Free Talker 25 by Joshua McCune Page A

championship for my age division.” I demonstrate a side kick.
    “Sign her up!” somebody says.
    “That’s a big region. She’d have to be cream of the cream to win. Lie!” someone else calls.
    I grin. “Number two: I have a tattoo of Canis Major on my left hip.” I point at my gunshot wound. “Only thing that hurt worse was this.”
    “Let’s have a look-see.”
    “She doesn’t look like that kind of girl.”
    “Truth number three: my father was the lead scientist on the research team that discovered dragons can’t see black.”
    “Truth!” I hear from the other end of the fire. “It was all over the news.”
    “Yes,” I say. ARMY OFFICIALS DISCOVER DRAGONS ’ ACHILLES ’ HEEL . “But are you sure he was the lead?”
    “She’s got you there,” James says.
    Unfortunately, an older guy remembers Dad’s interview on
60 Minutes
.
    They debate, but end up split on the other two. Six thinkI’m not good enough to win the NoVa tae kwon do tournament. Six think I look too wholesome for a tattoo.
    “Everett, you’ve got to break the tie,” Howard says to James, who has stayed silent during the discussion.
    “No clue,” he says. “I abstain.”
    “Come on, man,” says one of the tae kwon do disbelievers. “You must know whether she’s tatted up. Don’t make us go wake Preston.”
    “What’s he talking about?” I whisper.
    “You were bleeding pretty badly back in Mason-Kline. We had to get your shirt off to apply a compress,” he whispers back. As I feign indifference, hoping the shadows obscure my embarrassment, he speaks up. “I didn’t get a good look. She did mention that she used to do tae kwon do.”
    Howard switches his vote, then retrieves the paper from his pocket and unfolds it. He scowls at James. “Lying bastard.”
    “Perhaps he’s not. Perhaps she’s lying,” somebody says. Calls for proof ring out.
    I lift my jacket and shirt halfway up my ribs. Sirius, the top star in the constellation, and a couple of connecting lines peek out over my jeans. I grin. “Your turn.”
    They strip, a few meekly, but most with farmboy merriment. Taunts and brags fly every which way.
    “You too, Everett,” Howard says. “Take off the armor,and show the damsel the bird-man’s chest.”
    “I don’t think so,” James says.
    “The knight’s gone chicken,” Howard says. The others turn their taunts on James until he relents.
    “Thank you,” I say as he slips out of his jacket.
    “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    I glance up from the fire, but his face is blocked by the sweater pulled over his head. Fading bruises yellow his stomach and an old scar runs at an angle from his clavicle into the furrow between his pecs. He’s got a tattoo of his own. Curled around his left bicep, it resembles one of those tacky barbwire things, but when he turns from me to strip out of his pants, the firelight catches it better.
    Letters, jagged and overlapping, circle around to form a phrase.
Drink the . . .
The last part’s out of sight.
    Then he’s off, falling in line with the other half-naked insurgents on a loop around the cave. Others step from their crates to watch. The men stationed at the cave entrance with binoculars and rocket launchers urge them on. The Reds ignore them.
    The Silver does not. She’s a sheepdog, and the runners are her sheep. She herds them at an enthusiastic gallumph, circling back to exhort the stragglers. Prosthetic Leg Guy, who scoffed at Howard’s plea to stay behind, limps along the best he can, but too slow for the Silver. After several nudgesmet by startled curses, she picks him up and races around the cave until she reaches the fire, where she sets him on his feet, shivering and a bit blue.
    “Thanks,” he mutters, but the Silver’s already rumbling off to help the next laggard. Everybody speeds up after that.
    James sprints to the finish ahead of the pack, then doubles over, clutching his knees. I covertly sneak a peek at the rest of his