Here Timmy thought of Dennis Link, the childhood friend he’d smoked his first joint with: a teenage burnout who, for inexplicable reasons, went on to become a Massachusetts statie—a grown man who spent his days hiding under highway overpasses with his radar gun, waiting for speeders to blaze past. It was, Timmy felt, an undignified way to make a living.
He merged onto the interstate.
His favorite activity, and yet it made him lonely. A passenger only made it worse. Conversation of any kind blunted his enjoyment. What he wanted, truly wanted, was someone to drive with him, to participate wordlessly in the unending series of decisions: when to signal, to change lanes, to overtake or yield.
His ex-wife had viewed long car rides as opportunities for conversation. She particularly enjoyed starting arguments when he was trapped behind the wheel.
On the open road he looked for drivers like himself, fast but cautious, who sped down the middle lane and used the left lane only for passing, as the God he’d like to believe in intended it to be used. When he spotted one, an exchange was sometimes possible. Timmy passed courteously, then retreated to the middle lane, an invitation for the other guy （it was always a guy） to pass him. In this way, a rhythm was established. They shared possession of the passing lane, swooping in and out at intervals like cyclists in a peloton. It was the best conversation he’d ever had.
MARCEL WAS CANADIAN BUT CALLED HIMSELF FRENCH. HE lived on a farm in far-north Vermont, twenty miles from the Canadian border. What unlikely circumstances had landed him in that remote place, Timmy had no idea. As a kid, on a school trip to the whaling museum in New Bedford, he had marveled at a piece of scrimshaw—a fragment of whalebone no bigger than a nickel—carved, in letters so small you’d need a magnifying glass to read them, with a single Bible verse. That was how much he knew about Marcel: one scrimshaw’s worth. Marcel’s entire biography would fit on a Bazooka comic, a scrap of paper so small you could swallow it whole.
The house sat at the end of a gravel lane, wooded on both sides. From somewhere in the distance came a breathy whistle, like someone blowing across a bottle. An owl, maybe? Timmy peered into the forest looking for movement, a rustle of wings.
The place looked deserted, which was intentional. He waited, idling, until Marcel appeared on the porch and waved him around to the barn behind the house. He was dressed in his usual attire—jeans, leather vest, some kind of weird paisley blouse. He had a distinctive style, like a journeyman folk musician: flowing silver hair, beard neatly trimmed. Nicotine-stained teeth, the color of buckwheat honey, gave him a rakish air.
The barn doors were open. Timmy pulled in and parked, twisting a little to unkink his back. Marcel pulled the doors closed.
“I heard something out in the woods,” said Timmy. “An owl, maybe.”
“A drone,” said Marcel, as though this were an established fact. He climbed a ladder to the hayloft and returned with a green trash bag. “The drones, they are everywhere. I had a dream last night. The subconscience is always working, even when I sleep.”
“Subconscious,” Timmy said.
“The subconscience is very intelligent. A change in the atmosphere, the subconscience will tell me.” Marcel knelt on the floor and opened the bag. Inside were several smaller bags, black plastic, labeled with masking tape: Blue Widow. Green Crack. Bay Two.
“No Bay One?” Timmy said, without hope. The supply chain was merciless. Asking Marcel for anything was like praying for rain.
Marcel barely shrugged, a microscopic movement of head and shoulder. “Sorry, man.”
Timmy lifted the bags one at a time, testing their weight. He trusted Marcel, but it never hurt to check. He could guess a bag’s weight to the ounce.
“What about edibles?” he asked. “You got any more of those gummy bears?”
“I have lollipops,” Marcel said.