* * *
He comes downstairs at noon to find Erik at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into a thermos. Get dressed. You’re coming with me. Xie pauses in the doorway. What? To work, Erik says. Why? I don’t want you lying around all day. Xie rubs his brow. Dad, I’m not. Erik cutting him off, grimacing as he swallows his coffee. Just get ready. Fifteen minutes later in the truck, dozing against the glass, news on: ice melting at both poles, whales eating plastic bags, California still on fire. Erik spins the knob. They drive for half an hour and stop at a strip mall, where two other men wait in a gutted office space, ripping up old carpet. They nod, smileless, when Erik introduces them. Xie looks at the floor. You’re gonna help me install that, Erik says, pointing to a toilet and sink stacked in a hallway. And we have to take the old stuff out. Xie tucks his chin into the neck of his hoodie. Everything, even the things they have to get rid of, look brand-new. In the bathroom his hand keeps slipping on the wrench. Sweating in gloves several sizes too big. No window. The other men begin laying down carpet pads, each shot with the staple gun echoing down the hall. Dad, Xie says. Dad. Erik grunts beneath the sink. Yeah. I have a blister. Erik frowns. From what? Xie shrugs. Go get a Band-Aid from the truck, Erik says. Xie brushes the dust from his knees, goes outside. Fresh air. Beyond the ugly blunt stucco pine trees feather the horizon, surrounding the university in the hills, a liberal hippie arts school Erik hoped would entice him with its vegan meal plans and social justice majors. But he’d had all that in California; it wasn’t different buildings, different people, different schools that he had wanted but something else, something he recognized in the woods as soon as he saw them. Hey, a voice calls, behind him; Xie stops a step shy of the truck. Little sip of air. Hey, I want to talk to you. Xie looks over his shoulder. A middle-aged man, thick beard, jean jacket, peeling away from the wall of a doughnut shop. You’re that kid, right? That’s you? Xie blinks. The guy comes in close, jacket brushing Xie’s sleeve. Kid who messed with the Moore place? Going around with your black shit and taking people’s property? Xie steps back. They’re not property. What’d you say? They’re animals, Xie repeats. They’re not property. Like hell they’re not, you know how much you cost that family? Actually, yeah, I’m paying for it, Xie says. So. Don’t really need the lecture. You mean your daddy’s paying, the man corrects, finger in Xie’s face. Consequences of your actions mean shit to people like you, self-righteous tree-hugging faggots. Shut up, Xie whispers. The man grabs the front of his hoodie, yanking Xie into an almost-embrace. Don’t fucking mumble when you talk to me. Xie closes his eyes. Thinks of Moore on his back. Breath on the side of his face. The man lets him go with a shove and Xie stumbles, back against the truck. The man spits, turns. You watch yourself, hear. Inside the building the men are unrolling a tarp, perfectly visible through the windows. Xie gets a bandage from the glove compartment, spreads it over the burst blister. When he walks back into the building the men clear their throats. In the bathroom Erik is twisting the new taps into place. What took you so long. Gesturing at the gloves. Xie pulls them on, picks up the little bits of junk everywhere: shredded plastic, splinters of wood, loose nails, paint chips. One by one into an empty paint can. When the can is full Xie puts it in the back of the truck, then climbs into the cab. Peels off the sweaty gloves. Sleeps. When he wakes he sees Erik crossing the lot, blotting the sweat from his brow as he gets inside the truck. How’s your hand? It’s okay. Erik nods, long suck of his teeth. You want to go back in? No, Xie says. Silence. A sparrow lands on the hood of the truck, shivers, flies off. You know I just want things to work, Erik says. Here, I mean. For you. That’s all. Xie gazes from blacktop to roof to sky. I know, Xie says. Erik rubs his face. They used to laugh about how Xie’s first word was No. For a year no matter what anyone said Xie would yell, No no no. If something scared Xie—the noise from the clock or the car engine or the air conditioner—Erik wanted to show Xie how it worked. Kneeling beside him, saying, Look. Trying to prove there was no monster lurking in the machines. But Xie refused to look. Bad, he said about the air conditioner. Bad the car engine, bad the clock. Erik insisting, We have to learn to live with these things. Tick tock. Rumble. Roar. No.
* * *
Xie has been to the public library only once, with FKK; they had gone to find books about animal liberation and found none. When Leni complained to the librarian he had told them, We are a general interest facility. Which made Jo laugh out loud as she smacked a stack of romance novels. You mean we should be reading this shit instead? At which point they had been asked to leave. I’m supposed to be here for a, um, tutor, Xie says, approaching the front desk. Greg, the librarian, says, Yes, I am aware. Cool gaze behind his gray glasses. Xie glances around the room; shallow rows of dark metal shelving, half full, surround a bank of tables with ancient computers, chess games, magazines. A man sits near the water fountain, taking notes from a dictionary. Everything smells like dirty laundry and old glue. In the children’s area a woman in a blue jacket waves, a huge yellow sun cut from construction paper stuck to the window behind her head. Xie shifts the strap of his bag over his chest. He could leave. Doesn’t. Tugs his jeans up, shuffles to the table. The woman stands, reaching for his hand. Strong grip. Hi, Xie? I’m Karen. Mid-twenties, green eyes, thin strawberry blond hair to her shoulders. Backpack on the desk like a student’s, full of folders. He sits, knee jumping beneath the table; he has to think hard to stop it, then it stops. How are you? Karen asks. Fine, he says, looking at the smiley face someone scratched into the tabletop. Good, she says. It’s nice to meet you. He glances up, then back down. Karen takes a deep breath. So, we’ll be meeting three times a week for three hours to go over the assignments. Sliding him a schedule, pointing with a pen. I have your course books here; we’ll discuss the readings and whatever homework the school assigns, which you’ll turn in to MacAdams on Fridays. At the end of each month I submit a report about what we’ve covered here and that’s pretty much it. The bathroom’s just that way, you can use it whenever you need. And we have a fifteen-minute break around noon. Sound okay? Xie clears his throat. Mm-hm. It looks like you had a bit of a rough time with math last term, she says, consulting one of her folders, so why don’t we start with that. She opens a textbook, tucks her hair behind her ears. I was looking at some of your past work and it seems like this is where you get stuck; can you tell me what you’re thinking when you get to this point? Watching him repeat the problem. There, she says, gently, you left out a step. The librarian stares; Greg knows, everyone knows, does Karen? She must. That I tried to help them but they died anyway. There you go, she says, nodding at the end of the hour, Xie’s pencil worn to the wood. You’ve got it. Karen puts down her pen, pulls a lunch bag from her backpack. You can’t eat in here, Greg calls. Yes, we know, she says. Xie follows her outside. Karen settles on the steps. He hesitates, then sits beside her. Tipping trail mix from the pocket of his hoodie into his hand. Do you live nearby? she asks. Yeah. Near the creek. That’s a long walk for you, she says. He shrugs. I don’t mind. I like the woods. You have brothers? Sisters? No. Just your parents? My dad. What does he do? He’s a, um, contractor. She uncaps a bottle of iced tea, drinks. And you’re from California. He squints. Don’t you know all this already from a file, or…? She shrugs. Just curious. She peels plastic wrap from a sandwich. Pieces of ham, clotted with mayonnaise, spill from the sides as she lifts it. He grimaces. Why do you eat that. Oh, that’s right, she says, almost to herself. You don’t eat meat. I don’t eat animals, he corrects. I don’t know why anyone does. Karen’s back stiffens against the step. I’m sorry if it offends you. Silence. Neither of them looks at the other. Sun soaking the steps. Xie rubs his chin on his arm. Rises. Goes back inside to sit at the table, looking at the stacks of folders, books, the paper, the pencils, her green pen. The last time he ate meat he was twelve years old, after the spill: Xie was Alex then. Even miles from the beach, they could smell something off; at first they thought it was the sandwiches, ham pressed hot in the pockets of Erik’s windbreaker, but the closer they got to the beach the stronger the smell became, noxious, chemical. They parked at their usual spot, yellow tape blocking access to the beach beyond. A black ribbon flat against the horizon; that was the water. No trace of blue. On the rocks below the lot a half dozen pelicans huddled together. Coated from beak to foot in oil. Don’t touch them, his father said. Someone will come help. But there was no one. The black sea lapping the sand. Those bewildered eyes. He watched as one of the birds collapsed, its head twisted sideways against its neck. His father pulled him away. The fire on the water burned for two weeks; the beach remained black for a year. Sea turtles, dolphins, whales, gulls, crabs, otters, fish rolled up by the waves in the tens of thousands. Oil on meat on sand. No stopping it. Xie got headaches, bloody noses; he was always tired, couldn’t sleep. His mother standing in the doorway. Stop playing games, you’re fine. But his father was never angry. Scared of what he saw. Xie curled in the dark. Unable to make it from one room to another. The people who used to go to the beach just went somewhere else. Life as usual. Slumped in his seat as his father fed gas into the truck he suddenly couldn’t stand it. Stopped standing it. He opened the door, started walking. Alex, his father called, but he was not Alex anymore. He poured out all the milk in the house, threw packages of lunch meat to the dogs next door, sold his computer for a bike. When he was thirteen the beaches turned yellow again but he still smelled the oil, still saw the birds collapsing against the rocks. He refused to fill his prescriptions. Chose a new name. A new town. As if he could outrun it. The clock ticks. Karen stays outside, giving him or herself a moment. Xie’s knee trembles beneath the table, all the blood in his body pounding. Nowhere to go. He draws a skull in the margin of his homework. Erases it. Presses the tip of his pencil, hard, against his jaw. Two more hours. By the end of the day, three billion animals will be dead. You just sit there.