Hank's Arc

Chapter 1 of 14

Hank cracked open his seventh Molson Canadian of the afternoon and watched a beer mug scuttle past his tomato plants like a fat beetle. He blinked hard. The mug kept going, foam sloshing over its rim, heading toward the glass garden house he'd built by the fire pit. This was the problem with May 24 weekend — too much time, too much sun, and way too much beer. He needed to check the shack. Hank stood, wobbled, and walked toward the weathered structure he'd built last spring behind the compost bins. Inside were twenty-three cases of Molson stacked floor to ceiling. His insurance policy for the summer ahead, when the beer garden would finally open and people would show up every evening. But that morning, Queen V. had posted a wooden sign by the driveway that made his stomach drop: ALCOHOL SWEEP WILL OCCUR PRIOR ON MAY 24. The grammar was wrong but the threat was clear. Another golden creature waddled past, this one humming. Hank squinted at it. The thing had stubby legs and a body covered in bubbles, grinning at him with a face that looked punched into the foam. He kicked at it. His boot went straight through. Just the heat and the beer playing tricks. He wiped sweat from his forehead and kept walking. At the shack, Hank pulled open the crooked door and counted cases. All twenty-three still there. He grabbed two and carried them toward the tomato rows, then shoved them under the raised beds where the dirt was cool and dark. If Queen V. wanted to sweep, she'd have to dig for it. By sunset, he had cases buried under tomatoes, behind the fire pit, inside the garden house, and wedged into the foundation gap beneath the porch. The golden bubble creatures kept appearing and disappearing, but Hank ignored them now. He had work to do.