Eli lay shell-pale on the rock, the band of freckles on his face all the darker for having the color wholly washed out of him. From emergencies at the tanks, Fan knew what to do; she began pumping on his chest and blowing into his mouth, while Sewey craned wide-eyed above her. She worked back and forth pumping and blowing, and she was not willing to give up maybe ever when he finally bucked and coughed, then coughed again, water spilling from his mouth. Then he leaned over and vomited. After he gathered himself, he wiped his eyes and pulled on his T-shirt and his sun hat, and the three of them sat beside the still-again water, drying off, each wondering in silence what exactly had happened.
They never mentioned this to anyone. It seemed to them all nobody’s business. Although Fan did wonder. It seemed to her Eli’s family’s circumstance appeared no worse or better than anyone else’s in the compound; the hut he shared with his mother and younger brother and sister was like the rest of them, drafty and damp and rickety, a narrow door the only barrier to the elements, the lone window a hinged piece of cut plywood, the beds jammed tightly in one corner so that they all slept together, as was typical in the huts. In the other corner was set a small woodstove welded together out of sundry metal panels with an aluminum duct running up through the roof. Because it was summer, it was used now only for cooking the evening meal, which meant sometimes frying up eggs, or game if someone shot or trapped any, but mostly it was heating stuff right in the cans. Each hut had a stove and now they took turns starting the fires with those in the adjoining huts, and so people would drift in and out to warm up their dinners and often enough everyone would share what they had, a potluck of diced carrots and mackerel and kidney beans, and if someone was feeling extra-generous, maybe a tin of beef chili or chicken stew would get opened. Sewey was welcomed because he always brought something special from the house such as dried fruit rolls or energy bars, a share of which he gave to Fan to offer. You had to contribute something, even if it was totally unpalatable, like the can of teriyaki-flavored beetle grubs someone had slipped onto the stove the last time and didn’t own up to until people tried it and actually didn’t mind the flavor, which was sort of shrimpy and sweet. That evening it was Fan and Sewey and Eli’s family along with two others, both made up of a mother and her children. Of the residents of the huts a majority seemed to be fatherless, or manless, a fact that seemed natural enough to Fan; though the households of B-Mor had plenty of men, there were always more females by head count because of the nature of the facilities work, not just in the tanks but in the nurseries, where smaller, nimbler hands could plant seedlings and prune and weed more efficiently. Reg had originally started in the jobs mostly held by men, whose tasks were physically demanding, having to handle large soil bags and drums of nutrients, but he wasn’t very strong for his size and he’d shown a genuine interest in gardening, not to mention having the advantage of his wide wingspan.
Fan took meager portions from the cans, waiting for the others to coax her to take more. They were sitting on folding chairs outside Eli’s hut in the still, pine-fragrant air of the late-dying evening light with their plastic picnic bowls and spoons, and ate while sharing stories of the day and of the various comings and goings of the compound residents and patients but mostly laughing and joking in a manner that Fan realized she didn’t much see any longer back in B-Mor. These people didn’t have the same ingrained knowledge of one another as did those in her household or, of course, that insoluble bond of blood, but what they did seem to share, despite or maybe because of the prevailing trial of their circumstance, was a kind of sharp appreciation of one another, their talk never quite easy or clement, and sometimes bordering on being cruel; after eating, they would usually play word games because there was little else to do once it got dark and the kids and moms would go round with something they called Roadkill, a memory word game that started at A and went through the alphabet, with the first person saying something you might find at the side of a counties road, such as antelope or auto, with the next repeating that and then offering his or her own word, bones, the following person restating both the previous and then offering crow, and so on, until someone either couldn’t remember the string of words or come up with a new one, when the kids and even moms would lob abuse at the loser, especially if his word was particularly silly or desperate, like igloo, which would prompt a game within a game: a rushing litany of idiot, inane, ignoramus, et cetera. But they were always kind to Sewey, whispering suggestive clues or letting Eli recall a series of words for him when he faltered, exempting him from the mocking if he couldn’t think of anything at the end.
Fan didn’t play because she was new, and because of that, they weren’t sure how she should be treated, but the truth was that she wasn’t accustomed to such activities nor did she have much of a vocabulary, despite the fact that she went through the full seven years of formal B-Mor schooling while they had merely their mothers and one another to learn from; there was no signal out here (or if there was, it was too costly to buy a code), and thus they didn’t have any games or shows or vids or messaging, and the only thing they could do was read the few dozen old books that were loaded on a couple of antique handscreens the kids passed around. Fan followed the game and played along inside her head, trying to generate her own word every turn, though she had some trouble; she was plenty smart but there was little occasion for her mind to be challenged at the facility or at home, where her aunts and uncles and parents and cousins would sit cheek by jowl for the meal but never really talk or if they did, they would just comment on whatever was transpiring on the programs they were all plugged in to, lamenting and bellowing about the show characters as if they were the friends and family and lovers in greatest question.
And maybe they were; for whatever was in question when the originals landed long ago is by now for us a set of curiosities, like the crank on an ancient automobile, or the virtual keys on a computer screen, the inconvenient or tiresome having been steadily engineered away. We labor hard for certain but the work is rote and our tomorrows are mostly settled and the way we love one another is cast by the form of our excellent contiguity, a rigorous closeness that only rarely oversteps its bounds.
Fan could see that these women and children she now sat amid were the lucky ones. Like Loreen, both of the women had come to Quig’s in dire need, Eli’s mother originally arriving with a man who died, and immediately she found herself in a circumstance that presented numerous reasons to try to stay on — a regular supply of food, decent shelter, protection from marauders and opportunistic counties authorities — and only a single one to leave. All the reasons, of course, had their ultimate basis in Quig himself — this was his domain, indeed perhaps as far as the eye could see — and Eli’s mother and Loreen and every other person who made his or her way here had to decide how much they were willing to cede in return for such succor. The men would work in policing/security, or procurement and trading of supplies, or in the maintenance of the compound, and the women were responsible for everything else, the daily pilgrimage of patients and the organization of inventories, the “cooking” and the cleaning, the raising of the kids, and if they were manless, and sometimes even if they were not, making a periodic nighttime visit to Quig.