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Chuck s way when it came to the truck. That was all right, he decided. Chuck knew
better than he did in this regard.
75
Angelia Sparrow & Naomi Brooks
An hour and a half on I-39 took them to Wisconsin. Seven spent that time drawing.
He sketched the wind farms, their turbines churning in the prairie wind he could feel
even in the truck. He drew the crumbling cooling tower of the defunct nuclear fission
plant. Fields of biodiesel hemp, on their third harvest of the year, were being cut by
men with scythes. He drew them as they passed. The oil from the plants would become
fuel, the leaves paper and the tough stem fibers would be made into cloth. All the THC
and other psychoactives had been bred out of the industrial species.
Seven flinched as he saw the man with the rifle patrolling the harvesters, his horse
picking its careful way through the fields. Prison labor apparently wasn t only used in
the C.S. and Heartland. Minnesota was more of the same, flat, pine trees and nothing
much.
They pulled into the last rest area before the border. Seven grew restless and Chuck
looked worried.
I m late with the load. Tomorrow is Monday and I ll only make it into Billings. I
was supposed to deliver Monday. Guess I can kiss my nice run good-bye.
Seven rolled his eyes. Chuck. You were almost executed. That s gotta be a good
excuse.
Chuck gave a wry smile. Ya think? He sighed and pulled Seven close as they lay
on the bunk. I m making an appointment to see Dr. Mike. This whole thing still has me
all shaky. And you re having nightmares.
You only know that because your own wake you up, Seven said and covered his
mouth with both hands.
Chuck kissed his hands and moved them away. Yeah. The dreams are bad. They
will be for a while.
Seven determined right then he would make Chuck run out of condoms this trip.
At the U.S.-Tribal border, the guard stopped them. Chuck patted himself down and
swore in two languages until Seven realized what he needed. Reaching into the cubby
above the driver s seat, he handed Chuck his wallet.
Chuck kissed him, to the guard s evident consternation. Seven, you are a wonder.
Chuck handed his license and logs out the window. He dug for his permits and bills of
lading. Seven had put them in his notebook.
It fell out of your pocket when they beat you up.
Unh-hunh. Chuck Hummingbird, Pacifica, Cotton from Blytheville, C.S. You re
way farther north than you need to be, driver.
We had some difficulties that made it prudent to avoid Heartland and stay in the
U.S. for the trip, Chuck said smoothly.
Got info on your co-driver there?
Seven fidgeted as Chuck explained. No ID, sir. He s a fugitive from Heartland.
Chuck pulled Seven s arm to the window and showed the hated tattoo. We re seeking
political and religious asylum for him. They destroyed all records of him in Heartland.
76
Glad Hands
The guard s whole demeanor changed. Hold on a minute. He ducked back inside
the post and came out with a packet of paperwork. We always grant asylum to the
gifted. Here s the forms for asylum and ID. You ll need a license before you can handle
this thing. The information finally clicked and the guard smiled at Seven. You did a
heck of a job on that rescue, though. I m sorry to say we re going to have to hold you
guys up.
What? Why? Chuck asked.
We re doing agri inspections. All agricultural products coming from outside the
country have to be double-checked. He gestured around back, where about five trucks
were already waiting. It s gonna be a while. I m really sorry.
It s all right. Chuck followed the directions and got in line. He shifted the truck to
a low idle and they waited. To kill some boredom, Chuck poked around on the radio
and found a channel that played old radio shows, stuff a hundred and fifty years old,
the actors all long dead, but the mysteries still suspenseful and the gags in the comedy
shows still funny. The first truck finished.
Seven listened, absorbed in favorites he d only heard on old media discs from the
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