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Rank Sanders wasn’t a saint, but he knew he had the patience of one.
As the youngest of five, he was always getting pushed around. His older brothers never treated him gently. Frankly, they treated him like complete shit. If they weren’t ignoring his very existence like he was manure stuck to their shoe, they were beating his ass like he was a walking punching bag.
His father never cared. No sir, Mr. Sanders thought that rough housing was natural for All-American farm boys. Rank was just too sensitive. He needed to toughen up a bit. Become a real man and stop being such a pussy, boy!
Between home and school, Rank had little reprieve from the taunts. The only person that treated him gently was his own mother. She iced his wounds and soothed his tears, hugging him close. Then after he calmed down, she’d sit down and watch him make origami. She’d kiss his forehead and praise how beautiful his art was when he was done, keeping the latest paper cranes in one of the jars scattered around the house that were filled of his past ones. Little pockets of bright color in their dreary, creaky farmhouse.
Ma was gentle and warm and all that was good in the world. She taught Rank to be patient and forgiving. To have grace for others. To keep love in his heart for his brothers, no matter their cruelty, and his father, no matter his coldness. To turn the other cheek. To let the insults pass and never sink down to the bully’s level.
Rank tried. He tried so very hard to do right by his mama. He tried to follow what she taught him, to be as forgiving and patient as she was. But it was grueling, metaphorically throwing himself to the ground and letting everyone walk all over him, just to keep the peace.
No matter where he went, Rank got bullied. Just because he was too shy and soft-spoken. Too polite to shit-talk or get physical with other boys around him. Too sensitive. Too much of a baby. The runt of the litter.
He thought it’d be different, when he signed up for The Long Walk and ended up being picked as back-up for Kentucky. That he could be strong enough when he’d been told by military officials that Kentucky’s chosen pulled out of the competition, so it was up to him to step up and fill the spot.
It was an honor to be this year’s Walker from Kentucky. It’s what he’d been told by his father. And he patiently and calmly parroted the same thing to his mother, even if that didn’t stop her heaving sobs.
The last time he was with her, Rank’s mama clutched him in pure terror, as if he was already a corpse. Her wails of grief still haunted him now, countless hours later.
In general, being on the Long Walk was terrifying.
Hanging around forty-nine other guys was overwhelming, even without the added pressure of them being Rank’s competition. All of them were older than him, minus one. But Curley’s long since dead, bloody body left on the tarmac before they even hit the double digit mark.
With Rank’s eighteenth birthday being the last day of February, he barely qualified to even be here. Everyone around him was older and likely stronger than him. Most were taller, but not all. Hank Olson, the mouthy one from the starting line, just scraped five feet. But that yankee boy had a voice that made up for his small stature.
Rank wished he had a stronger voice and personality. Maybe then, the current nightmare unfurling in front of him wouldn’t be happening.
“You’re saying your mama named you fuckin’ Rank?” Gary Barkovitch demanded.
Rank nodded. “Yeah.”
Gary wheezed in laughter. “…No fuckin’ way! You’re fuckin’ with me.”
Rank felt the tentative smile dropping from his lips. He silently shook his head.
“Your goddamn name is Rank? Oh my fucking God! No way!” Gary crowed.
Oh. Oh, Rank was getting bullied right now.
A wave of indignant rage filled him just then, overfilling the bucket that was his patience.
For once in his life, he couldn’t follow his mother’s advice. He refused to turn the other cheek and make himself a doormat once more. Literally when else would he have the chance to stand up for himself than right here, right now…?
“Aw, your mom must’ve failed with the old coat hanger thing, and she—”
“Fuck you!” Rank spat. At the blond’s mocking scoff, all his frustration bubbled over, loosening his tongue. “I ain’t listening to some jackass mock my Ma and my name when his name’s fuckin’ Bark-o-bitch!”
Barkovitch gawped back at him, sputtering wordlessly. On Rank’s left, Collie Parker let out a sharp, ‘Ha!’ of amusement.
“That’s all you fuckin’ do, man. Bark on and on like a little bitch of a dog!” Rank went on, unable to stop his angry rant. “Go bark up another tree and fuck off, already!”
“There ya go, kid…!” called Peter McVries encouragingly from behind them.
Barkovitch’s face screwed up in defensive anger, one of his hands curled protectively around his camera as he sputtered at Rank. “H-Hey, man, what the fuck?! I was just playing— shit!”
Rank hadn’t even touched him, but Barkovitch’s feet were apparently fumbling as much as his stupid mouth. The next thing Rank knew, the other boy was tripping and eating shit.
The brunet turned on his heel to start walking backwards after he heard, “Warning, number five! First warning!” Gary Barkovitch was left groaning on the tarmac.
“Holy shit!” “Hahaha, gettem!” “You go, Rank!”
Amused comments filled the air from the others around him. Rank dazedly realized that instead of being stuck in a laughing gaggle of guys shit-talking him, they were laughing because he’d done the shit-talking. What a novel experience.
“C’mon, man. Up!” Art Baker called good-naturedly to Barkovitch through his giggling.
“Ay, maybe he likes it down there!” insisted Hank in his brash accent. “Don’t’cha, Bark-o-bitch? Arf arf arf!”
The so-called Musketeers started to playfully bark at Barkovitch as they passed around him. That just made the other boys walking by laugh even harder at Barkovitch’s lame ass still sprawled out, limbs pell-mell on the road and blond hair a messy halo around his head. There wasn’t even a drop of blood on the guy to be seen. Just a bruised ego he had to deal with.
A smirk found home on Rank’s mouth as he laughed meanly under his breath. Served the jackass right. Let Barkovitch be humbled for a few hours as he walked off his warnings.
Except Barkovitch didn’t get up, even after a second warning.
“C’mon, doggy! Get on up, now!” McVries said mock-cheerily as he walked backwards.
“Walk it off, Gary!” Ray Garraty added, genuinely encouraging.
“I’ll fucking lie here and die if I want!” Barkovitch howled in response.
Rank felt his blood turning to ice at “Number five, third and final warning!”. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the boy on the ground.
“Get up, Gary!” Rank screamed, fists clenched so hard his palms stung. “Please get up…!”
In between the marching feet, Barkovitch and Rank somehow managed to lock gazes. A manic smile was on Barkovitch’s face. His wide green eyes were cruel and furious, but also resigned and terrified.
“It’s your fucking fault I’m gonna die, Rank!” Barkovitch called out like a witch placing a curse. His hand was outstretched, palm-up, a condemnation and a plea in one.
Rank froze. His ears rang. His first warning sounded distant as a female soldier cocked her carbine and aimed it right at Gary Barkovitch’s head.
And then like Superman saving Lois Lane, Billy Stebbins swooped in and picked Barkovitch right up onto his feet. The towering blond Adonis didn’t even break stride as he hauled Barkovitch from the brink of death. Rank felt all the sound rushing into his ears at once as he let out a sharp exhale, having held his breath.
Barkovitch screamed, trying to thrash out of Stebbins’ grip. “What the hell, man?!”
But Stebbins held strong. He was holding Barkovitch by the scruff like a beleaguered mother cat would its rowdy kitten. With one hand firmly on the back of Barkovitch’s neck and another on the shoulder, Stebbins steered him forwards. Kept him marching.
“Holy shit, Stebbins!” called out Ray, sounding awed. Others added their own exclamations at the heroic actions from the man to beat in this year’s competition, warnings filling the air as Walkers slowed to gawk.
“Why the fuck did you do that?!” Barkovitch demanded. Despite his complaints, he swiftly stopped struggling and walked with Stebbins.
“The rules of the Walk say to keep walking until you can’t,” started Stebbins in a loud and clear voice, cutting through the shocked chatter. His expression was thunderous under his newsboy cap. “You clearly can, despite your tantrum. You’ve got a lot more to give, Barkovitch. At least give the rest of the dogs here a bit of a challenge.”
The last Rank saw of the scene was Barkovitch’s expression towards Stebbins— something between gratitude and worship—before a strong hand on his shoulder spun him around.
There stood Collie Parker. Collie shoved at Rank’s shoulder, guiding him forwards. Rank started walking, then, gasping for breath as the announcer called, “Number nineteen, third and final warning!”
“O-Oh fuck!” he sputtered. He hadn’t realized he’d been stopped in place for that long!
“Hey, I’ve got you. C’mon, Rank,” said Collie, hand a grounding weight on Rank’s shoulder. The two sped up their pace at the same time. Collie glanced at the display on his wrist. “Alright, let’s keep it at three-point-three. Can’t fall too behind.”
Rank stared.
The other flashed him a tight smile. A curtain of inky hair flowed behind him in the wind, sweaty brown skin glittering under the sun’s rays. “I’m Collie, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
Rank’s guardian angel being stunningly attractive certainly wasn’t helping him catch his footing. Being this close to Collie made him feel like he tripped and landed on the road instead of Barkovitch.
“Um. I know. Thanks, Collie, for…” Rank’s mind felt like it was trying to swim through a swamp, his feet marching on. His eyes darted from Collie’s handsome face to the gaggle of boys in front of them. They’d fallen towards the back of the pack, when they used to be smack dab in the middle. “But, um… But weren’t you… You were walking ahead of me.”
“I was,” Collie confirmed.
“Then… Then how…”
Collie shrugged. Gripped Rank’s shoulder a little tighter. “Went back for you.”
“Why?” Rank asked, voice cracking.
Collie’s eyebrows furrowed in anger. “I wasn’t gonna let some bully kill a kid in front of me.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder. “Don’t listen to that little psycho, either. None of that shit was your fault. Even if he was fucking shot, it wouldn’t have been on you.”
“Oh.”
For some reason, Rank had to fight back tears at that. Sure, he knew that Barkovitch was all talk. But the way their eyes met while the blond screamed “It’s your fucking fault I’m gonna die, Rank!” was horrifically haunting.
“Getting two warnings isn’t too bad, anyways. I can handle two hours walking at pace. You’re the one we’ve got to keep an eye on, kid, so stick by me.”
Collie Parker got himself two warnings running back to grab Rank and drag his ass out of a panic spiral. He got two warnings and he was insisting Rank stay by his side anyways.
This was easily the nicest thing anyone that wasn’t Rank’s own mother had done for him in a long time. He sniffled and quickly wiped his face of dribbling tears, keeping pace as he leaned slightly against Collie’s big, warm hand.
The other Walkers ignored the pair. Maybe they were being polite, or maybe Collie’s protective presence had them think twice of looking too long. Either way, it gave Rank time to calm down a bit. He shoved his sunhat over his head, pulling the brim low over his eyes to hide their redness from stress crying.
Collie rubbed Rank’s shoulder. His deep voice was low and soothing as he said, “That’s it, man. Maybe drink some water. That usually helps me after crying.”
The thought of big and tough Collie Parker crying, of all things, seemed absurd to Rank. It made him choke out a little laugh. “Okay,” he croaked out, exchanging a tentative smile with his new friend.
His fingers finally unclenched, letting his half-finished origami fall to the ground and be swept away by the breeze. It was ruined anyways, crushed to the point it couldn’t be salvaged. He’d have to start again with a new piece of paper.
But restarting didn’t seem as daunting to him right now.
He slowly drank what little was left of his canteen, Collie still holding onto his shoulder. He cleared his throat, wet his lips, and called out, “Canteen, number nineteen, calling for canteen!”
The woman that nearly gave Barkovitch his ticket jogged up to Rank, grabbing his empty canteen. She returned with a fresh one. He fought down a flinch as their fingers brushed on the exchange. She almost got her hands dirty with Barkovitch’s blood and splattered brain, and here she was giving Rank a water refill like nothing.
Rank put the canteen back on his belt, securing it in place. At the end of the day, he couldn’t change the horrific things these soldiers did on the Walk. He had to focus on what he could change: himself.
Rank shook his hands out. His palms stung, little red crescent lines showing where his nails dug in from earlier. It was annoying, but it wouldn’t stop him from folding more paper. It even felt strangely grounding.
He slipped a hand into his book bag, fingers finding the box holding his paper. He slipped a sheet out at random. The paper was cream, the same color as the animal tooth necklace that thumped against Collie’s broad chest with each stride.
“I can make some origami for you. If you want.” The offer slipped past his lips easily, as if he made it all the time. As if he ever had anyone who he cared enough to fold origami for that wasn’t Ma.
“Yeah?” Collie asked with a grin, brown eyes glittering with interest.
Rank nodded, feeling warm inside. “Yeah.”
Collie dropped the hand from Rank’s shoulder to instead sling an arm around his scrawny frame. “Sure thing, man! Make me whichever paper thing you know best.”
Well, that was easy. He’d been folding hundreds of paper cranes for years now. When he was little, he’d heard a story about how if someone folded a thousand, it’d earn them a wish.
He wasn’t even close to a thousand yet, he knew. And yet, as Rank started folding up a paper crane for Collie, he felt like he already had a wish granted. He’d finally found a guy in his life that he got along well with, who supported and protected him instead of hurting him, and who liked his origami.
The universe finally rewarded his patience. Rank Sanders had finally made a proper friend.