Smoke, page 26
Cole’s gaze drops to Asher’s arm as he approaches us. “Looks like a dislocated shoulder. Seen a number of those on the field. Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?” he says to Ash.
“Like a mofo,” Ash slurs, an odd, dopey grin creeping over his face. He blinks in slow motion. “A mooofoooooo.”
Exchanging concerned glances, we lay him down on the blanket Cole’s spread over the floor, then crouch like gargoyles around him.
“I assume the ER’s out of the question,” Cole says, to which Asher thrashes his head side to side.
“Can you fix it?” Knox asks Cole, momentarily boxing up his anger.
“Well, I’m not a doctor,” Cole says, eyes fixed on the injured shoulder. “But yeah, I can get it back in place. Won’t feel good, though. He’ll probably need something for the pain.”
“He ate a pot brownie on the way over,” Knox says. “Should be kicking in any time.”
“Try three,” Ash adds with googly eyes and a slow-growing smile. “Ate two before you got there, Augs. Figured I’d need some medicals.” He squints up at Cole. “Hold on, I know you. You’re the one who plays stick ’n’ ball…Bole Cuchannon!”
Cole’s lips twitch. “Close enough, man. Let’s fix your arm now, okay?”
Then, for no particular reason, Ash bursts into a rousing rendition of “Eye of the Tiger.” “Risin’ up, back on concre-heeete! Did my time, toke my chances!”
Knox lifts his brows. “Oh, he’s rolling, all right.”
“Just a man, and his will to get hiiiiigh!” Ash continues, singing deliriously in the background.
“What do you need us to do?” I ask Cole.
“We’ll need a makeshift sling for after. Like a pillowcase, or a long rag.” He turns to my brother. “Knox, can you keep him distracted?”
“Baby, I was born to distract. You ready for a duet, bruh?” my brother says to Ash, moving over to his good shoulder. Asher gives him a toothy smile. And the pair launch into the bastardized song—singing loud and off-key—as they gaze ridiculously into each other’s eyes.
I rejoin Cole, the fabric for the sling in hand. “All right,” he says with a gulp, “here we go.” Cole lifts Asher’s injured arm, gently moving it away from his body to a forty-five-degree angle. Knox must be doing an amazing job distracting him, because Ash doesn’t seem to notice.
Yet.
“This part’s gonna be a little more intense,” Cole says, bracing his foot at the side of Asher’s chest near his armpit. “On my count—three…two…one.” He then pulls Ash’s hand, firm and steady toward him.
Ash cries, “Son of a—ahhh!” And just as he gathers another breath to scream, we hear it. The nauseating POP! And the bone slips back in the socket.
* * *
Knox takes a slug of whiskey he’s pulled from the duffel bag of essentials. Then another. “He’s like the gentlest dude I know. Probably didn’t even fight back when those sons-a-bitches were beating on him. He’s too good for this world.” My brother rubs his eyes.
After Cole took care of Asher’s shoulder, we cleaned the cut on his cheek and applied a butterfly bandage. He’s now resting peacefully on an old cot we found in storage that we padded with mismatched lawn-chair cushions.
“So”—he swings the neck of the bottle between Cole and me—“how long’s this been going on?”
I steel myself for the explosion. For Knox to turn red-faced and holler with self-righteousness. After all, I’ve earned it.
Cole’s eyes flit to mine in deference. He wants me to answer, decide what I’m willing to share. But I’m still waiting for my brother to burst. His oddly calm demeanor is somehow worse than if he just lost it. I realize then why it’s so unsettling. Because he reminds me of Dad right now.
“Aren’t you going to yell at me?” I ask.
Knox hunches forward, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m too tired to yell,” he answers dully. Asher’s snore crescendos in the background. “And I don’t wanna wake him up.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “Poor guy’s been through enough.”
“I didn’t tell Cole until a few days ago,” I say to Knox, framing my answer to the more relevant part of the question. “After Dad’s accident.” My brother pulls a face, tipping the bottle back to his lips. “Knox, I’m sorry. I tried to wait, I did. But then—”
“Enough.” The bottle thunks back to the table. “Let’s cut to the chase.” He narrows his eyes on Cole. “Your dad’s a cop, right? So how do I know I can trust you?”
Cole swallows, then looks to me. “Because.” Taking my hand in his, he stares back at my brother. “I love her.” My heart swells so large it hurts.
Knox sniffs, his lip curling. “So I was right. I was right all along about you two.”
“You were.” I scoot forward. “But, Knox, think about it, we’re going to need more hands for the harvest. Especially with Ash being hurt. Plus, Cole has a great idea for how to get Dad and Aunt Maeve out of town next weekend so we can work uninterrupted.”
My brother contemplates this as he taps the bottle. “I’m listening.”
“So my parents go to all these police fundraisers,” Cole explains, unzipping the outer pouch of his backpack. “They’re always bidding on silent-auction stuff, so they won’t even notice this is gone.” He holds out the envelope he’s removed. “You can tell them you won it or something.”
Knox takes the envelope, removing the folded paper inside and reading aloud, “A four-day, all-expense-paid trip to Beaver Island for two.” My brother blinks and looks up. “The dates are already set for next weekend.”
“Honor told me the dates you needed them gone,” Cole replies.
More blinking, then my brother’s lips stretch wide. “Man, this is perfect!” He says to me, “Dad’ll still be on medical leave.”
“I know,” I say excitedly. “There’s no way they’ll turn down a free trip.”
“And another bonus of having a dad in law enforcement,” Cole continues, turning his laptop so Knox can see. “You can do things like run license plates and keep tabs on incoming calls to dispatch. Which means I can watch your backs in ways nobody else can.”
“Damn,” Knox murmurs. I can tell he’s reluctantly impressed. He leans closer to the photo. “Hey, wait a sec, I’ve seen that guy before.” He points. “Is this the owner of the SUV we saw the other night?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” Knox says. “Not really. Saw him a few times at the farmer’s market when I was working. Kept coming around our stall. Never bought anything, though.”
“Did you talk to him?” Cole asks.
“No. But I’m sure it’s the same guy because, well”—he gestures to the screen—“look at him. He’s jacked. Dude stuck out like a sore thumb at a finger party.”
I sit up straighter, struck with a sudden thought. “Do you think this could’ve been one of the guys who jumped Ash and trashed his place?”
“Could be,” my brother muses, absently rubbing his chin. “They were gone by the time I got there and found Ash. We’ll have to ask him when he wakes up. He definitely can’t go back home, though. Not until we’re sure they won’t come back for him.”
“He can hide out here until we know it’s safe,” I say.
Cole nods. “We’ve got one of those fancy inflatable beds at home. I can bring it in tomorrow. Might make him more comfortable.”
Knox stares at the whiskey bottle in contemplation. Then he slides it over to Cole like an olive branch. “You sure you wanna do this, Buchannon? This is a lot bigger than getting up twenty minutes early to buy my sister her favorite muffins. This is serious-felony shit. Oh, I should also mention if you hurt Honor, I’ll kick the testicles clean off you. Clean. Off. You’ll be a goddamn Ken doll down there.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” I whack my brother’s arm with my notebook. “What is wrong with you? This isn’t Elizabethan England and I’m not some damsel in distress.”
He gives me a side-eye. “Yeah, I know,” he hisses under his breath, “but this is a guy thing.” Turning his attention back to Cole he adds, “And I don’t care how many trophies you’re packing, Captain Lacrosse. I fight dirty, and I fight to win.”
By way of answer, Cole lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a drink. Then sets it down, gazing intensely at my brother. “I’m doing this, Augustine. I’m all in.”
I stand up, grab the bottle, and take three hearty gulps. Then slam the whiskey to the table. “Okay, that was disgusting.” I cough, wiping my mouth. “But now that I have your attention, we’ve got ten days to harvest, and another five for the bud to dry. And Zachary ‘Thumper’ Mellner, or whoever he works for, is closing in. So I think our time would be better spent strategizing. Starting by running a full search on Thumper to see if we can find anyone he might be associated with.”
31
Eighty-one days.
Fourteen hours.
And…I check my watch. Twenty-six seconds.
For eighty-one days, fourteen hours, and twenty-six seconds, I have lived an idea. Sustained myself by it, really. I breathed it, drank it, let it swim in my veins and in my thoughts. I watched as the idea grew, inch by inch, feeling its phantom roots latch onto something inside me. And now the time has finally come to cut the idea free.
It is time for harvest.
I know this because over half the hairlike pistils, once fuzzy and white and reaching in all directions from the bud, have turned rusty brown and curl inward. The buds themselves are swollen, coating the air with potent, sticky resins.
But the biggest tell of all is in the trichomes—those microscopic, mushroom-shaped protrusions on the bud and surrounding leaves where the THC is housed. The trichomes are why our plants now have the illusion of being dipped in frost.
Holding the jeweler’s loupe to my eye, I confirm that the crystalline trichomes have indeed turned cloudy. Maturation is complete. Our plants are officially ready.
I take a moment to whisper my thanks. To the new life the plants will bring us all. A life gained for a life lost. I promise them their sacrifice will not be in vain.
“Twenty-three thousand, two hundred dollars,” Asher announces. I’m so thick in my thoughts, I’d almost forgotten I wasn’t alone. Turning, I see the neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills that cover the table. “That’s minus the cabbage I gave Augs for the hardware-store run and this month’s electric bill.”
Knox is currently shopping for the dehumidifier needed to dry our large crop. My brother tried to get Ash to join him, but he’s been reluctant to leave the greenhouse since the attack. So for the last ten days, Ash has been keeping vampire hours—rising around four in the afternoon and crashing at sunrise.
After scrubbing his hands in the utility sink, Ash digs into the hearty serving of Aunt Maeve’s breakfast casserole I brought him.
Aunt Maeve stocked our fridge to cubic capacity before she left with Dad and Geronimo for their Beaver Island adventure. Afraid that with Knox and me left to our own devices, they might return from the long weekend only to discover two bags of bones riddled with scurvy. There’s currently enough food to feed a village.
Ash gestures to the money with his fork, mumbling around a mouthful of egg, cheese, and sausage. “You wanna recount it?”
“No. I’m sure you’re right.” While he finishes breakfast, I gather the stacks of hundreds and place them back in the cashbox. After sliding the box back into the hole in the wall, I screw the air vent cover back into place.
“You do that every time,” Ash observes as he pours the coffee from the thermos. “Did you know that? Almost like a ritual or something.”
I stop grazing the bumpy letters inside the heart drawn in the concrete and sit back on my heels. “Habit, I guess.”
He snaps the lid back on the empty container. “So what does LA + HA stand for?”
“Lizzie and Henry Augustine, our grandparents. It was always Gran’s dream to own a greenhouse. Granddad had to sell his favorite car, a cherry-red 1960 Chevy Impala, just to pay for this cement.” I tap the heart. “He never regretted it, though. Said he got all the joy he could ask for just by beholding Gran’s.”
Ash whistles. “Now that’s big love.”
“Yeah. And if you think that’s big, you should hear the story of my great-grandma Bleu Gerard and how she—” My burner rings. Dusting off my hands, I pull the phone from my cargo pocket. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Dad called,” Knox says over the hardware store’s grainy loudspeaker. “They made it to Beaver Island and he got on the list for that woodworking seminar. You should have heard him, Hon. Sounded like a little kid Christmas morning. Haven’t heard him that happy in forever.”
“That’s great,” I reply with a relieved grin. Dad’s not keen on overnighters in unfamiliar places. But I assured him they’d have a great time and that we’d hold down the fort and stay out of trouble. Which triggered Knox to cough on the irony.
Meanwhile, Geronimo made up for all the enthusiasm Dad lacked—smiling and barking from the back seat, tail swishing like a high-speed windshield wiper.
“Anyway,” my brother continues, “got the dehumidifier and should be back in ten or fifteen. Is Cole there yet?”
“He had to grab some stuff from home, then he was going to do another security check before we start. He’ll probably be here in another twenty minutes—give or take,” I reply.
To be safe, we’ve been doing regular sweeps of the area. And so far, like our fruitless database search, there’s been nothing to report. I wish I could say this put me at ease, but until our forty pounds of weed is gone, breathing won’t be easy.
“Roger that,” Knox says. “Over and out.”
The crew arrives just as Ash and I finish hanging the dry lines across the basement. Knox and Ash immediately unbox the dehumidifier, while Cole reports the area’s all clear. Dumping his backpack to the floor, he moves toward me.
I wonder if my heart will ever stop tripping over its own beat when he enters a room. Clumsy organ.
“Hey.” Cole kisses my cheek and murmurs, “You good? Ready for tonight?”
Blowing out a breath, I snap on a pair of gloves. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Okay,” Ash says to my brother, “plug her in.” Knox does and the unit hums to life. “Right on, Augs.” He flashes a thumbs-up. “We’re ready to rock and roll.”
The atmosphere buzzes with collective energy as Knox turns up the bass-heavy music. His head bobs to the beat. “All right, Team HACK, let’s get our last reap on!”
Ash organizes us into an assembly line that would make Henry Ford proud. Truly, I’ve never seen Asher Ford so articulate and focused. With the fan leaves removed, he makes the first cut, snipping the large cola-bearing sections of stalks from the plant.
Knox takes the stalk, carefully trimming away the larger leaves before passing it off to me. From there, I perform a detailed trim, snipping away the smaller stems and leaves, so only the large, conical buds remain. Then Cole hangs the colas upside down on the dry lines that stretch across the basement. While Cole waits for the finished stalks, he collects the buckets of clippings, piling them on the tarp for disposal.
We work like this for six hot, hand-cramping hours, occasionally switching out jobs. And like lumberjacks, we fell the cannabis forest, one tree at a time. I lose track of the number of times we trudge up and down the stairs, carrying tarps bulging with trimmings, along with bucket after bucket of heavy dirt and dense root balls.
But eventually, the harvest is done.
I return downstairs, where the grow lights have gone dark and the pallets are empty. Nothing but leafy fragments and crumbs of dirt remain. The dehumidifier continues to hum, sucking moisture from the air.
“You coming?” I ask Ash. “The trailer’s all loaded up.” We agreed in the interest of time and limited dry space to simply bury the leftover trimmings.
Asher finishes repositioning one of the colas on the line, then pulls off his disposable gloves with a snap. “Think I’ll hang back and finish up the cleaning. You guys go ahead without me.”
“Okay.” I frown, noticing his duffel is packed. Which is weird because he said he wasn’t going to stay at the house, even though Dad’s gone. “Are you going somewhere?”
When his gaze locks with mine, I find his brown eyes are absent of that hazy, liquid quality I’ve come to know. Asher Ford is…sober. I must’ve been so distracted with the harvest, I didn’t notice till now. No wonder he was so clear and focused.
Ash looks away and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he answers reluctantly. “I was actually gonna take off after you guys left. Just for a while, though. I’d be back in time to package all this up.” He gestures to the dry lines.
“So where will you go?” I ask pensively.
Ash picks up the broom and begins sweeping. “Buddy of mine has a place a few hours north on this chill little lake. Said I can crash at his cabin. And yeah…” He sniffs, tossing me a lopsided grin. “I’ve already prepared myself for the possibility of spiders, but”—he shrugs—“guess we all have to face our fears eventually, right? Eight-leggers or otherwise.”
“Or you could just stay with us,” I offer, with a hopeful grin. “Plenty of spiders for you to slay down in the cellar.”
“Thanks”—he pauses, leaning on the broom handle—“but I think this is something I gotta do solo, you know? Need to clear my head, decide my next move, and figure some shit out. Been foggy for too long.”
My brows lift. “Asher Ford, are you making a plan?”
“Ha, yeah.” He sways the handle back and forth. “Guess maybe I am. Getting jumped by those goons definitely has me questioning some life choices.” Then he points an accusatory finger at me. “But you’re partly to blame. All your systems and plans musta woke my latent adulting gene.”
“Like a mofo,” Ash slurs, an odd, dopey grin creeping over his face. He blinks in slow motion. “A mooofoooooo.”
Exchanging concerned glances, we lay him down on the blanket Cole’s spread over the floor, then crouch like gargoyles around him.
“I assume the ER’s out of the question,” Cole says, to which Asher thrashes his head side to side.
“Can you fix it?” Knox asks Cole, momentarily boxing up his anger.
“Well, I’m not a doctor,” Cole says, eyes fixed on the injured shoulder. “But yeah, I can get it back in place. Won’t feel good, though. He’ll probably need something for the pain.”
“He ate a pot brownie on the way over,” Knox says. “Should be kicking in any time.”
“Try three,” Ash adds with googly eyes and a slow-growing smile. “Ate two before you got there, Augs. Figured I’d need some medicals.” He squints up at Cole. “Hold on, I know you. You’re the one who plays stick ’n’ ball…Bole Cuchannon!”
Cole’s lips twitch. “Close enough, man. Let’s fix your arm now, okay?”
Then, for no particular reason, Ash bursts into a rousing rendition of “Eye of the Tiger.” “Risin’ up, back on concre-heeete! Did my time, toke my chances!”
Knox lifts his brows. “Oh, he’s rolling, all right.”
“Just a man, and his will to get hiiiiigh!” Ash continues, singing deliriously in the background.
“What do you need us to do?” I ask Cole.
“We’ll need a makeshift sling for after. Like a pillowcase, or a long rag.” He turns to my brother. “Knox, can you keep him distracted?”
“Baby, I was born to distract. You ready for a duet, bruh?” my brother says to Ash, moving over to his good shoulder. Asher gives him a toothy smile. And the pair launch into the bastardized song—singing loud and off-key—as they gaze ridiculously into each other’s eyes.
I rejoin Cole, the fabric for the sling in hand. “All right,” he says with a gulp, “here we go.” Cole lifts Asher’s injured arm, gently moving it away from his body to a forty-five-degree angle. Knox must be doing an amazing job distracting him, because Ash doesn’t seem to notice.
Yet.
“This part’s gonna be a little more intense,” Cole says, bracing his foot at the side of Asher’s chest near his armpit. “On my count—three…two…one.” He then pulls Ash’s hand, firm and steady toward him.
Ash cries, “Son of a—ahhh!” And just as he gathers another breath to scream, we hear it. The nauseating POP! And the bone slips back in the socket.
* * *
Knox takes a slug of whiskey he’s pulled from the duffel bag of essentials. Then another. “He’s like the gentlest dude I know. Probably didn’t even fight back when those sons-a-bitches were beating on him. He’s too good for this world.” My brother rubs his eyes.
After Cole took care of Asher’s shoulder, we cleaned the cut on his cheek and applied a butterfly bandage. He’s now resting peacefully on an old cot we found in storage that we padded with mismatched lawn-chair cushions.
“So”—he swings the neck of the bottle between Cole and me—“how long’s this been going on?”
I steel myself for the explosion. For Knox to turn red-faced and holler with self-righteousness. After all, I’ve earned it.
Cole’s eyes flit to mine in deference. He wants me to answer, decide what I’m willing to share. But I’m still waiting for my brother to burst. His oddly calm demeanor is somehow worse than if he just lost it. I realize then why it’s so unsettling. Because he reminds me of Dad right now.
“Aren’t you going to yell at me?” I ask.
Knox hunches forward, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m too tired to yell,” he answers dully. Asher’s snore crescendos in the background. “And I don’t wanna wake him up.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “Poor guy’s been through enough.”
“I didn’t tell Cole until a few days ago,” I say to Knox, framing my answer to the more relevant part of the question. “After Dad’s accident.” My brother pulls a face, tipping the bottle back to his lips. “Knox, I’m sorry. I tried to wait, I did. But then—”
“Enough.” The bottle thunks back to the table. “Let’s cut to the chase.” He narrows his eyes on Cole. “Your dad’s a cop, right? So how do I know I can trust you?”
Cole swallows, then looks to me. “Because.” Taking my hand in his, he stares back at my brother. “I love her.” My heart swells so large it hurts.
Knox sniffs, his lip curling. “So I was right. I was right all along about you two.”
“You were.” I scoot forward. “But, Knox, think about it, we’re going to need more hands for the harvest. Especially with Ash being hurt. Plus, Cole has a great idea for how to get Dad and Aunt Maeve out of town next weekend so we can work uninterrupted.”
My brother contemplates this as he taps the bottle. “I’m listening.”
“So my parents go to all these police fundraisers,” Cole explains, unzipping the outer pouch of his backpack. “They’re always bidding on silent-auction stuff, so they won’t even notice this is gone.” He holds out the envelope he’s removed. “You can tell them you won it or something.”
Knox takes the envelope, removing the folded paper inside and reading aloud, “A four-day, all-expense-paid trip to Beaver Island for two.” My brother blinks and looks up. “The dates are already set for next weekend.”
“Honor told me the dates you needed them gone,” Cole replies.
More blinking, then my brother’s lips stretch wide. “Man, this is perfect!” He says to me, “Dad’ll still be on medical leave.”
“I know,” I say excitedly. “There’s no way they’ll turn down a free trip.”
“And another bonus of having a dad in law enforcement,” Cole continues, turning his laptop so Knox can see. “You can do things like run license plates and keep tabs on incoming calls to dispatch. Which means I can watch your backs in ways nobody else can.”
“Damn,” Knox murmurs. I can tell he’s reluctantly impressed. He leans closer to the photo. “Hey, wait a sec, I’ve seen that guy before.” He points. “Is this the owner of the SUV we saw the other night?”
“Yeah,” I breathe. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” Knox says. “Not really. Saw him a few times at the farmer’s market when I was working. Kept coming around our stall. Never bought anything, though.”
“Did you talk to him?” Cole asks.
“No. But I’m sure it’s the same guy because, well”—he gestures to the screen—“look at him. He’s jacked. Dude stuck out like a sore thumb at a finger party.”
I sit up straighter, struck with a sudden thought. “Do you think this could’ve been one of the guys who jumped Ash and trashed his place?”
“Could be,” my brother muses, absently rubbing his chin. “They were gone by the time I got there and found Ash. We’ll have to ask him when he wakes up. He definitely can’t go back home, though. Not until we’re sure they won’t come back for him.”
“He can hide out here until we know it’s safe,” I say.
Cole nods. “We’ve got one of those fancy inflatable beds at home. I can bring it in tomorrow. Might make him more comfortable.”
Knox stares at the whiskey bottle in contemplation. Then he slides it over to Cole like an olive branch. “You sure you wanna do this, Buchannon? This is a lot bigger than getting up twenty minutes early to buy my sister her favorite muffins. This is serious-felony shit. Oh, I should also mention if you hurt Honor, I’ll kick the testicles clean off you. Clean. Off. You’ll be a goddamn Ken doll down there.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” I whack my brother’s arm with my notebook. “What is wrong with you? This isn’t Elizabethan England and I’m not some damsel in distress.”
He gives me a side-eye. “Yeah, I know,” he hisses under his breath, “but this is a guy thing.” Turning his attention back to Cole he adds, “And I don’t care how many trophies you’re packing, Captain Lacrosse. I fight dirty, and I fight to win.”
By way of answer, Cole lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a drink. Then sets it down, gazing intensely at my brother. “I’m doing this, Augustine. I’m all in.”
I stand up, grab the bottle, and take three hearty gulps. Then slam the whiskey to the table. “Okay, that was disgusting.” I cough, wiping my mouth. “But now that I have your attention, we’ve got ten days to harvest, and another five for the bud to dry. And Zachary ‘Thumper’ Mellner, or whoever he works for, is closing in. So I think our time would be better spent strategizing. Starting by running a full search on Thumper to see if we can find anyone he might be associated with.”
31
Eighty-one days.
Fourteen hours.
And…I check my watch. Twenty-six seconds.
For eighty-one days, fourteen hours, and twenty-six seconds, I have lived an idea. Sustained myself by it, really. I breathed it, drank it, let it swim in my veins and in my thoughts. I watched as the idea grew, inch by inch, feeling its phantom roots latch onto something inside me. And now the time has finally come to cut the idea free.
It is time for harvest.
I know this because over half the hairlike pistils, once fuzzy and white and reaching in all directions from the bud, have turned rusty brown and curl inward. The buds themselves are swollen, coating the air with potent, sticky resins.
But the biggest tell of all is in the trichomes—those microscopic, mushroom-shaped protrusions on the bud and surrounding leaves where the THC is housed. The trichomes are why our plants now have the illusion of being dipped in frost.
Holding the jeweler’s loupe to my eye, I confirm that the crystalline trichomes have indeed turned cloudy. Maturation is complete. Our plants are officially ready.
I take a moment to whisper my thanks. To the new life the plants will bring us all. A life gained for a life lost. I promise them their sacrifice will not be in vain.
“Twenty-three thousand, two hundred dollars,” Asher announces. I’m so thick in my thoughts, I’d almost forgotten I wasn’t alone. Turning, I see the neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills that cover the table. “That’s minus the cabbage I gave Augs for the hardware-store run and this month’s electric bill.”
Knox is currently shopping for the dehumidifier needed to dry our large crop. My brother tried to get Ash to join him, but he’s been reluctant to leave the greenhouse since the attack. So for the last ten days, Ash has been keeping vampire hours—rising around four in the afternoon and crashing at sunrise.
After scrubbing his hands in the utility sink, Ash digs into the hearty serving of Aunt Maeve’s breakfast casserole I brought him.
Aunt Maeve stocked our fridge to cubic capacity before she left with Dad and Geronimo for their Beaver Island adventure. Afraid that with Knox and me left to our own devices, they might return from the long weekend only to discover two bags of bones riddled with scurvy. There’s currently enough food to feed a village.
Ash gestures to the money with his fork, mumbling around a mouthful of egg, cheese, and sausage. “You wanna recount it?”
“No. I’m sure you’re right.” While he finishes breakfast, I gather the stacks of hundreds and place them back in the cashbox. After sliding the box back into the hole in the wall, I screw the air vent cover back into place.
“You do that every time,” Ash observes as he pours the coffee from the thermos. “Did you know that? Almost like a ritual or something.”
I stop grazing the bumpy letters inside the heart drawn in the concrete and sit back on my heels. “Habit, I guess.”
He snaps the lid back on the empty container. “So what does LA + HA stand for?”
“Lizzie and Henry Augustine, our grandparents. It was always Gran’s dream to own a greenhouse. Granddad had to sell his favorite car, a cherry-red 1960 Chevy Impala, just to pay for this cement.” I tap the heart. “He never regretted it, though. Said he got all the joy he could ask for just by beholding Gran’s.”
Ash whistles. “Now that’s big love.”
“Yeah. And if you think that’s big, you should hear the story of my great-grandma Bleu Gerard and how she—” My burner rings. Dusting off my hands, I pull the phone from my cargo pocket. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Dad called,” Knox says over the hardware store’s grainy loudspeaker. “They made it to Beaver Island and he got on the list for that woodworking seminar. You should have heard him, Hon. Sounded like a little kid Christmas morning. Haven’t heard him that happy in forever.”
“That’s great,” I reply with a relieved grin. Dad’s not keen on overnighters in unfamiliar places. But I assured him they’d have a great time and that we’d hold down the fort and stay out of trouble. Which triggered Knox to cough on the irony.
Meanwhile, Geronimo made up for all the enthusiasm Dad lacked—smiling and barking from the back seat, tail swishing like a high-speed windshield wiper.
“Anyway,” my brother continues, “got the dehumidifier and should be back in ten or fifteen. Is Cole there yet?”
“He had to grab some stuff from home, then he was going to do another security check before we start. He’ll probably be here in another twenty minutes—give or take,” I reply.
To be safe, we’ve been doing regular sweeps of the area. And so far, like our fruitless database search, there’s been nothing to report. I wish I could say this put me at ease, but until our forty pounds of weed is gone, breathing won’t be easy.
“Roger that,” Knox says. “Over and out.”
The crew arrives just as Ash and I finish hanging the dry lines across the basement. Knox and Ash immediately unbox the dehumidifier, while Cole reports the area’s all clear. Dumping his backpack to the floor, he moves toward me.
I wonder if my heart will ever stop tripping over its own beat when he enters a room. Clumsy organ.
“Hey.” Cole kisses my cheek and murmurs, “You good? Ready for tonight?”
Blowing out a breath, I snap on a pair of gloves. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Okay,” Ash says to my brother, “plug her in.” Knox does and the unit hums to life. “Right on, Augs.” He flashes a thumbs-up. “We’re ready to rock and roll.”
The atmosphere buzzes with collective energy as Knox turns up the bass-heavy music. His head bobs to the beat. “All right, Team HACK, let’s get our last reap on!”
Ash organizes us into an assembly line that would make Henry Ford proud. Truly, I’ve never seen Asher Ford so articulate and focused. With the fan leaves removed, he makes the first cut, snipping the large cola-bearing sections of stalks from the plant.
Knox takes the stalk, carefully trimming away the larger leaves before passing it off to me. From there, I perform a detailed trim, snipping away the smaller stems and leaves, so only the large, conical buds remain. Then Cole hangs the colas upside down on the dry lines that stretch across the basement. While Cole waits for the finished stalks, he collects the buckets of clippings, piling them on the tarp for disposal.
We work like this for six hot, hand-cramping hours, occasionally switching out jobs. And like lumberjacks, we fell the cannabis forest, one tree at a time. I lose track of the number of times we trudge up and down the stairs, carrying tarps bulging with trimmings, along with bucket after bucket of heavy dirt and dense root balls.
But eventually, the harvest is done.
I return downstairs, where the grow lights have gone dark and the pallets are empty. Nothing but leafy fragments and crumbs of dirt remain. The dehumidifier continues to hum, sucking moisture from the air.
“You coming?” I ask Ash. “The trailer’s all loaded up.” We agreed in the interest of time and limited dry space to simply bury the leftover trimmings.
Asher finishes repositioning one of the colas on the line, then pulls off his disposable gloves with a snap. “Think I’ll hang back and finish up the cleaning. You guys go ahead without me.”
“Okay.” I frown, noticing his duffel is packed. Which is weird because he said he wasn’t going to stay at the house, even though Dad’s gone. “Are you going somewhere?”
When his gaze locks with mine, I find his brown eyes are absent of that hazy, liquid quality I’ve come to know. Asher Ford is…sober. I must’ve been so distracted with the harvest, I didn’t notice till now. No wonder he was so clear and focused.
Ash looks away and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he answers reluctantly. “I was actually gonna take off after you guys left. Just for a while, though. I’d be back in time to package all this up.” He gestures to the dry lines.
“So where will you go?” I ask pensively.
Ash picks up the broom and begins sweeping. “Buddy of mine has a place a few hours north on this chill little lake. Said I can crash at his cabin. And yeah…” He sniffs, tossing me a lopsided grin. “I’ve already prepared myself for the possibility of spiders, but”—he shrugs—“guess we all have to face our fears eventually, right? Eight-leggers or otherwise.”
“Or you could just stay with us,” I offer, with a hopeful grin. “Plenty of spiders for you to slay down in the cellar.”
“Thanks”—he pauses, leaning on the broom handle—“but I think this is something I gotta do solo, you know? Need to clear my head, decide my next move, and figure some shit out. Been foggy for too long.”
My brows lift. “Asher Ford, are you making a plan?”
“Ha, yeah.” He sways the handle back and forth. “Guess maybe I am. Getting jumped by those goons definitely has me questioning some life choices.” Then he points an accusatory finger at me. “But you’re partly to blame. All your systems and plans musta woke my latent adulting gene.”
