Free Black Helicopters by Blythe Woolston

and you can’t haul anything bigger than a six-pack on that bike you’re hauling on the back of the bus. On the one hand, the best thing you got going for you is that you don’t exist — officially. Long as that’s true, nobody’s looking for you and nobody’s going to see you. On the other hand, the world don’t know you exist, so they don’t care if you freeze or starve.” The Captain falls silent then. He just drinks his coffee and stares across the table at an empty chair.
    “What happened to your daddy’s truck?” Captain Nichols breaks the silence and gets up to fill his coffee cup again.
    “We saw it there after the fire, but we didn’t touch it. We had the bike. I guess it’s still there. It didn’t burn,” Bo says.
    “If you could get that truck. That would be an asset. I might even be able to find some work for you to do if you get that truck.”
    “What kind of work?” I ask.
    “Well, hauling things, to start. People always need things moved around. Your daddy used to move things for people. That was one thing your daddy did. I can maybe set up some jobs like that for you. If that works out. If you’re dependable, then we can figure out what other skills you got that people might need.” Captain Nichols nods at Bo’s bandaged hand. “What happened there? You blow yourself up a little bit? Your daddy, he never made mistakes like that.”
    “Bo never makes mistakes, either. The jack broke while he was working on the bus. So that’s no mistake. Metal fatigue. That kind of shit just happens.”
    “Yeah, shit does just happen. That’s a fact. Your daddy had some rarefied skills, though. Rarefied skills. And people trusted him.”
    “Da taught me,” says Bo.
    “Skills you can learn,” says Captain Nichols. “But trust you got to earn.”
    We wait. Bo puts his bandaged hand on his lap. I know he’s a little ashamed of it. I never thought about what people might think when they see his missing fingers. Now we are both thinking about that, about how it might look.
    Captain Nichols scoots his chair away from the table and stands up, taller than me, taller than Bo, taller than Da ever was. He takes the hat off and rubs his hair back, then he settles the hat back. That’s when he says, “I figure we got to go see if we can get your daddy’s truck. I figure it might still be sittin’ there. I drive you up there, you drive it back here.
    “If that pans out, you can stay here a couple of months to get yourselfs organized. But this ain’t no charity outfit. I’ll take a commission on the jobs and you gotta give me some rent and — and if you mess with my property, I’ll know. You’re under surveillance, and I’ll see if you pull any shit. That happens, I’ll sic every kind of government type on you so fast you won’t know if you are in hell or the nuthouse. You hear me?” He sticks his hand out at Bo. Bo stands up like a person, and they shake on it. It’s a deal. Everything considered; it’s a real fair deal.

I look out the windshield and imagine the world the way Corbin said it was, all under water. The sun is going down and the shadows wash like waves across the valley from one hillside to another. The light gets greyer, and I can imagine that the water is flooding up to the sky.
    In the distance something small as a mosquito is rising over a hillside. It flashes bright in the moment of pure light the sun is leaving behind as it drops behind the western horizon. Maybe that speck is a helicopter shark that will slide through time and the sky to become a raven, or a meadowlark.
    “No! No! Turn around! Turn around now!” I scream, and I hit Eric.
    “What the hell?” Eric yells and flinches toward the door.
    The dog jumps at my arm, but his teeth don’t find me. It is stuck — wiggling and fighting — over Eric’s shoulder. Eric fights the dog, fights the wheel, and the car snaps from one lane to the other and back.
    “Turn around!” I yell, and I point at the sky where