Page 74 of Up in Smoke

I could only hope Ryleigh could help them somehow.

Tuesday, June 30, 2043.

Asylum, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

A rather irritatedMansfield waited on the doorstep, although his expression changed the instant he caught sight of Sandro. To convince the bastard everything was right in my world, I kept my ears pricked forward, bounced on my toes, and kept a tight hold on Sandro’s hand so he wouldn’t escape me again.

“Benedict,” Sandro greeted with a smile, pulling me along so he could shake hands with Asylum’s creator. “It seems my wife gets impatient if I leave her for too long. I hope she didn’t worry you. She showed up as I was getting close to Tulsa, and once she got a hold, she refused to let go.” To prove his point, he lifted his hand, and I held on tight to play my part. “What can we do for you?”

“Your wife offered some insights on the budget, which I’ve found to be very useful. I wanted to ask her some questions regarding her culinary choices. Specifically, I wanted to see if she could make recommendations on how to make the supplies we do have last longer. We simply don’t know when the railways will be repaired, and we’re not yet sure how our indoor growing experiments will work.”

“Did the shipment of plant lights and fixtures make it in?” Sandro headed up the steps to the door, which I unlocked. “Come on in. Honestly, I don’t plan to be here long. I’m having a devil of a time getting the right cadence for this poem I’m working on, and I wanted to retrieve my wife, as she is a most excellent source of inspiration. That’ll keep us out of your hair for two to three weeks, but when we’re back, I’ll have the poem needed to do the reinforcing work. I’m also working on a poem to help with the expansion. I’ll set up the generator in case the power is out while I’m gone, since you just brought over supplies.”

“I’ll make sure someone attends to your generator so nothing spoils,” Mansfield promised. “I hadn’t realized the poetry work was so intensive.”

“It’s a big job, and it requires care, and I simply don’t have an appropriate poem for this job. I’d rather not make any mistakes with this work.” Sandro pulled me into the kitchen, where he spotted the wrapped package Mansfield had given me. “Ah, that must be the box. Jade told me about it, but she wanted to wait until I came home to open it. My fault. I enjoy her enjoyment of opening presents, so she tends to put them aside until we’re together.”

Mansfield chuckled at that. “Your Jade is a lesson in contradictions. She’s quite independent unless you’re involved, in which case, she’s heavily dependent.”

“We’re partners. I’m as dependent on her as she is on me. That’s why we work so well together.” Sandro picked up the box with one hand and gave it to me. “Open it before you get so excited you sprain your tail.”

I sat, careful not to hurt my tail, and tore into the paper to reveal a polished wood box. I lifted the lid to discover a writing shelf with a glass dip pen, inks, and paper. “Oh, this is beautiful.” I picked up one of the inks, which was a brilliant blue. “Look at this color, Sandro.”

“It’s exquisite. Thank you, Benedict.”

“Between the two of you, I thought you’d appreciate it, and it’s not something I would ever put to good use. And should she show aptitude for becoming a poet, it will serve well in the future.” Mansfield leaned against the counter. “So, you think you’ll need two to three weeks to finish this poem?”

“Roughly,” Sandro replied, and he shrugged, plucked out one of the ink wells and stared at it, giving the liquid within a swirl. “I want to make sure the place is structurally sound, especially if you plan on it being a long-term solution to surviving through the storms. If I can perfect the poem the first time, I’ll be able to reuse it for future expansions.”

“That would be ideal. And will you be taking your wife with you?”

“I will be, yes. I’m finding I become rather surly when she’s not around, and she’ll enjoy being able to explore and stretch her legs while we flit around from cellar to cellar. I’m planning on taking our wagon so she can keep anything she finds while I’m writing. In the evenings, I’ll work on her poetry skills.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” I placed the ink back into the box and hurried into the other room, retrieving the paper Mansfield had brought over. “He brought this over so you could work on more poems.”

“Ah, excellent. Thank you, Benedict. This will be useful.” Sandro took his time organizing the box and packing as much extra paper into it as he could. “If it’s going to take longer than three weeks, we’ll come back to Tulsa and let you know. But this work is delicate—and expansive. If I used another poet’s words, I doubt the work will be to the level you want and need. And while other poets can adapt poems to accomplish their goals, I’d rather take my time and do it right than have something collapse down the road later. If I had the perfect poem, I’d do it right now, but I simply don’t, and this job needs perfection.”

Mansfield smiled, and he nodded. “That’s why you’re the best man for the job. Others claim they can do it faster, but they won’t be better—and Asylum needs the best for my plans to come to fruition. I’ll make sure somebody is attending to your home while you are gone, and I’ll start checking in two to three weeks from now to see if anyone has heard from you. I’ll leave you two to your preparations, then.”

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Mansfield left. As always, Sandro recited a poem to eradicate any bugs installed in and around the house. While he worked, I packed, gathering everything we’d need for three weeks on a blitz journey back to the South to free the few survivors of Mansfield’s brutality.

I could only hope Ryleigh could help them somehow.

Tuesday, June 30, 2043.

Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

Sandro fedus lunch before we packed the wagon with enough supplies to get six people to the South into my wagon. Ryleigh acknowledged Sandro’s email, and from what I could understand of their contrived pleasantries and generic back and forth, she would provide supplies enough for us to make it back to Tulsa without having to rely on hunting or scavenging.

I took Frankie’s guns, hid them in the wagon along with several boxes of ammunition, and had Sandro hide the rest of the contraband in the walls of his home using his poetry, carving away at the stone to create pockets. I wore the boots she’d given me, and I wondered what else she’d gifted to me of all people.

The precious canisters of film went into a watertight bag so Ryleigh could have them developed and reveal more of Frankie’s secrets—and safeguard her legacy and the memory of the man she’d loved so much.

To distract myself from my grief, I focused on what I’d do closer to the Boundary, where there might be good scavenging left. I fully intended to plunder more olive oil from the general store if any of it had survived. If time allowed, I’d search for other treasures, too.