* * *
He wakes up curled against his father’s back, cheek between his shoulder blades. Erik too still to be asleep, muscles tense, Xie’s first impulse to pull away but. Don’t. You never touch him, he only touches you, less than he wants. So. Stay there a minute. Holding your breath. Finally Erik turns to face him and Xie rolls onto his back, away. Good morning. Morning. Sleep okay. Yes. You. Yes. Xie’s heart pounding. He swallows. Gets off the blanket. Granola out of a bag for breakfast, water in the ancient enamel mugs, feet pushed up against the stones of the dead fire. Heard something last night, Erik says. What do you think it was? Don’t know. Deer, probably. Xie smiles. You thought it was a bear. Erik shrugs, also smiling. Maybe. Be careful, he says, Xie off to forage, saucepan in hand. I will. Just beginning to recognize chickweed, ramps, oniongrass, but it’s the wrong season for those; stupidly excited when he finds blackberries, a few walnuts. He cuts some chanterelles, pinching the leathery stems. It’s early still, with that raw feeling he finds only in the woods, chilly, hungover, as if, even after dawn, the trees are still shaking off the night. He digs a hole to piss in, he can’t do it like his father, against a rock, into the ferns; he hates to piss at all in the woods, never mind shit. He holds it. No matter what you do you are poison here, disturbing something, hurting something, you’re no John Muir or Thoreau or whoever the fuck understands how to live. In this wood alone there are three hundred species at risk of extinction: the black rail, the nuthatches, the gray fox, and you just tromp around pissing like a dumbass. He walks for hours, until the saucepan is full. Wading along the lake, jeans soaked to the shin. Harsh white skin of light on the water. Head back to camp, early afternoon, where Erik is reading, book cracked in half so Xie can’t see the cover. Looking up as Xie tucks a handful of mushrooms in his mouth. Are you sure none of that is poisonous? Xie shrugs. Pretty sure. Erik sets the book down, kneels to start a fire, lining Xie’s wet sneakers and socks on a rock to dry. Easing beside Xie, hands flat on his thighs, rubbing his jaw against his arm. How’s it going with Karen? Fine. She’s nice? Xie nods. You don’t get bored at home? No. Erik fills a pot with water, sets it over a tiny gas stove. You can still graduate with your class, you know. If you get through these next few months. I know. They eat spaghetti, crackers, tomato sauce. The walnuts are bitter, they spit them into the fire. His father sings a song in Danish. Xie lying on the ground. His father was in a choir growing up and can still achieve a chillingly high note, a boy’s note, so out of place in that long body. What are the words about? Erik smiles. Loving your country. Xie sings part of it with him, hiding his voice inside his father’s. Later Erik swims, a blond dot way out in the water, impervious to the cold, while Xie walks the perimeter of the lake. They build another fire, eat beans. When Erik goes to the tent Xie stays, stroking the dirt with his shoe. The stars look like chips of bone. Blue. Yellow. He lies on his belly. Rubs his hips against the ground, mouth open. A low breeze caressing his back, his ass, he lifts his hoodie to feel it, fingering his spine. The taste of stone, blood loud in his ears, dirt in his lashes, yes, it’s here, the body, beneath you, all the bones you could want. The earth held together by the dead. Grimacing as he moves, feverish, low moan on the wind. Hips jerking once, twice, then still. In the morning Erik finds him curled near the firepit, cheek pressed against a twig. Clothes cold. Xie, why didn’t you come inside? Slow focus on his father, thick swallow, gritty teeth. Jesus. Rubbing his face against his sleeve. What time is it. Six-thirty. Erik’s firm grip, Up you go. Shaky legs. Eat breakfast, take down the tent, hike to the car. Red dots where the mosquitoes bit. Come dry on your thigh. The sun flat in your face, burning.
* * *
He doesn’t tell his father where he goes with the girls on Friday nights and Erik doesn’t ask, assuming, maybe, that they are going to their usual haunts: the vegan diner, the university bookstore, Jo’s house, as if they have nothing better to do than just hang out, as if what happened over the summer was an anomaly and not the start of a trend or lifestyle or whatever it was that going to the meetings meant they were doing; Xie doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t ask the girls, just gets into the car. They arrive early, help Peter set up the folding chairs and the card table full of snacks, barbeque jackfruit jerky and compostable bowls of gluten-free chips, Jo pumping Peter for information about the history of the group, its other members, which he provides without hesitation; he knows where everyone was born, where they went to school, what jobs they’ve had, what other organizations they’ve been a part of, when and if and for what they were arrested. Shit, you’re the feds! Jo says, pointing mock-accusingly at him. Peter laughs, hands up. Guilty as charged. When the others come filtering in he stays with Xie while Jo holds court on a battered couch, Leni perched next to her, giddy, shy, bony shoulders hunched beneath her thin coat. Peter pours himself a cup of hard cider, offers one to Xie, who takes it, hand shaking, it’s so stupid, why don’t you ever just. Calm down. Jo says you guys did some work with PETA, right? Peter asks. Xie shrugs. Just protest stuff, nothing official. No, that’s good, I mean obviously PETA is basically a corporation at this point but that’s where a lot of people start, almost everyone here went the same route. PETA, Greenpeace, all that crap. You don’t think it’s good? Peter holds his hand up. No, no, it’s all good. Some people don’t mind being told what petition to sign, where to shop, who to vote for, but I really struggle with the essentially conservative position of mainstream activism. It’s too slow, it’s too rigid, it’s too indirect, right? If you’re really thinking about food production, about what you’re eating, eventually you have to look at land, you look at climate, you start thinking beyond species and you realize that change has to be less about amending the existing system and more about—the big stuff. Peter smiles. Sorry, preaching to the choir. Xie glances at the stairs. Is Nova going to be here? Peter blinks. Nova left last week, I don’t know when she’ll be back. She’s full-time in Central America now, with Earth Alliance. I wanted to ask, actually—did she say anything to you? In the hall? Xie shifts. Um. No, she didn’t. Oh. I thought I heard her voice up there. What happened to her face? Xie asks. Peter looks over the rim of his cider. You didn’t hear? She was filming an illegal clear-cutting operation in Guatemala and she got caught. Unfortunately, some of those guys carry machetes. Peter swallows, gesturing with his cup. I just don’t get why she did it that way. Heck, she has a whole camp of people doing work for E.A., any one of them would have gone with her. But she didn’t tell anyone and she didn’t look after herself. It’s like she wanted something bad to happen. Maybe she thought it would be easier on her own, Xie says, maybe she was just trying— Nothing’s easier on your own, Peter interrupts, sharp. That’s the first thing you learn. People with that mindset—they’re either in prison or they’re burned out or they’re dead. I knew a girl, a couple years ago, who made a pact with a group obsessed with extinction, every member tying their life to an endangered species, not just mammals but insects, plants, fish, whatever. Her thing was a moss that only grew in the montane forests in Bolivia, where she was born. Everything, her whole life, was about that list. She isolated completely. If a conservation group wasn’t focused on exactly that thing, she wouldn’t deal with them. In her mind, this was it. This was how she was going to make her point. And when the forest was gone so was the moss and so was my friend. Peter rubs his brow, sweaty, the heat on in the basement, too hot for the weather. I support Nova a thousand percent, but I don’t think getting hurt or hurting yourself or someone else does the right kind of good. The work we do can be scary, it can be hard, but it doesn’t have to be lonely and it doesn’t have to be about despair. Peter drains the cider from his cup. I mean, damn. What a waste, you know? Quiet. It just makes me mad. How long have you been doing this? Xie asks. Twenty years. Lines all around his pale blue eyes. Xie looks at his own cup, still full. I’m sorry about your friend. Peter pats his back. Hey. Thanks. And thanks for being here. Me? Yeah, you. Xie flushes. Um. I haven’t done anything. Oh, but you have, Peter says. You will.