Seven snuck a glance up.
The doctor cleared his throat. ‘So. Gentlemen, do you want to talk about the

nightmares or about your plans for Seattle?’

Seven glanced up at Chuck, and saw his set face. ‘Both? Because nothing is getting

me past these bad dreams, Mike.’ He spared a peck for Seven’s cheek. ‘Sorry, not even
you.’

‘So what are you dreaming?’
Chuck stroked Seven’s hair. ‘Can’t speak for him, but mine…’ Chuck shuddered

and then told the story of the mugging, Seven’s daring rescue, the pitching machines,
the flight to the U.S. and all the rest. Seven vibrated with tension in his arms as the story
wound down. ‘I keep dreaming of the stoning machines. That Seven didn’t come. Or
worse, that he came, but couldn’t rescue me. I keep waking up as I shove him to the
ground and cover him with my body to protect him.’

Dr. Spinoza looked at Seven. ‘Do you have the same one?’
Seven nodded. ‘I have ones of me not getting to him in time and having to watch.

Or failing and joining him in there.’

Spinoza nodded. ‘All right, this is huge. It’s not going to be worked out in half an

hour with a tidy ending. We’ll keep at it. You’ve both got some post-traumatic stress
going from this. It’s too late for any propranolol to ease the memories. Would some
sedatives to cut the dream cycle help?’

Seven looked suspicious. ‘Ease the memories? Make us forget?’

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‘Not forget. But Seven, when memories—especially trauma memories—are formed,

there are biological factors as well as mental ones at work. In a trauma situation, like
yours, involving assault, combat and flight, you have a lot of adrenaline tied to the
memories. I watched both of you as Chuck talked and you both looked ready to bolt or
punch holes in the wall. The propranolol, when taken after an event, eases the biological
symptoms of the memory, making it easier for the patient to live with and easier for the
doctor to treat.’ He smiled. ‘You’d remember, but I don’t think you’d be trying to break
Chuck’s hand by clutching it.’

Seven blushed and let go. ‘The sedative will be okay. Anything to stop the dreams.’
Spinoza scratched out a prescription. ‘Use these until you come back in a week and

let’s see if it helps. If not, we’ll try something else.’ He handed Chuck the scrip. ‘What
about lucid dreaming? Do you know how to do that?’

‘I’ve heard of it, but never tried it,’ Chuck said.
Seven looked puzzled. ‘Lucid dreaming?’
‘A technique for changing your dream while you’re having it. Now you can’t do

both the dreaming and the meds. The meds will interrupt your REM phase, sending
you into a deeper sleep. So decide which you want to try before going to bed. The first
step is mastering dream recall. You have to know what you’re dreaming before you can
change it.’ He handed Chuck a worksheet.

Instructions for Dream Recall.
1) Keep a notebook and pen beside your bed.
2) When you go to bed, clearly ask yourself to remember your dreams when you

awaken in the morning or during the night. This allows the suggestion to take root.

3) When you do awaken, keep your eyes closed (or shut them if already opened)

and remain as motionless as possible. This will allow you to collect the dream.

4) Gather as many images, feelings or impressions as you can and then rise and

quickly jot them down, no matter how brief or vague they may seem.

5) Keep the dream journal until your practitioner tells you otherwise. Bring your

journal to the next session.

Seven read the instructions over Chuck’s shoulder, fascinated by the idea, but not

sure it would work for him. He decided he’d stick with the sedative. No dreams at all
would be best.

‘And gentlemen, if you find yourself depressed, suicidal or having wild mood

swings, do not hesitate to call. All are perfectly normal in such a situation. I’ll see you
next week if all goes well.’ He smiled at them. ‘I hope it does. I have two of the bravest
men it is my pleasure and honor to know sitting right in front of me.’

Seven blushed, doubting Chuck would have any of those problems. He stood up

with Chuck and watched in surprise as Chuck hugged the doctor. He blinked. Things

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were indeed very different here. Dr. Spinoza extended a hand to him and Seven shook
it, his grip string and confident, exactly as he’d been taught.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Seven, and I’ll do my best to help you and Chuck get

past this stuff.’

‘Thank you.’ Seven left, smiling. Chuck dropped the prescription off at a pharmacy

and they headed for the appointment with Dr. Singh.

‘You okay?’ Chuck never took his arm from around Seven’s waist.
‘Yeah. Sorry about that freak-out. I just never talked about that. And it sort of all

came back when I did.’ Seven scuffled his feet on the slide-walk, still not used to
zipping along at five miles an hour while standing still.

‘It’s all right. He’s used to it. You’ll notice, he didn’t promise he’d never hurt you?’
Seven looked worried. ‘Yeah. I noticed that.’
‘Therapy can hurt, even if it’s just talking. But there’s good hurt and bad hurt, you

know what I mean? Good hurt is when you open a boil and let all the festering yuck
out. It hurts, but you feel better. You know, like after you barf.’

Seven nodded seriously. ‘It’s cleansing.’
‘Exactly. That’s the kind of hurt he handles. You already have all the pain, he lets it

out. He won’t inflict more.’

‘I want to read up on this MRI thing.’
‘Sure. And we’ll see what Dr. Singh says too. She’s really nice, but I warn you, she

has cold hands.’

Seven laughed for the first time all day. ‘Yeah, I can deal with that. I never saw a

female doctor before.’

The afternoon sun streamed into the cheerful office through the many windows.

Mothers cosseted cranky toddlers. Small children played at the building block table
near a window. Old men sat quietly, reading magazines. Seven relaxed. It looked
perfectly normal.

They thumbed old copies of National Geographic and Time until the nurse called

them back. Seven recognized one of the issues of Time as one he’d read over the
summer. But the cover and all the lead stories were different. He grinned when the
nurse showed them into the exam room. Pastel butterflies covered the wallpaper, and
on the ceiling border, teddy bears played with butterflies.

‘I’m sorry. It was the first one available,’ the nurse apologized. ‘We usually use it

for pediatric patients.’

‘It’s fine,’ Chuck said.
Dr. Singh was a little Indian woman with a long braid of iron-gray and jet-black

twined together down the back of her lab-coat-covered sari. Her small hands were
indeed cold, but very gentle as she examined Seven. He relaxed under her touch, letting
her get his vitals and check him over. He didn’t even flinch when she took a few drops
of blood.

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115

She scowled at her handheld as she ran his blood through the analyzer. ‘This is not

good, Mr. McCullough. You have gonorrhea. You know what that is, yes?’

Seven turned bright red with Heartland-trained shame. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Otherwise, you are healthy. A little underfed, but that will correct itself. Your

vaccinations are all up to date and you have minimal physical trauma. Dr. Spinoza
asked me about an MRI, so I’ll have that set up.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘Your turn, Mr. Hummingbird.’ His exam was not so intensive, although she did

double-check where he’d been beaten. The blood work gave the same results.

Dr. Singh scowled again. She looked up at Seven, her face milder. ‘You, you could

not help it. You didn’t have a choice.’ She glared at Chuck. ‘You, however, are only
careless.’ Chuck looked abashed. ‘You are lucky it is easy to cure.’

Seven hadn’t looked up from the floor. ‘I could’ve killed you,’ he whispered.
Dr. Singh pointed her finger in Chuck’s face. ‘No oral or anal for six weeks. After

that, condoms. Every time! I should not have to tell you this, old as you are. Come back
then and we make sure you’re clean.’ She looked at Seven. ‘HIV is very rare even in
Heartland. He brings you in from the C.S.? Then I would worry.’

She scribbled some on the files and then stood up to leave, handing Chuck three

prescriptions. ‘All right. Six weeks. Seven, take the vitamins I prescribed. The nurse will
be in with shots for you. And take all the antibiotics.’ She left.

Chuck wrapped an arm around Seven. ‘Yep, your lover’s an impatient idiot

sometimes, Sev.’

‘Love you anyway. I don’t know how you can love me when I’m all fouled. I gave

you a disease. That’s why they tattoo us in Heartland, so we can be kept away from real
people and children, so we don’t infect them.’

Chuck squeezed him. ‘You are real people, Seven. And I do love you. My fault

anyway. I got overeager and decided we needed to swap more than spit.’ Chuck kissed
his forehead. ‘You were worth it.’

‘I’m sorry. I did things never expecting to have someone I cared about later. I never

expected there to be a later. I feel dirty.’

‘Baby, it’s gonna take two shots and we’ll be fine. And you’re not dirty. You’re my

brave hero.’

Chuck never let go of Seven as the nurse came in and gave them both their shots.

Seven didn’t tense or flinch from the needle. Chuck winced a little.

Chuck settled the co-payment on the bill and they left. Seven didn’t ask where they

were going. He stared at the slide-walk.

‘At least it wasn’t something deadly. If it was, you’d probably drop me off at the

youth shelter.’

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‘Only if that’s where you wanted to go. And if it was fatal and you’d passed it

along, I’d say you had to stay, because dying alone is a really bad way to go.’ Chuck
kissed him, there on the sidewalk for everyone to see.

‘I wouldn’t be able to forgive the person who’d do something like that to me.’
‘See, that’s the thing, baby. I did it to myself being all impatient to taste and feel you

before we got checked out.’

Seven laid his fingers on Chuck’s lips and his own. ‘We shouldn’t talk about it. It

didn’t happen.’ Seven looked over the prescriptions. ‘Vitamins, antibiotics and
sedatives.’

‘Yeah, about that, you okay with seeing Mike again?’
Seven nodded. ‘Yeah, I like him.’
‘Good. Let’s drop these and I’m going to take you out to dinner, and then we’re

going to an art gallery or a movie, whichever.’

Seven practically bounced at the suggestion. ‘Do we have time for both?’ Chuck

checked his watch and shook his head. ‘Art gallery, then, please.’

‘I thought you might like to get a feel for prices.’ Chuck took them to a little Greek

place in the arts district. Seven was amazed to hear actual Greek coming from the
kitchen. He’d never tasted cheese like the stuff on the salad. He’d had the occasional
gyro in town, so he decided to order that rather than be adventurous. Chuck ordered a
meat pie with a side of spanakopita and baba ganouj for them to share.

Seven discovered he really liked the flaky spinach and cheese pie, but the eggplant

dip didn’t do much for him. The gyro tasted much better than the ones he’d tried
before, the garlic and spices stronger and the sauce a little chunky with bits of
cucumber.

They walked to the art gallery and Seven made a slow circuit, taking in the

landscapes and occasional figure studies. The local artists had all priced their work to
be affordable and he made notes on size and technique. He watched the people too.
They moved more freely than in Heartland, unafraid to show their pleasure. He heard a
lot of laughter, not the nasty kind directed at someone, but silly giggles and laughs of
pure pleasure. He heard someone use a profanity in public and spun to look before
remembering that swearing was not a finable offense here.

‘These are amazing,’ he said, stopping in front of a painting of a mountain stream.
‘They are nice, aren’t they? You get enough work together, maybe we can do a

show for you.’

Seven shook his head. ‘I’m not this good.’
‘You will be. We can go to one of the gay galleries, if you think you can stand the

vulva sculptures.’

Seven dropped the artists’ postcards he carried. ‘People make those?’ he asked as he

stooped to pick them up.

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‘Yep. Ladies make ‘em, ladies buy ‘em. Not sure of the appeal myself. It feels nice

enough, but it isn’t real pretty.’

‘Is one of these galleries still open?’ Seven blushed furiously at the thought, but he

had to see it.

‘Yeah, there’s one not too far away.’
As they walked over, Seven digested it all. He didn’t know what kind of lady

would display a sculpture of her privates, but he could almost hear his mother and her
friends in his head, gossiping about it and being scandalized. And the fact Chuck had
slept with a woman, maybe with women, bothered him too. He held Chuck’s hand as
they threaded along the sidewalk. He loved this part of it. He could never have walked
down a public street holding Bruce’s hand.

He shoved that thought away as they went into the gallery. There were only a

couple pictures of women kissing. Seven thought they were beautiful, all soft curves
and sweetness. The rest depicted men. Men kissing, men lying together naked, men
alone, men together. The steps that had a wide variety of carved penises as newel posts
made Seven blush again.

He hoped he wouldn’t get hard, but the painting of the stunning, and very naked,

Samish carving on a story pole killed that idea. Chuck noticed.

‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Maybe too much?’ Seven managed to look sheepish. He snuck a glance back at the

painting.

Chuck laughed. ‘Never too much. Besides, it’ll just make going home more fun.’
‘This is amazing, but I think it’s time.’ Chuck nodded and kissed him. ‘Shame I

can’t ride you like that one picture.’

Chuck sighed. ‘Six weeks. Gonna be a long six weeks of handjobs and frotting.’
‘We’ll live.’ Seven snuggled into the soft suede of Chuck’s coat. ‘I love being home.’

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Chapter Sixteen

October wore down in a haze of rain and soggy yellow leaves that clogged the

gutters. Seven drew the city, capturing it in the murky half-light of cloud-covered
dawn, the drizzle of the afternoon. He rode with Chuck as they made the weekly run to
Great Falls. He studied the CDL handbook, even though he wasn’t sure if the shakes
would affect his driving. He mastered getting around Seattle using the public transit.

On the day before Halloween, he got his permit, and he and Chuck celebrated by

going out for dinner. Chuck took him to a haunted house, which was much more
gruesome than the ones back home. Here they did their best to look realistic and do
little sketches as the guests entered. Back home, Seven remembered spending one year
wearing a rubber werewolf mask and leaping from behind a tree while howling to raise
money for the junior high’s football uniforms. Here, the werewolf howled and chased
down a cute teen who was actually with the tourist party before clawing his shirt open
to spill his guts everywhere.

Seven wasn’t sure he liked it, despite Chuck’s reassurances it was all makeup and

special effects. But he did like handing out the candy to the trick-or-treaters who came
to the apartment door the next night. The little girl across the hall dressed up as
Raggedy Ann and her baby brother was Raggedy Andy. The little boy from down on
twelve, who liked to watch Seven draw when he sat in the lobby, had on a superhero
cape.

‘Next year I want to be the Lone Ranger,’ Seven said, closing the door at eleven

after having dumped the last three candy bars into the bags of three giggling anime
girls from eighteen.

‘Hmmm. Good idea, friend,’ Chuck said, his face a stolid mask.
Seven giggled most unheroically, then straightened his shirt and smiled winningly.

‘Bed, now, kemosabe.’ He whispered as he pulled Chuck’s shirt off, ‘I am going to get a
white hat and ride you like you were Silver and I had to stop the bad guys.’

Chuck laughed, then quickly went stoic again. ‘Got saddle sores. Doctor say no ride

until December.’

‘Oh, and here I wanted something else to be thankful for on Thanksgiving.’ Seven

stripped out of his own shirt, not noticing how Chuck froze at his words. ‘I mean, I
already have so much. You, my freedom, my life.’ He turned around to see Chuck
scowling. ‘Chuck?’ He was unprepared for the explosion that followed.

‘So, in your mind, I get to wear a loincloth and war paint and you get a buckled hat

and we sit together over a turkey and some corn, celebrating. Then what? Gonna infect
my linen closet with smallpox or put a bounty on me?’ Chuck rubbed his tattoo,
seemingly unconscious of the action.

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Seven gaped, looking shocked, not really understanding what he’d said that had

sent his even-tempered lover off on such a tirade.

‘You really are very white sometimes.’ Chuck slammed the bedroom door behind

him and Seven heard the couch springs creak where he flung himself on it.

Seven sat down on the bed, still holding his shirt. This had to be a cultural clash. He

remembered Mr. Hummingbird telling Chuck that marrying outside his culture was a
bad idea. They might not be married, but maybe even having a lover that wasn’t
Cherokee could be bad for Chuck.

He’d read as much as he could. He’d tried to catch up on the history and ways of

Chuck’s people. He knew it wasn’t enough, never could be enough. He didn’t want to
be bad for Chuck.

He kept seeing Chuck’s hand rubbing at the tattoo, as if he carried every massacre,

every forced resettlement, every indignity heaped on his people for five hundred years
within that narrow band of ink. And for a minute, Seven had been one more white man,
no different from the ones who had taken the scalps of women and children to collect
bounties from the colonial governments or the army who had forced Chuck’s ancestors
to move across the prairies, stranding them in southern Illinois during the worst winter
on record. No different than the men who had marked him and shipped him away from
his home in Oklahoma.

Seven pulled his shirt back on. All he could do was apologize and hope Chuck

accepted it. If not, he figured he’d be calling the youth shelter for the night. He opened
the bedroom door and looked into the front room.

Chuck sat on the couch, staring at the Ghost Dance shirt. Seven tiptoed out and sat

beside him.

‘Chuck, I’m sorry. I am really white…and stupid.’
Chuck didn’t look at him, but he did slide his arm across the back of the couch and

pull Seven in closer. ‘And I’m a cranky old bastard sometimes.’

‘I didn’t think,’ Seven said, staring at the shirt and the embroidery.
‘No, you didn’t.’ Chuck’s voice sounded matter-of-fact, not harsh or angry. ‘And I

didn’t either before I blew up at you.’ He looked at Seven. ‘You were thinking turkey
and sweet potatoes and rolls and pie and love and good things that make you happy,
right? And I answered with genocide and hatred.’

Seven looked at the floor. ‘I was thinking this year I had real things to celebrate.

You know, instead of the usual clichés.’

Chuck finally smiled. ‘So do I. All right, compromise?’
Seven smiled up at him, pleased that Chuck didn’t hating him. ‘Yeah. Big dinner,

but no turkey? And no stupid hat with a buckle.’

‘We’ll go out for dinner. Buffet. And if you want turkey you can have it. I’ll have

steak.’ Chuck bent in and kissed him. ‘They don’t teach you a real accurate history in

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Heartland, I’m thinking, and there’s only so much reading you can manage in three
weeks.’

Seven nodded and took a kiss, wanting more reassurance. Chuck gave it, slow and

steady as a heartbeat, his big arms around Seven. Seven relaxed and laid his head on
Chuck’s shoulder.

‘While we’re talking about holidays, are you okay with doing Christmas at my

folks?’

‘Yeah.’
‘Not going to be any anti-Christian sentiment?’ Chuck tapped his nose.

‘Understandable as it may be.’

‘No, Mother Vivian is fine. And if the rest of the church is like her and your mom,

I’ll be great. I like Christmas a lot. Always thought people could stand to keep that
spirit the rest of the year.’

Chuck nodded. ‘They really could. We’ll probably go to midnight services, but

that’s about as religious as we get about it. The Sunday school kids do their nativity
play, we sing a few carols by candlelight and call it good.’

‘Think you can stand singing next to me?’ Seven grinned.
Chuck laughed. ‘You’re okay. A little squeaky, but okay. You haven’t heard me yet,

babe. There’s a reason I’m a dancer and not a singer.’

November turned cold, but the mountain passes stayed clear. They managed

Thanksgiving without a fight, going out for a dinner that left them both over-full and
sleepy. They cuddled on the couch, watching ancient twentieth-century movies. Chuck
had offered one of the more modern gay romances in the collection, but Seven liked old
movies.

Seven actually enjoyed the Christmas ornaments this year. They were more than a

sad little fiber-optic tree and a couple of paper Santas taped to the hospital wall. He
thrilled to the hustle and bustle of Seattle, staring like a kid at the lights, at the lighted
tinsel snowflakes on the streetlights, at the wreaths on the trolleys and streetcars.

Heartland had always gone all-out for Christmas, but there was a different feel to

the city than there had been in his little town. It felt real and not like stage-dressing.
That thought hit him as he rode the streetcar back from the grocery. Heartland was like
a big stage set. And anyone who didn’t look right for the show had to be shoved away
backstage. This year he could have a real holiday, one that included silver tinsel trees
and sun-moon faces and menorahs in evidence, all things unheard of in Heartland.

Seven was shocked that Chuck had no decorations, not even a tree. Chuck

explained he always spent the holidays in Billings and never bothered decorating his
place. Seven insisted. Chuck laughed at his wonder and indulged him as if he were a
child.

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121

They bought a two-foot-tall tabletop tree that lit up. For no good reason, except the

idea took Seven’s fancy, they decorated it with a Japanese motif. Seven folded origami
cranes and fans and an elaborate star. Chuck found more patterns for him on the Net
and he made cubes without corners, Santas, pinwheels and a few angels.

They bought presents for Chuck’s folks and Seven sent a box of oranges by mail

order to his parents, along with a new apron for his mother and a tool kit for his father.
He didn’t know if they’d be accepted, but he felt better for making the gesture.

‘We don’t give a lot of presents in my family,’ Chuck told him. ‘Mom and Dad

contribute to charities in each other’s name and in mine. It’s little stuff mostly.’

Seven smiled at him. ‘I’m having such a good time. It’s hard to stop.’
Chuck laughed. ‘Good thing my bank account is healthy.’ He led Seven to a booth

in the center of the mall. A large tree covered in construction paper mittens stood there.
Chuck gave the attendant a smile.

‘Do you have any sibling groups?’
She picked three off the tree. ‘Boy, age twelve. Boy, age nine. Girl, age seven. Their

sizes are on there, their big wishes are on there. Deliver the items back here by
December twentieth.’ She took down Chuck’s name, address and number.

Seven read the wishes on the way to the shopping center. ‘Why not the mall?’
‘Because,’ Chuck explained, ‘I can get three pairs of the same pants for what two

would cost me there. I’m not cheap, but I like to get my money’s worth when I’m
buying a lot.’

The big store was packed, and electronic Christmas music droned endlessly.

Clothes in all the sizes, along with socks and mittens went into the basket. Chuck
accommodated the three big wishes and then added some things around the edges,
balls and blocks, clay and crayons, paper and a book reader for each child with a full
children’s library.

Then they shopped for the youth shelter. Toiletries, clothes of all kinds, paper

books, more electronic readers, music and games all went into the large bags. Seven
didn’t want to see the total. He had a feeling Chuck did this last kind of shopping
regularly and not once a year.

They took the train to Billings on the twenty-second and caught the bus to McBride.

Seven towed his suitcase up the half-mile hill to the house, worn out from travel.

The house smelled like oranges and cinnamon and other good cooking. They’d had

dinner on the train, but Seven had a feeling Linda would feed him every time she saw
him. He’d gained some weight, but was losing his tan. Dr. Singh had pronounced them
both healthy and was pleased with his improvement.

There were cookies and hot cider on the table. He and Chuck dropped off their

bags, washed up and took the presents out to where an enormous tree dominated the
living room. Several gifts already lay beneath it and a small tan-glazed statue of the

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Holy Family stood right in the front. Seven liked it, very modern looking, with Joseph
standing protectively over Mary and the Baby.

Seven enjoyed the late-night service more than he’d expected. As Chuck had said it

would be, it was mostly kids and singing. He sat beside Chuck and noticed Chuck
wrapped his arm around his shoulders the same way Charles did Linda. The lights of
the sanctuary went down and the lights up on the dais came up on a miniature Holy
Family.

The sleepy little Mary couldn’t have been more than four, looking very solemn in

her blue gown and white veil. Her Joseph was no older in a too-large brown bathrobe.
They sang a duet version of ‘Away in a Manger’, Joseph yawning hugely at the end.

The grade school kids were an angel chorus singing ‘Joy to the World’. The

shepherds were high school kids who came in from the sides, mumbling their way
through the high, extended notes of ‘Angels We Have Heard on High’. The men’s trio
sent shivers down Seven’s spine as they walked down the main aisle to all five verses of
‘We Three Kings’. Each king’s voice was progressively lower and he could feel the
myrrh king’s voice in his bones.

The pageant was much better than the one he’d been in one year. He’d been a

shepherd with no lines, basically moving scenery. And the Sunday school teacher had
wielded a wicked ruler on anyone she saw dozing during the rehearsals. Fortunately,
she hadn’t been able to reach him when he fell asleep during the performance, only to
be actually startled awake by the angels’ song.

They cleared the pageant away, the frankincense-bearing king carrying the now-

drowsing Mary off the dais to sit in the first row. Mother Vivian read the Christmas
Story from Luke, which Seven knew by heart. They went home to cold roast beef,
potato salad and a log-roll cake that one of Linda’s coworkers had given her.

He slept soundly in Chuck’s arms until the smell of frying bacon woke him. Chuck

was already up, putting his hair back. When he saw Seven, he changed his mind and let
it fall loose for a change, something he usually only did at home.

‘Shower and dress, babe. Ma doesn’t let us at the tree until we’ve eaten. And she

doesn’t let us at the table until we’re presentable.’

Seven practically ran through the shower and wore the bright red sweater he’d

planned. He dried his hair and pulled on a Santa hat. ‘Ready.’

‘Seven minutes flat. I’m impressed.’ Chuck kissed him. ‘Adorable.’ He flipped the

white furry ball at the end of the hat.

‘Breakfast!’ Seven insisted as his stomach rumbled.
They joined the parents for breakfast and Seven noticed there were bulging

stockings under the tree. He ate quietly, enjoying the good food, bacon and eggs,
pancakes and juice. Neither he nor Chuck was enough of a morning person to worry
much about breakfast ordinarily.

Glad Hands

123

After breakfast, Seven carried dishes to the washer while Chuck loaded. They went

to the front room. Charles and Linda sat together on the couch. Chuck, to Seven’s
surprise, dropped to sit in front of the tree like a little kid.

‘This is yours,’ he said, passing over a blue velvet stocking.
Seven took it and looked at it oddly. ‘When did you have time to get all this?’ He

dug into it, pulling out his favorite kind of candy, a book reader with a library of a
thousand titles and something shaped kind of funny. He knew the shape and didn’t
pull it out, but peeked in and blushed at the lollipop shaped like a massive grape cock.
He already had an idea of what he was going to do with that. Chuck was a brat for
getting him the sucker, so there would be a private show that night. He was going to
tease Chuck until he squirmed, make him watch and then kiss him, tasting all grape.

‘Merry Christmas, kiddo.’
The gifts were exchanged, a few small tokens mostly. A heated ice-cream scoop and

a tie for Charles, a paper planner and a scarf for Linda. Chuck and Seven each got hand-
knitted scarves and hats. Seven got a batch of art supplies and Chuck got a new
clipboard for the truck. A card on the tree announced that a donation had been made in
their name to the Seattle Community Center’s Shelter for GLBT Youth. Chuck made
sure his folks saw the card that he’d donated in their names to the Refugee Assistance
Fund that helped any Native American coming into the country. Seven gave Chuck a
framed drawing of the Hummingbird. Last of all, Chuck brought out a box about a foot
on every side, wrapped in embossed silver paper with a royal blue bow.

‘One last present.’ He handed it to Seven.
Seven opened it and pushed aside the tissue. He held up an ear of red corn, with

one piece of husk pulled down to show the kernels, and looked very confused. He
picked it up, turned it over in his hands and then looked at Chuck. He saw both of the
elder Hummingbirds were sitting very quietly and not looking happy. A cold shiver
went through him.

Chuck took a deep breath, seeming to notice his parents’ disapproval. ‘It’s a

traditional marriage proposal. I am saying, by giving you food, that I will care for and
provide for you. I know it’s only been about three months, but sometimes you just
know.’

Seven’s eyes grew huge and he stared at the corn, trying to find his tongue. He

became aware that Chuck was holding his breath. ‘Y-yes?’ he squeaked. The iciness
from Chuck’s folks was better than his own parents’ reaction would have been. He
could only imagine the tears and shouting that would ensue if Chuck had made this
proposal there.

Chuck let the breath go in a sigh of relief and kissed him hard. ‘Yes!’ He looked at

his parents, almost as if seeking their approval. ‘He said yes!’

Charles sighed. ‘You’re well over thirty. I guess you know what you want.’ Linda

didn’t look pleased, but she didn’t say anything either.

Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks

124

Chuck kissed Seven again, taking it deep and sweet, his tongue insistent in a way

that seemed almost indecent in front of the parents. Seven responded, pressing himself
against his tall, handsome love, unable to believe this was really happening. Chuck’s
hair, unbound for a change, fell over them both and he wrapped himself in the scent
and softness of it, hoping the kiss would never end.

It did, and Chuck sat back with the goofy grin Seven loved to see and shoved his

hair out of his face. Seven stared at his fiancé and then the corn and then back at Chuck.
The reality finally sank in. Chuck loved him. He was going to have legal family again.
He clung to Chuck in the glow of the Christmas tree lights and the wan winter sunlight,
barely seeing the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling fan. ‘Fuck Heartland. I’m
getting married!’