Free Strike by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

our car’s path. A big guy with a big gun. It could be Tuck or Hartness, but it’s not. The Cranes must have an inexhaustible supply of huge, scary-looking cousins. Wyatt stops the car, and the guy comes around to the window.
    â€œYou miss the signs?” he says, unfriendly-like, stubby finger on the trigger.
    â€œLeon invited us.”
    The guy nods like he already knew that. “Go on past the barn. Park in the field and head up to the house.” As Wyatt rolls up his window, the guy gives a small smile and says, “You got a good dog.”
    And I know they weren’t going to eat Matty, but I needed to hear that, that the Citizens for Freedom or the Cranes for FuckingUp Shit or whatever they call themselves—that they’re still human and can smile. I would thank him, but he’s melted back into the woods and we’re passing the barn and bumping into a huge field. It’s got to be at least ten acres, with cars neatly parked at one end and rows of tents at the other end.
    â€œI always wanted to go to Coachella,” Wyatt says.
    â€œYou still play bass?” Chance asks.
    â€œI did, yeah.”
    Silence falls. Hobbies are a luxury we don’t necessarily have anymore. Even my guerrilla knitting serves a purpose.
    â€œMaybe the rednecks will lend us some banjos,” Chance adds grimly.
    Which, to be honest, pisses me off a little. I can’t help thinking about Jeremy, about how he proudly called himself a redneck right up until the end but would dive into a fight with any stranger who tried to use the term against him. Whatever his family situation, he was a good person, a good friend. Is it fair for me to think of the Cranes as rednecks if I was constantly chiding Jeremy for using terms like “fag” and “retarded”? And even if they act like what I grew up thinking a redneck was, they still own more land and resources than my mom and I ever did, so technically, they’re more successful. How can I point fingers at anyone when I’m the one with innocent blood on my hands? They might be country, but I’m a monster.
    â€œHow about you don’t call them ‘rednecks’ again?” I say.
    â€œYou want to hear what guys like them called guys like me in juvie?” he shoots back.
    â€œHow about we remember that everyone’s packing heat and just act polite?” Wyatt says softly.
    He parks in line, and we get out and stand there. The field is silent. There are no lights, and no one is here to meet us. A bobwhite calls, somewhere in the forest, and Wyatt pops the trunk, hunts around, and hands me my new puffer coat.
    â€œYou look cold.”
    I smile and go up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, and it’s still new enough to make him blush. We’ve been together for less than a week, but it feels like forever.
    â€œBlech,” Chance mutters. “I’ll take my chance with the Cranes.”
    When he heads for the main house, we follow, leaving our bags behind for now. It looks like a plantation house that no one wants to fix but everyone wants to add on to, white with four crooked columns out front and wings that just keep on going in different kinds of wood and metal. Chickens roost on a ladder behind a wire fence, their chicken house a replica of the big one and, honestly, better kept. A sharp bark becomes an orchestra of dogs, and the screen door bangs open. A pack of hounds bursts out, and Matty runs for me, yipping joyously. I squat to hug her and fend off her licks. The other dogs just jump around and bark like idiots. Tuck stands on the porch holding a fried chicken leg, and Gabriela walks out to meet us, her arms crossed.
    â€œAbout damn time,” she says.
    â€œYeah, well, we had a lot of shopping to do,” Chance says, his voice high and careless with relief as he hugs her.
    â€œWhere’s the goods?”
    Chance inclines his head toward the car, and Gabriela jumps down and hurries