CHESTER MCBADBAT's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

Chester was stacking cinder blocks for a rain barrel when his dad showed up at the tarp line. The old man stood there in a torn undershirt, holding a duffel bag that sagged in the middle. The trailer lost power, he said. Couldn't stay there tonight. Chester looked past him toward the lot where the RV sat dark. The patchwork paint job—pink and yellow and about six other colors—looked dull without the string lights his dad kept running off the hookup. Past it, the light pole leaned at an angle it hadn't yesterday, wires hanging loose like dead vines. Something had hit it, or it just gave up. Either way, the power wasn't coming back. His dad set the duffel down and unzipped it. Inside was a six-pack, a bottle of whiskey, and a stack of DVDs still in their cases. No sleeping bag. No food. Chester felt his jaw tighten. This was supposed to be his place—the start of something that didn't include anyone else's problems. But he looked at the tarp shelter, then at his dad standing there like he was waiting for permission, and realized what saying no would cost him. Not guilt. Something worse. It would mean he'd turned into the kind of person who measured everything by what it took from him. Chester kicked one of the cinder blocks into place and pointed at the far corner under the tarp. You can crash there, he said. But tomorrow we're fixing that pole. His dad nodded, picked up the duffel, and walked over without another word. Chester went back to stacking blocks, but his hands moved different now—slower, heavier. The land was still his. But it wasn't just his anymore, and he'd have to build around that.