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I peered in a little closer, too, and saw a single capsule inside packed beneath a cotton ball.
Mark took the pill bottle from Atticus’ hand, fitting it carefully between his thumb and index finger as if it was made of glass, and inside was the last remaining symbol of hope in the world.
“That, my friend,” Mark said grimly, “is a last resort. And there’s nothing you have that I’d trade for it. Sorry.” He dropped the bottle inside his backpack.
“But what is it?” I asked.
“A way out,” Atticus said. “Something else we don’t need.”
I glanced down at the man’s backpack where the bottle, which held something so much more than a capsule, was hidden. A suicide pill? I shuddered.
“They make them in Denver,” Mark said. “That’s the first thing they gave me when I set out. Hell, I don’t ever plan to have to use it—no one ever plans to have to use it—but if I need it, I know where it is. I’ll be damned if I let some savage fiend cut on me while I’m still alive. I’ve heard stories—haven’t seen one yet, but I’m here to tell yah, they scare me more than any asshole with a gun. Shoot me or beat me to death, I don’t give a shit, but if I have a choice: eaten alive or take myself out, you can bet your ass I’ll take myself out.”
“But how would you get to it,” I spoke up, “if it’s in your backpack? By the time they got you in a position you’d have to use it, you probably wouldn’t be able to.”
(I smiled inwardly. That’s my girl.)
Mark chewed pensively on the inside of his cheek. “Well,” he said, and bent over to put the items back inside the kit, “I have it if I need it. Let’s just hope I never need it.”
After the sun had almost fallen, bathing the landscape in indigo and fading heat, Atticus asked me to go inside and bring back five cigarettes, one small bottle of Crown Royal whiskey, and one plastic rain poncho. Atticus traded these items for one tiny bottle of baby oil, a small used bar of soap, the entire first-aid kit minus Mark Porter’s last remaining symbol of hope in the world, and a hairbrush. Mark had argued that his items were worth more than what Atticus was willing to trade for them, but Atticus reminded him about the meal he’d been given and so Mark couldn’t complain.
Mark Porter strapped on his backpack and prepared to leave.
“Thanks for the food,” he told us.
He lingered for a moment, and then, scratching his head he said, “I don’t guess you’d mind if I hung around until the morning?”
“No,” Atticus said instantly. “You should be on your way.”
Mark nodded slowly, afterwards his eyes skirted me.
ATTICUS & (THAIS)
I saw it when he looked at her. And I felt it. And inside me I felt the tick in my brain, the short in the wire that fed my violent retribution. But I kept it in check. For a little while. I didn’t want to kill another man in front of Thais if I didn’t have to.
“Again, I’m sorry I scared you in the woods,” Mark told her with a kind, apologetic smile.
Maybe I had been wrong about the short glance…?
“Apology accepted,” she said.
Awkward silence ensued.
“Welp,” Mark announced, “I guess I’ll be on my way then.” He looked over at me. “Do you happen to know which way is west?”
“Go inside and lock the door,” I whispered against Thais’ ear.
(I nodded, glimpsing Atticus’ eyes full of something dark I could not name, and then I disappeared inside the cabin.)
“I’ll show you the easiest path out,” I offered as I descended the steps.
“Great, thanks.” Mark beamed, adjusting his backpack.
(With a heavy heart, I watched from the window as Atticus and Mark Porter went over the moonlit grass and vanished in the blackness of the trees.)
42
ATTICUS
