Free Almost Everything Very Fast by Almost Everything Very Fast Christopher Kloeble

break out into unceremonious chatter.
    Fred waved him closer. “Gertrude? This is Albert.”
    “Gertrude?” Albert took a step toward them, and the horse flinched.
    “It’s okay,” Fred said to the foal, which was holding itself just out of reach. Albert wasn’t surprised; he tended to have this sort of effect on animals. Presumably they were able to sense that he still couldn’t grasp why most people had more pity for a stray cat than for a vagrant on the subway.
    Albert cleared his throat. “Let’s get going.”
    “Can’t we stay for a minute?”
    “No.”
    “But Gertrude—”
    “No!” said Albert, louder than he’d intended. He really wasn’t in the mood for a petting zoo.
    Fred pulled him aside. “When I’m dead, you have to come see Gertrude every day,” he whispered.
    Albert hadn’t expected that; wiping the sweat from his forehead, he said, “I’m not good at these things.”
    Fred clapped him on the shoulder. “It won’t take you long to learn.”
    Then he said his good-byes to the foal. Fred had never mentioned Gertrude after returning from his rambles through Königsdorf, thought Albert; and if Fred didn’t mention something, it usually meant he’d been up to no good.
    Fred interrupted Albert’s train of thought when he came to a halt in the middle of the street. “We’re there.”
    Albert glanced around. Farm plots stretched away on either side. The sun stung them. Flies traced rectangles above dried cow dung.
    Fred drew a crowbar from his backpack, kneeled, and began struggling to slip its end under the manhole cover.
    “What are you doing? Stop it!” shouted Albert.
    Fred turned to look at him, and with an aggrieved bass note the cover slid back into its recess. “We have to go down there.”
    “What if someone sees us? What if a car comes along?”
    Fred glanced at both ends of the street. “There’s no car coming.”
    “Look, that’s not the point. We can’t just climb down into the sewer.”
    “Why?”
    “Because …” Albert thought for a moment. “Because it isn’t allowed.” He took the crowbar from Fred. “And you should ask me before you play around with something like that. You could hurt yourself.”
    “But you told me I have to show you where the gold comes from!”
    “From down there?”
    Frenzied nodding of the head. “Can I have the crowbar?”
    Albert pointed to the manhole cover. “Seriously—down there? ”
    “I need the crowbar now,” said Fred.
    “Isn’t there any other way?”
    With a single motion Fred was up on his feet, towering over Albert, grabbing the hand in which he held the bar. At first, Albert didn’t feel anything, he tried to pull his hand away, but it was held fast, and he struggled in vain to loosen Fred’s grip with the other. “Let. Go.” The pressure increased, it felt as if Fred were driving Albert’s fingers right into the crowbar’s iron. Fred’s hat had slid forward, hiding his eyes, his lips silently opened and closed. The pain fused with a numbness that wandered up along Albert’s arm. Just before it reached his elbow, he pushed himself backward with all his strength. “Fred, stop it!” he shouted, and Fred finally let go. Albert stumbled backward. The crowbar landed next to his feet.
    Albert picked up his tote bag and walked away.
    Beside Gertrude’s fence he examined his now dark-red hand, wiggling one finger after another. They didn’t seem to be broken. “The joke of it,” he shouted to the foal, “is that I worry about his health.”
    Gertrude actually neighed.
    At age six, Albert had once called Fred a retard because he’d broken his He-Man figure while attempting to turn him back into Prince Adam. In response, Fred had aimed a kick at Albert and broken two of the latter’s toes. While pretending to box, Fred had inadvertently given him plenty of shiners. Albert’s body was long accustomed to little wounds and bruises.
    Gertrude snuffled in the direction of his hand, which he was extending