Work Text:
One of the younger, more outgoing kids on site had gone into the town nearby to buy a bag of marshmallows, and he’d seemed so excited about the idea of roasting them over a fire. He’d said he liked doing it as a kid, and he’d been homesick and thought that doing this might help. He’d said that he would enjoy company but he was going to do it all by his damn self if nobody else wanted to join him. He’d brandished the marshmallows and a bottle of whiskey and set off to find a spot to sit. A small group has followed him to a group of downed logs with a circle or rocks in the middle of them, and they are setting up a fire.
You figured you may as well hang around and make sure the fire gets put all the way out. If the surrounding trees end up burned instead of cut down as intended, there'll be hell to pay. Besides, you haven’t had a toasted marshmallow in years. Sure, it’s a childish activity, but there’s no use in pretending to not be interested, you aren’t here to impress anyone. If someone gives you a hard time, you can always just fall back on the excuse that you were worried about the kids starting a fire.
Kids is technically not the correct term, but it feels like a fitting way to describe the group of younger loggers who work the site. Most of them, despite being in their early twenties, have a distinctive teenage-ness about them. Tall, lanky, constantly showing off, loud and rowdy, that type. The one exception to this descriptor is, ironically, the youngest boy on site. Sure, he told everyone that he was nineteen, but not a single soul believed him. Whoever hired him must have been either stupid or willing to risk hiring someone who could not have been old enough to work there. Still, this kid, an actual child, is very quiet and fairly serious. He’s strong and a hard worker. He can get up at the crack of dawn and work until the sun sets. Even though he’s not terribly social, he’ll speak when spoken to and made an effort to learn everyone’s name. His name, you learned, is Cole.
You can’t tell if you’re surprised to see Cole has decided to join in the campfire festivities. It doesn’t seem like it’s in his nature. But maybe he’s trying to be friendly, maybe he just likes marshmallows.
One of the other kids asks you why you decided to join them. You try not to let the comment bother you, because you understand why she’d asked. You’re one of the oldest people on site, and certainly the oldest who has joined the fire group. Still, there are some other people who decided to join who are closer to your age than hers. You tell her that you wanted a marshmallow.
You do not even try to stifle your laugh when she asks if you’re a cop.
Obviously not, you say. You’re a lumberjack.
She asks if you’re going to snitch on them.
You knew she probably wasn’t drinking age, but you can’t help but notice how stupid it was for her to make that obvious to you, especially if she suspects you’re the type to get her in trouble. You tell her that you do not care as long as everyone can still work in the morning.
She accepts this answer, and signals to the boy with the marshmallows and whisky to pass her the bottle. He does. She puts it up to her lips, and you can see in the light of the fire the way she squints and almost gags at the sip.
The people who went to collect roasting sticks return and pass them out to the group, and the boy who brought the marshmallows opens the bag and passes those out as well. Once you have both, you do not hesitate to skewer yours and begin roasting. The thought of eating the perfect golden marshmallow, imagining the smell, the sweetness, the fluffiness, is making your mouth water.
Most of the kids set their marshmallows on fire immediately. They laugh and insist that the burnt ones taste better. The kid who bought them roasts his slowly, though. So does Cole. As everyone passes around the bottle, and the ones who incinerated their first marshmallow take seconds, Cole stares intensely at the fire and the marshmallow he’s painstakingly turning in front of it. You can’t help but watch him.
Someone gets Cole’s attention and extends the quarter-empty bottle towards him. Cole looks up, thinks about it for a moment, and politely declines the offer.
You sure? We’re sharing.
Yeah, thanks though.
There’s no cops here. The girl who asked you if you were a cop laughs, hopefully realizing how ridiculous she was being earlier.
I don’t drink. Cole turns his attention back to his roasting marshmallow, and finds that it is on fire. He lets out a little gasp, mutters aw man, and blows it out.
The kid who brought the marshmallows, and who is actively removing his perfectly cooked one from the fire, tells Cole that it’s a bummer that his got burnt.
You decide to offer Cole yours, also perfectly done, but he politely declines. He says he likes the burnt part, then pops his marshmallow in his mouth. You don’t ask why he didn’t just burn it the first place.
Your marshmallow is perfect, you’re glad Cole didn’t accept your offer. You refuse the whisky next time it makes its way over to you so that it doesn’t wash the sweet vanilla taste from your mouth.
All the marshmallows are gone, the bottle has been put away, and the idea of putting out the fire is starting to float around. Someone goes back to their sleeping area for a moment, and when he comes back, he has a guitar with him. A few people give him a hard time, and he tells them they don’t have to stay if they don’t want to. Nobody leaves.
The boy with the guitar begins strumming a janky G7. Before he’s even begun to sing, he stops and says that he’s sorry that his playing is a little off, because it’s a bit too dark to see all the strings and he’s not good at playing without looking at his hands
You tell him he went through all that trouble and might as well play anyway, and he slowly begins again.
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine/
I keep my eyes wide open all the time/
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds/
Because you're mine, I walk the line/
You find your eyes drift over to Cole again. He’s leaning over, with his elbows on his knees, intently listening to the singer. His head bobs almost imperceptibly with the beat. His mouth is pressed into a small smile, and you realize you don’t know if you’ve ever seen him smile before. It’s not that he seems overly sad all the time, just very serious.
The singer picks up the speed he’s strumming and singing at, which means he messes up more often, but nobody cares. You tap your foot to the rhythm, and listen to a mediocre musician play a damn good song.
As sure as night is dark and day is light/
I keep you on my mind both day and night/
And happiness I've known proves that it's right/
Because you're mine, I walk the line/
You hear someone begin to drum the rhythm and look around to find Cole hammering on the front of the log he’s sitting on.
The other kids take the hint that this is becoming a collaborative effort, and most join in some way. Some know the words, some don’t and opt to just vocalize the melody that repeats each verse, some provide some sort of additional percussion. The original guitar is almost drowned out in the sea of noise.
You've got a way to keep me on your side/
You give me 'cause for love that I can't hide/
For you, I know I'd even try to turn the tide/
Because you're mine, I walk the line/
And someone would need to be superhuman to resist singing along to the last verse. You aren’t, so you allow your own voice to join the chorus.
I keep a close watch on this heart of mine/
I keep my eyes wide open all the time/
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds/
Because you're mine, I walk the line
The last line gets drawn out, slow and dissonant in the cacophony of non-musicians who are having a good time. The final note goes on for so long it becomes a joke, and the end of the song fizzles into laughter and cheering. The guitar player takes off his instrument and stands up to take a bow.
Will you guys shut the fuck up?
You turn around and see a couple of guys who did not participate in the fire glaring at the group from halfway between the fire and the cabins. They’re dressed for bed. You all were being a little loud, you realize.
Someone murmurs sorry, and a couple others follow her lead. The two guys look at each other and turn back to the cabins without saying another word.
The guitar player says well, goodnight, and kicks some dirt onto the fire. The mood is palpably soured as others follow his lead. There’s a collective grumbling about grumpy old assholes.
Wait. You don’t realize you’ve said it until it’s already been said. Everyone stops to look at you. You suggest the group hears another song. When they object, you tell them you don’t want that to be the end of the night, is all. It can be a quiet song, and no one should sing along.
No, I don’t want to hear a sad song.
But you’re sure you can think of a song that’s not sad, just slow. The guitar player hands you his instrument, and you take a seat. Nothing sad? No, nothing sad.
It is a bit harder to play when you can’t see the strings as well. Especially because all the dirt kicking did fatal damage to the fire, and it’s now just a pile of embers. But you can’t let some grumpy old assholes spoil everybody’s mood, and you want to take a turn with the guitar.
You try to look at Cole before you begin, but he’s too far away to make out in the darkness. You imagine that he’s resumed his original position with his elbows resting on his knees, waiting for you to begin.
The chords are fairly simple. G, D, E minor 7, A7, C. Over and over again, plucking strings individually and quickly in a rising and falling sort of way. It’s a distinct enough instrumental that a girl gasps in recognition before you’ve even begun to sing.
It's nice to hear your voice again/
I've waited all day long/
Even wrote a song for you/
Some people are looking at you, or leaning back comfortably. It's too dark to really scan the crowd, though.
It's strange, the way you make me feel/
With just a word or two/
I'd like to do the same for you/
You hope your singing voice is holding up. You’re an okay enough singer, you can carry a tune, but you probably don’t have what it takes to perform for a group. Too late to back down now, though. It’s more embarrassing to quit after the first verse than it is to complete a less-than-stellar performance.
It's nice to hear you say hello/
And how are things with you?/
I love you/
But very soon it's time to go/
An office job to do/
While I'm here writing songs for you/
You wonder, briefly, who everyone is picturing as they listen to your rendition of this song. It’s a tune that almost always draws someone, even if not a lover, to mind.
The melody changes with the bridge.
Strange how a phone call can change your day/
Take you away/
Away from the feeling of being alone/
Bless the telephone/
And you could be imagining things, but you swear you hear a slight sniffle.
The final verse is a return to the original melody.
It's nice, the way you say my name/
Not very fast or slow, just soft and low/
The same as when you tell me how you feel/
No, someone is crying. You promised this wasn’t going to be a sad song, you thought it wasn’t. You are slightly flattered that your playing was enough to move someone to tears. Of course it’s not actually about you, but at least you aren’t awful enough to kill the sweetness of the tune.
I feel the same way, too/
I'm very much in love with you/
The nice mood has soured slightly, not nearly as much as it did when the group was yelled at, but definitely so. It’s the familiar collective discomfort that stems from someone who is upset. You opt to finish the song anyway.
I’m very much in love with you.
Nobody speaks for a moment, and the sound of the woods mixes with the continued, poorly muffled sniveling. Now that you can focus on the general direction of the sound and the slight intricacies of the crier’s voice, you think you might know who it is.
Someone next to him asks are you alright?
Someone next to you says you made Cole cry.
Not a sad song my ass.
Oh, man. You’re the adult here, and this is somewhat your fault, even if you couldn’t have predicted it. Alright, that’s enough, everybody get to bed.
People slowly stand and begin to stumble through the dark towards the cabins. Nobody had the foresight to bring a flashlight. One girl starts to kick more dirt on the fire, you tell her to leave it and that you’ll make sure it goes out. The original guitarist claims back his instrument before walking away.
Once you’re alone with Cole, you stand up slowly make your way over to the log he’s sitting on. It feels like the right thing to do, even if you aren’t entirely sure what the right thing to do is in this situation. You don’t sit too close, though, because you aren’t sure if he wants you there in the first place.
He’s making an obvious effort to calm down. He has his hands wrapped around the back of his neck, and is hunched over taking slow, shuddering breaths, struggling to suppress his hiccups.
You need to help in this effort, you decide. Say something that will hopefully give him something to think about besides how upset he is.
Do you like music?
He lifts his head to look at you with teary eyes. What?
You repeat the question.
He shakes his head. No, not really. He thinks for a moment before chuckling on top of his tears and adding that his old man does.
You didn’t get the gene? You ask.
I guess not.
I don’t believe you, you tell Cole. Only someone who likes music would get as invested as he did in a couple campfire songs.
Your response seems to distract him enough that he stops actively crying, but he still speaks with a slight shake in his voice. You don’t know anything about me.
His response is so juvenile that you can’t help but be sort of petty in response. I know you and your dad both like music.
He immediately relents. Everyone likes music. More quietly, he grumbles that it doesn’t mean he has to be a musician or anything.
I didn’t say that.
I know you didn’t. Cole twists his foot around in the dirt and stews. You don’t break the silence, waiting for him to say whatever was clearly on his mind. My old man thinks differently, I guess.
Yeah, that’s what you’d expected. You’d never heard of a kid being forced into the arts, but stranger things have happened. And given the context of the situation, and Cole’s assumed age, you could have easily assumed he is involved in some sort of family drama.
How old are you?
He answers too quickly. Nineteen.
Yeah, me too.
Cole falters for a second, and clearly debates asking if that was really true. His curiosity gets the better of him.
You lie about your age, I lie about mine.
He understands immediately, and asks if you’re going to tell anyone anything. You repeat that you aren’t a cop, but it still takes a moment for him to admit that he just turned sixteen.
You understand the extremely heavy weight you’re placing on the tone of the conversation when you ask if this is what he wants to do with himself.
It’s not.
Then why do it? He’s so young, the world is his oyster, and this work is so dangerous.
He laughs darkly. I’ve handled worse.
Oh yeah?
Yeah.
When you don’t ask him to explain, the conversation takes a natural pause. You don’t think it’s awkward, but don’t mind when Cole speaks again.
Just because this isn’t what I want, I don’t think I need to be miserable or anything.
And if that ain’t the truth.
Another pause drives him to initiate conversation again. It seems uncharacteristic for him to continuously start conversations, he always struck you as quiet. Maybe you really don’t know anything about him.
Can I ask you something?
Shoot.
Am I a bad person for running away?
You don’t let your surprise stun you into silence. You don’t tell him that he’s never technically mentioned having run away from anything. You tell him honestly that you don’t know much about him, but from what you can tell, you reckon not. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.
My dad only started talking about music again because he was worried about me, Cole explains. He’s answering a question you never asked, a pry for more information. I think he wants me to be happy, but just doesn’t get it. Cole says that when he was a little younger, he ran away from some performing arts school because he hated it. When he eventually came back to see his dad again, his dad stopped being angry about the running away thing quicker than Cole expected.
I also sorta saved his life, Cole adds. Who knows if that’s actually true or not, it certainly sounds like showing off. My dad left me alone about music after that.
Cole stops himself and thinks for a moment. He gets really quiet and adds until Zane died. Murmuring, he says that he thinks his dad just wants him not to die, but just doesn’t get it.
And you’re standing a fork in the road. Do you ask about Zane or not? Who wouldn’t be curious, as to who that is, or rather, was, and how they tie into everything Cole has going on? It’s definitely safer not to, but maybe just bringing him up was an indication that he wanted to talk more. Life’s about taking risks. You decide that if the question you ask isn’t too pointed, he can say as much or little as he wants.
How so?
I won’t talk about that.
Counterintuitively, you decide to press. You won’t? Do you want to?
I’m trying not to think about it. So no, I guess not.
You seem like you’ve got a lot to think about.
He doesn’t respond. He grabs a rock off the ground and begins tossing it back and forth between his hands.
Do you want to go to sleep now?
You can, I’m going to sit here for a while longer.
You can’t, though. You’re going to make sure everyone else goes inside before you do. You remind Cole that they have to be up early tomorrow.
He tells you he won’t be able to sleep anyway.
And why’s that?
I just won’t be able to. Mind your business.
His tone catches you off guard, just because of how open he had been just a few moments ago. It didn’t seem like there had been a turning point in the conversation where Cole would go from asking you if he’s a bad person to telling you to mind your business. You suspect that part of it is because he is sixteen.
Cole stops throwing the rock and apologizes for snapping after a few beats of silence.
That’s okay.
Do you want me to tell you why I can’t sleep?
You do, but you can’t tell him that. Only if you want to.
He resumes tossing the rock between his hands. He thinks for a moment before telling you that he has nightmares.
How often?
Almost every night.
And they wake you up?
I try not to fall asleep so that I don’t get them.
The part of you that is world weary takes over. You tell him that his job is too dangerous to do on no sleep. He could get someone killed.
Cole goes very still and silent. He sounds guilty when he swears that he won’t let anyone get hurt.
That’s what everybody says.
I mean it. He takes a beat, then says matter-of-factly that I’m too afraid of dying to let that happen.
Everyone’s afraid of dying.
It’s too dark to see his face, and he doesn’t make a sound, but you can just tell by his body language that Cole is beginning to cry again.
Too far. Pivoting back to your earlier conversation is your first instinct to deescalate. Unfortunately, your earlier conversation was also somewhat heavy, which you did not realize until you returned to his apparent running away and asked the question, do you want to go home?
What?
You could go back to living with your dad. Maybe that would help you sleep better.
He dries his eyes with the back of his hand. He says he hasn’t lived with his dad in a few years.
Oh. This information catches you so off guard that you take a random guess as to who else he could live with. Your mom then?
She’s dead.
Shit. I’m sorry.
It’s okay. She died when I was a kid. I’m over it.
You doubt that, but you don’t press further on that subject. He’s clearly averse, and for seemingly good reason, to talking about death. Instead, you ask again, do you want to go home? Wherever that is.
He hesitates, then sniffs. Yes.
Then go.
I can’t. His voice breaks. I can’t go back there. And he predicts what you are going to say and adds don’t try to tell me that I can, you don’t get it.
You’re sure that he’s wrong. There can’t be a good reason, he’s still just a kid. But Cole won’t accept that, he just told you he won’t. So you ask him why he says that.
Voice shuddering, he says he can’t be there when Zane’s not.
The gears begin to turn in your head. The snippets of information he’s offered aren’t painting a full picture, but you’re slowly piecing together Cole’s life story.
But if you miss them—
I missed my home even more when I was still there.
The weight of this statement stuns you into silence. Cole has a tangible world-weariness about him that you wouldn’t expect from a teenager. His vague description of his past explains a lot of it, but something about his manner of speaking contributes as well. It’s the mix of profound statements and casual conversation that makes him seem wiser than he has any right to be.
He takes your non-response as deliberate, and tells you again that you wouldn’t get it.
No, maybe not. But you'll listen.
His voice hardens, he doesn’t have to tell you anything.
But he can, if he wants.
You can feel Cole scanning your face, considering you. Why should he?
Because you want him to go to sleep tonight.
With that, he relaxes again, and the shakiness returns to his speech. I didn’t even try to call. I just walked out at night without even saying goodbye.
You tell him it’s okay, people make mistakes.
I haven’t tried to talk to my brothers. And we fought the last time we spoke. They probably hate me.
They probably miss you. You said you miss them.
More than anything.
They’re going to be happy you’re okay.
Cole considers this for a long while, and you’re careful not to interrupt his train of thought. Is there a payphone in town?
There’s a phone here, Cole. You can call someone in the morning.
I’d like to do it in town, if possible.
When you ask him why, he says that it feels right, and you can’t argue with that. So how is he going to get to town?
He’s hoping you’ll take him.
You don’t think it would be right to tell him no.
Tomorrow?
As soon as we can go.
So, tomorrow.
Yes, I’ll take you to town tomorrow afternoon.
Cole sighs and thanks you politely. He pauses, and you can faintly see him turn towards you. You wait for him to speak, but he does not, he just stares. After a while, he silently stands up to walk back to the cabins. He looks back, expecting you to follow him. You tell him you’re going to piss on the fire, and you’ll be there in a moment. He laughs.
You laugh too, then tell him to watch his step on the way back.
He tells you he never trips, because he always knows where the ground is. Whatever, kids are weird. There’s no reason to press him about that statement.
You watch Cole confidently stride away. You ensure the fire is out. Then you stumble your way after him, wondering how he actually managed to perfectly find his way in the dark.
It’s six-thirty at night, and you’re behind the wheel of the foreman’s old pickup truck, white-knuckling the wheel for fear of losing your job by damaging his car. Cole is trying to lean against the window with his chin in his hand, but his head jostles around with every little bump in the road. It does not look comfortable, and you wonder but don’t ask why he doesn’t just put his hand down.
You decide to make conversation. Did you sleep alright?
He hums and tells you he slept fine.
You can tell that’s a lie and press him. Sheepishly, he admits I hardly slept at all.
I’m sorry.
It’s okay, after I woke up, I just walked around outside until other people were up too.
The rest of the fifteen minute drive is in silence.
Cole asks you if you have any change when you’re both standing at the payphone outside the closed bank. You knew he would ask, he didn’t think to bring any. You chastise him for being unprepared and he apologizes. He takes your handful of coins and drops a few quarters into the slot.
He stares at the phone for a moment, but then quickly punches in a number he’s clearly used to calling. He smiles as the phone rings.
You can’t help eavesdrop on his conversation. His manner of speaking, not the contents of his conversation, is what draws you to listen. He doesn’t seem to mind you standing there.
The one-sided call is like a song of its own.
Hi, Dad, it’s me / I know, I’m sorry/ Not so much that I couldn’t call/ How could I?/ I guess I just missed you, How’ve you been?/ No, I do / I care about what you care about/ Dad /
I’ve been better, y’know? But I’m doing alright / Oh, y’know, I’ve been working / I can’t tell you/ Something like that/ I don’t know/ I don’t know how they’re doing/ I haven’t talked to them/ Things change / You know what happened/
Please don’t start this again/ Okay, I will/ Of course I know that/
I can’t promise that/ Yeah, yeah, whatever/ Like I said, I’ve been really busy/ I guess I did, But that doesn’t mean I have nothing going on/ No, I’m sorry / Yes, Dad / I can handle myself/ I know you can’t/ I’m okay, I swear, I can try to call more often, if I don’t, though, don’t read into it/ Thank you / Okay, I will, I love you/ Goodnight.
Cole clicks the phone back into the receiver and stares off into space.
You wave the keys to get his attention and softly smile, silently asking if he’s ready to go. But he shakes his head and looks down at his handful of coins. I have to make another call.
The second time he dials a number is different. He presses each number slowly and deliberately, taking long pauses between each one. He furrows his eyebrows and looks at no one in particular for reassurance before finishing the number. He is far less collected while waiting for someone to pick up.
Hello?/ It’s Cole/ Lloyd?/ That was on purpose/ No/ I’m not ready/ What do you mean?/ You said ‘you guys’/ Jay’s on TV?/ That sounds about right/ I’ve been avoiding that stuff/ Just tech in general/ Something like that/ For now, yeah/
Don’t do that/ I don’t care, you don’t get to pull that shit/ I can do whatever I want/ Me neither, that’s not why I called /// Because I miss you too/ I can’t, Lloyd/ You know why/ I just couldn’t stand to be there when he’s not/ You’re a better man than me/ Don’t swear/
I don’t have to take this from you/ I’m hanging up now/ I’m done, Lloyd/ What?/ That’s not fair, this was out of your control /It was, and that’s too much to put on someone your age anyway/ How can I convince you that you’re wrong?/ Yeah/ Has anyone ever told you you’re just like your father?/ It’s something/ Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings/ Well, I’ll have you know I just talked to him and he was very normal for a few minutes/ Hey /Are you trying to keep me on the phone or not? / No/
Well, I guess that’s goodbye then, tell everyone I said hi / No / Good luck with that/ You’re too stubborn for your own good/ Yeah, I know/ Goodbye, Lloyd/ Goodbye for now.
Once the phone is in the receiver a second time, Cole sighs long and tired. You don’t speak, waiting for him to either dial another number or make it clear that he’s done. He does the latter.
Expressionless, he says, I’m ready to go back now.
Okay. And just like that, you’re back in the foreman’s truck, driving through a small town on your way back to a worksite with some kid.
Cole asks before you’ve gotten far how much money you have.
Why?
He clarifies, how much money do you have on you right now?
Again, why?
I want to buy a thing of hotdogs.
What for?
I liked the fire a lot last night. We outta do that more.
You know not everyone on site would agree with Cole’s statement. I can’t just give you money.
I swear I’ll pay you back. For the phone too.
Oh, alright.
Cole fidgets with the packs of pre-cooked hotdogs on the way back, staring way into the distance deep in thought. It would be smart to not bother him with small talk or whatever. But a thought strikes you and you voice it out loud without thinking. Nobody ever taught you how to drive?
You can see how he looks at you from the corner of your eye. No, I can drive.
You sigh and move on. Does it even matter?
Cole out-of-the-blue says he’s going to wait a few days.
You ask until what.
Until he suggests another campfire. Cole says he doesn’t want everyone to think he’s too eager. He doesn’t want to be weird.
You ask the next question anyone would ask, how are you going to keep those hotdogs frozen until then?
I used to know a guy for that. And then he laughs too hard and for far too long about what was probably a joke but one that wasn’t funny to anyone except for him. Once his giggles have subsided he says he hadn’t thought about it.
You don’t think much, do you?
Not about that sort of thing, no.
You tell him there’s probably something that can be done. You tell him that you can handle it. They’ll end up hidden in the kitchen freezer.
He thanks you, smiles, and turns to look out the window next to him.
A small group is huddled around Cole’s fire, talking and laughing quietly, digesting their fire-roasted (though fire-warmed might be a better word) hot dogs. The conversation had drifted throughout the evening from the happenings on site that day, to the most notable incidents ever on site, to an array of stories from anyone who wants to share. Now everyone’s winding down. And Cole, who’s been fairly quiet, turns to the musician boy from a few nights ago and asks if he still has his guitar.
Are you sure? You got so upset about it last time.
The group laughs, and Cole seems embarrassed but does not change his mind about wanting it. So the kid retreats to his cabin and returns with his instrument. He hands it to Cole, who sits down and strums a few notes, seeming to get a feel for the instrument. He plays a C chord, strumming down twice, up twice, then down and up once. Then he stops, stares at the ground and takes a deep breath.
Any day now.
You watch Cole’s brow furrow slightly at the comment, and you consider coming to his defence, but do not.
After a few seconds of silence, Cole says I’m not gonna cry this time.
He sings the first two words before he begins to play the guitar.
If you miss the train I'm on/
You will know that I am gone/
You can hear the whistle blow/
A hundred miles/
A feature of this song is its repetitiveness. A hundred miles. The end of every verse is the same line on repeat. A hundred miles. But it does not grate the listener. A hundred miles. Especially not the way Cole sings it. A hundred miles. In fact, it only adds something, you don’t quite know what, to when the final line of each verse does eventually come.
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles/
Cole’s voice is rich and easy. Almost anyone could tell that despite the harsh feelings he’d expressed about music, he’s clearly professionally trained in some capacity. You can easily picture him performing some grand, impressive theatre piece, but he doesn’t sound out-of-place delicately performing for a small crowd.
Lord, I’m one/
Lord, I’m two/
Lord, I’m three/
Lord, I’m four/
Lord, I’m five hundred miles from my home/
Again, the most recent line repeats,
Five hundred miles/ Five hundred miles/ Five hundred miles/ Five hundred miles/
if only to drive home the final line of the section.
Lord, I’m five hundred miles from my home/
The second verse is much the same. The passion obvious in his soft singing pairs with the stress on certain words make the meaning he pulls from the song obvious. Given the conversations you’ve had with him, you feel you understand.
Not a shirt on my back/
Not a penny to my name/
Lord, I can’t go home/
This-a way/
This way/ this way/ this way/ this way/
Lord I can’t go home this way/
The only sound besides Cole’s voice and guitar is the sound of the rustling of the trees. Nobody has coughed, or shifted in their seats in some time.
If you miss the train I’m on/
You will know that I am gone/
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.
Cole finishes and soaks in the silence of everyone around him for a moment. Then, like it’s drilled into him to do so, he says thank you. He stands, hands the guitar back to its owner, and walks away, leaving everyone else in complete silence.
You once again fill your role as the responsible one. Alright, everybody get to bed.
As you fill a bucket of water from the spout near the bathrooms, you can hear someone crying in the distance. You recognize that it is probably Cole, but do not intervene this time. You feel no need to, you don’t bear any responsibility for having upset him. And he probably wants to be alone.
But as you lug the bucket up to the fire you think about Cole. Cole who you don’t know much about. Cole who seems like he’s never caught a break in his life. Cole who is afraid of dying and who might have good reason to be. Cole who gets up early and works every day for no reason other than that he thinks he wants to. Cole who you can’t help but feel sorry for.
You pour the water over the hot embers.
Still, he clearly has people he cares about and who care about him. He has somewhere to go if he ever gets sick of living in the woods. Somewhere else he’d rather be. You can’t help but believe that eventually Cole will make his way back home.