Sometime in the night I woke up to soft, small sounds of voices and breathing. Zahra and Harry were making love. I turned my head and saw them at it, though they were too much involved with each other to notice me.
And, of course, no one was on watch.
I got caught up in their lovemaking, and had all I could do to lie still and keep quiet. I couldn’t escape their sensation. I couldn’t keep an efficient watch. I could either writhe with them or hold myself rigid. I held rigid until they finished— until Harry kissed Zahra, then got up to put his pants on and began his watch.
And I lay awake afterward, angry and worried. How in hell could I talk to either of them about this? It would be none of my business except for the time they chose for doing it. But look when that was! We could all have been killed.
Still sitting up, Harry began to snore.
I listened for a couple of minutes, then sat up, reached over Zahra, and shook him.
He jumped awake, stared around, then turned toward me. I couldn’t see more than a moving silhouette.
“Give me the gun and go back to sleep,” I said.
He just sat there.
“Harry, you’ll get us killed. Give me the gun and the watch and lie down. I’ll wake you later.”
He looked at the watch.
“Sorry,” he said. “Guess I was more tired than I thought.” His voice grew less sleep-fogged. “I’m all right. I’m awake. Go back to sleep.”
His pride had kicked in. It would be almost impossible to get the gun and the watch from him now.
I lay down. “Remember last night,” I said. “If you care about her at all, if you want her to live, remember last night.”
He didn’t answer. I hoped I had surprised him. I supposed I had also embarrassed him. And maybe I had made him feel angry and defensive. Whatever I’d done, I didn’t hear him doing any more snoring.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4, 2027
Today we stopped at a commercial water station and filled ourselves and all our containers with clean, safe water. Commercial stations are best for that.
Anything you buy from a water peddler on the freeway ought to be boiled, and still might not be safe. Boiling kills disease organisms, but may do nothing to get rid of chemical residue— fuel, pesticide, herbicide, whatever else has been in the bottles that peddlers use. The fact that most peddlers can’t read makes the situation worse. They sometimes poison themselves.
Commercial stations let you draw whatever you pay for— and not a drop more— right out of one of their taps. You drink whatever the local householders are drinking. It might taste, smell, or look bad, but you can depend on it not to kill you.
There aren’t enough water stations. That’s why water peddlers exist. Also, water stations are dangerous places. People going in have money.
People coming out have water, which is as good as money. Beggars and thieves hang around such places— keeping the whores and drug dealers company. Dad warned us all about water stations, trying to prepare us in case we ever went out and got caught far enough from home to be tempted to stop for water. His advice: “Don’t do it. Suffer. Get your rear end home.”
Yeah.
Three is the smallest comfortable number at a water station. Two to watch and one to fill up. And it’s good to have three ready for trouble on the way to and from the station. Three would not stop determined thugs, but it would stop opportunists— and most predators are opportunists. They prey on old people, lone women or women with young kids, handicapped people… . They don’t want to get hurt.
My father used to call them coyotes. When he was being polite, he called them coyotes.
We were coming away with our water when we saw a pair of two-legged coyotes grab a bottle of water from a woman who was carrying a sizable pack and a baby. The man with her grabbed the coyote who had taken the water, the coyote passed the water to his partner, and his partner ran straight into us.
I tripped him. I think it was the baby who attracted my attention, my sympathy. The tough plastic bubble that held the water didn’t break. The coyote didn’t break either. I set my teeth, sharing the jolt as he fell and the pain of his scraped forearms. Back home, the younger kids hit me with that kind of thing every day.
I stepped back from the coyote and put my hand on the gun. Harry stepped up beside me. I was glad to have him there. We looked more intimidating together.
The husband of the woman had thrown off his attacker, and the two coyotes, finding themselves outnumbered, scampered away. Skinny, scared little bastards out to do their daily stealing.
I picked up the plastic bubble of water and handed it to the man.
He took it and said, “Thanks man. Thanks a lot.”
I nodded and we went on our way. It still felt strange to be called “man.” I didn’t like it, but that didn’t matter.
“All of a sudden you’re a good Samaritan,” Harry said. But he didn’t mind. There was no disapproval in his voice.
“It was the baby, wasn’t it?” Zahra asked.
“Yes,” I admitted. “The family, really. All of them together.” All of them together. They had been a black man, a Hispanic-looking woman, and a baby who managed to look a little like both of them. In a few more years, a lot of the families back in the neighborhood would have looked like that. Hell, Harry and Zahra were working on starting a family like that. And as Zahra had once observed, mixed couples catch hell out here.
Yet there were Harry and Zahra, walking so close together that they couldn’t help now and then brushing against each other. But they kept alert, looked around. We were on U.S. 101 now, and there were even more walkers. Even clumsy thieves would have no trouble losing themselves in this crowd.
But Zahra and I had had a talk this morning during her reading lesson. We were supposed to be working on the
