CHESTER MCBADBAT's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Chester dragged a stick through the mud, measuring out forty-three paces north, then sixty-two west. The Man Glades didn't care what you did with it, which made it the only real estate he could afford. He'd brought a roll of orange surveyor's tape from the hardware store—cost him three bucks and a half-truth about helping his dad—and now he tied the first strip to a cypress knee. He yanked the chainsaw's starter cord twice before it caught. The saw had belonged to his old man once, back when the trailer had copper wiring instead of extension cords. Chester had painted his initials on the side in red—big curvy letters that looked like something off a van. The blade bit into a dead palmetto, clearing space for the tent. The tarp shelter went up crooked but standing. Chester staked the corners with rebar he'd pulled from a demo site last week. Inside was just dirt and air, but it was his dirt, his air. He walked the perimeter one more time, tying orange tape every ten feet. Tomorrow he'd bring Timmy out here, show him the layout, talk chickens and fencing. At the far corner he hammered together a frame from scrap two-by-fours and nailed up a sheet of plywood. He'd printed out pictures at the library—satellite shots of farmland, photos of goats, a screenshot of property listings two counties over. He tacked them all to the board in overlapping rows. This was the edge of it. Past this point, nobody got to tell him what came next.