Page 39 of Rogue’s Mark

"Yeah."

"We'll find them."

"I know."

He turns his head and looks at me. "You found the thread."

"My father found it first."

"You picked it back up."

I look at the glass panels and the dark sky and the handful of stars or cracked glass or whatever it is, and don't say anything because there isn't anything to say that improves on that.

23

ROGUE

Armen splits us up outside the gate.

He and Sting head in one direction, Vi and I in the other, toward the law firm or whatever might be left of it. There’s no discussion. That's how Armen makes decisions, and I know better than to slow things down by asking why.

Not that I need him to spell it out. I've got my own shit to take care of today. Well, it’s Vi's shit, really. I'm just the muscle.

It's a Tuesday morning and the barbershop we pass is still open somehow, one man inside reading a paper with no customers in sight. A woman walks a dog that looks as worn out as the street it's on. We pass a bus stop with a bench and no bus, the timetable still posted but completely out of date.

Vi looks at all of it.

I look at Vi looking at all of it.

I’ve noticed her doing this as we pass through the streets of Rothwell. She'll round a corner, and I can see her thoughts go somewhere private before she comes back. She never says where she went. I never ask. But I notice every time. I suppose I do the same. No matter how long I’m in the Rot, it’s still a shock to see what Rothwell has become.

What I wouldn’t give to see what Vi looked like walking down the street back before the city fell on hard times.

Hard times, what am I saying? This city is beyond hard times. It’s a total shithole.

"Where was your father's shop from here?" she asks.

"Delaney. Few blocks over."

"What was it like here then? You know, before."

"Loud. Delaney was loud. My dad had the radio going in the shop from open to close. Same three stations, rotating. You knew what time it was by what was playing. First, there was the traffic report, even though he wasn’t driving anywhere. He just had to know where the traffic jams were. Then the news, local and national. Then old 70s hits, which he’d sing along to. Badly."

You know how they say you don’t know what you have til it’s gone? Yeah, it’s like that.

“It all seemed so routine at the time. Borderline boring, at least to me. But shit, what I wouldn’t do to have that back. ’Course, I probably wouldn’t appreciate it even if I got a second chance. That’s just how people are.”

Vi smiles. "Oh my God, my father used to play the same Led Zeppelin album every Sunday morning while he made coffee. I used to know every word. I wonder if I still do."

I clear my throat and give it a try. “There’s a lady who’s sure all that flitters is old…”

She busts out laughing. Not the small, restrained chuckles she limits herself to in the Rot, but loud, obnoxious ha-ha-ha’s.

“You have that totally wrong,” she gasps, trying to catch her breath. “It goes like this: “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold…”

She wants to continue but can’t. She’s still laughing. And holy shit, does it feel good to hear that, like she forgot how to breathe and is figuring it out again.

I keep singing, purposely getting the words wrong but also out of tune. While I do, I remember the sound of dad’s busy shop with wrenches, engines, and gruff mechanics swearing or laughing, or both.