Page 33 of No Contest
"Practical. Sturdy. Probably indestructible." He knocked on the hood. "Runs well?"
"Mostly, and the extended cab—good for hauling kids around."
"You gave me shit about my Prius."
I unlocked the door. "You coming or not?"
He climbed in. The seat groaned. He had to shove receipts and a tape measure aside to find the seatbelt. "Fuck. Do you ever clean this thing?"
"It's a work truck."
"It's a filing cabinet with an engine." He picked up a crumpled Tim Hortons bag. "This is from July."
"Put it down."
He tossed it in the back, grinning. "I'm just saying, if you're gonna judge my organizational system—"
"It runs."
"Fair."
I turned the key. The engine coughed and caught. As I pulled out of the lot, the heater groaned to life.
"So where are we going?" Hog fiddled with the radio dial. All he found was static and mournful country.
"You'll see."
"That's ominous."
"It's a surprise."
"Same thing." He gave up on the radio. "For the record, if this is where you murder me and leave my body in a snowbank, I'm gonna be disappointed. I had a good day."
I glanced at him. "I'm not gonna murder you."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Okay." He pulled his toque down over his ears. "Then I trust you."
Hillcrest Park sat at the city's edge, perched on a bluff overlooking the harbor. I'd been visiting since I was a kid—first with my dad, then alone.
I parked at the base of the trail. Hog looked at the darkening trees and the narrow path winding up.
"We're hiking? At this hour?"
"Five-minute walk."
"It's dark out."
"There's a moon."
"Not reassuring." He climbed out anyway. "If I twist an ankle, you're carrying me back."
"Deal."
The trail was packed snow, frozen from the day's sun. Hog walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. His breathing was steady, unbothered by the incline.
