Gravy Patterson's Arc

Chapter 2 of 11

The next morning, Gravy locked the truck and headed home with the smell of cold grease still on his jacket. He should have felt lighter. Instead, his phone kept buzzing. Derek had texted twice. So had one of the guys from work. Same question, different words: what's Preston been saying about you? Gravy drove straight to the community board in the middle of town. He saw it before he parked. A printed sheet was pinned dead center, right under his own grinning photo. Preston's handwriting at the bottom. The story made Gravy out as the one who threw the first punch, the one who wrecked the truck, the one nobody should trust around a fire. A bowl of dry pretzels sat on the shelf below, half spilled, like Preston had been camped there feeding anyone who stopped to read. Gravy tore the sheet down. He pinned up his own in its place: a plain index card with a date, a time, and four words. Big fire. Bring nothing. Then he drove home and set up the long wooden table in the yard, stacked it with pretzel baskets and empty poutine trays, and texted Derek a photo. By dinner, three more guys had texted back. Coming. Saw the card. Preston's full of it. Gravy stood by the table as the sun dropped. The story was still out there. Some folks would believe it. But the people who mattered had answered the only question that counted. They were showing up.