Page 5 of The Tomorrows After You
Ensure the circular saw is connected to power.
He priced out lumber, plumbing, electric, all of it. Down to the goddamnshelfthat the materials were found on.
Home Depot Store 4802- Aisle 27 Bay 005.
Yes, he wasfuckingbrilliant, but he was also trying.
Still, it was nice to work with my big brother on somethingtangiblethat served as evidence we’d built something together.
I gazed at my watch. 5:23 a.m.Shit.
I hopped in my truck and pulled into the back of the library right as the clock struck 5:30.
“Asher,”Mr. Meaney regarded me.
“Mr. Meaney,” I said.
His eyes were flat.“You can call me Kevin, now, Riot. I’m not your wood shop teacher anymore.”
I nodded. He led me to the enclosed trailer. Riding lawn mower, edger, pruning shears. The job was straightforward. Upkeep the grounds around the library.Serve the community.
“Not just the bushes you have to prune.”Mr. Meaney gave me a knowing nod before swiveling his eyes to the entrance of the library where I spotted movement.
He walked over, tilting his head for me to follow him.
“Up and at ’em! Look alive!”He barked and started clapping. I peered around him to see a young man, maybe a few years younger than me, strung out in the overhang of the library entrance.
The boy opened his bleary eyes as if he didn’t know where he was. I was once again struck by how rampant the drug problem had become during my time away.
“Sorry, son.”Mr. Meaney helped him to his feet, grabbing him around the upper part of his arm, which was littered with track marks.“Library is closed and there’s no loitering. The Center is open 24/7. You know that.”
A pang of pity cut through me, watching him stumble away.
Mr. Meaney gave me a quick rundown before leaving, and I went to work.
After finishing in the back, I was drenched with sweat. I wiped my face with the bottom of my grass-stained shirt, hauling all the materials to the front.
Shit.I pulled up short, spotting a parked car. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I noticed someone passed out in the driver’s seat.Double shit.
As I got closer, I cleared my throat and dragged the edger against the pavement, hoping the driver would wake up and take off before I had to playbouncerat the local library. But no such luck. A head of long blonde hair pressed against the window.
A woman.Great.
I could get along with the men in town. Their disposition remained impassive, disinterested. They left me alone for the most part and weren’t afraid to pass me in the grocery store. If engagement was unavoidable, they’d ask me about football scores and I’d ask how they thought the Steelers were primed for the upcoming season, cautiously steering the conversation into comfortable small talk.
Women, by contrast (save Katie), regarded me as if I were wearing a necklace made of puppy skulls and children’s teeth. They crossed thestreet when they noticed me coming. They avoided the grocery aisle I stood in, and theycertainlynever engaged in small talk.
For the most part, at least. A handful of busybodies would ask about the weather or my brother so they could report back at teatime that they were brave enough to converse with Riot Asher, Mother Slayer.
I took a breath, irritated I had to interrupt my work to shoo away another addict, before rapping three times on the window.
The woman lurched forward and snapped her head, scowling as ifIwere the one inconveniencingher.When our eyes met, a twinge of familiarity struck me.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!”she scoffed, rolling down her window halfway. I hid my surprise at her aggressive response and regarded her with skepticism.
She didn’t look like a crackhead. Her teeth and skin were impeccable despite dark circles under her eyes. Maybe she was a dealer.
She blinked rapidly, as if she could clear me out of her eye line.
