If something appeared, he took it, and soon they were so lost
they couldn't even find themselves, let alone anyone in high pursuit. He
settled down to drive and the fields took on a green blur around him.
Cain had been eighteen when he'd first met Kathy. Eighteen and fresh from
Idaho, a hillbilly former survivalist who wanted desperately to join mainstream
society. Kathy hadn't laughed at him or made him feel self-conscious. Instead,
she'd seemed genuinely intrigued by his blunt statements and matter-of-fact
approach to life. If people wanted platitudes, they didn't hang out with Cain.
They'd been just friends in the beginning, Cain
too preoccupied with carving out a life to think of anything more. But then
things had slowly slid into place. He'd enrolled in Portland State and
discovered that the formulas, theories and music that so often haunted his mind
suddenly had meaning. His professors didn't greet him with raised brows or
dismissive gestures as his father had done. Instead their eyes widened and they
demanded to hear more.
Cain had always known he was different. Most
people thought in words; he had a tendency to think in numbers or notes. He was
most intrigued by the number eight, of course. It was the basis for everything.
Chess, mathematics, music, even the periodic table. Nature had recurring themes—life
truly seemed to favor the cycle—and inevitably, the basis of such cycles was
the number eight. He'd once tried to speak to his father about it. Zechariah
had said harshly, "Chess isn't about numbers, boy. Who cares about
numbers? Chess is all about killing the king, that's what you should care
about. We are the last of the Minutemen, the last of the true patriots. We must
safeguard freedom against the ZOG and don't you forget it."
Cain had never had anything in common with his
father.
But at Portland State, he'd suddenly belonged.
He'd made friends for the first time. At least he'd thought they were friends.
Later, he'd had cause to question everything.
He'd made it through college in three years,
taking classes year-round and discovering his true calling. Graduation had
given him more job offers than he'd known what to do with and suddenly life had
been on track.
And somehow, he and Kathy had become more than
friends. He didn't remember the exact moment, anymore. He didn't remember the
first date. He remembered other things instead. For his twenty-third birthday,
she'd given him a marble chess set and challenged him to a game of strip chess.
For each piece you lost, you had to remove a piece of clothing. Kathy had been
lousy at chess and he'd had her naked and laughing in no time. He remembered
the time she'd served him French toast wearing nothing but a pair of red high
heels.
She'd been a generous woman, warm, intelligent
and funny. She'd made a small home for him and given him laughter when he hadn't
laughed since his mother had died.
He wished sometimes he'd had something to give
her in return. Maybe it was the way he thought. Maybe it was because he'd spent
so much time alone after his mother's death, but he didn't fit like other people
fit. Even in the middle of a room filled with people, he was somehow separate,
apart, isolated. Kathy complained that he didn't seem to need her. He'd
answered that he didn't understand why she would want that. People should be
with each other out of choice, not need.
She'd become more distant after that, veering
toward little games and petty displays he didn't know how to respond to. He
couldn't play the jealous type, he couldn't pour out his soul as she seemed to
want. If she didn't want to be with him anymore, he accepted that. It was her
choice to move on, and he honestly wished her well.
He would miss her, but that was life—cause and
effect, choice and consequence. He accepted that. He valued his independence.
And if he lived alone and died alone because of it, he was willing to pay that
price. Choice and consequence.
When Abraham had abruptly appeared in
they couldn't even find themselves, let alone anyone in high pursuit. He
settled down to drive and the fields took on a green blur around him.
Cain had been eighteen when he'd first met Kathy. Eighteen and fresh from
Idaho, a hillbilly former survivalist who wanted desperately to join mainstream
society. Kathy hadn't laughed at him or made him feel self-conscious. Instead,
she'd seemed genuinely intrigued by his blunt statements and matter-of-fact
approach to life. If people wanted platitudes, they didn't hang out with Cain.
They'd been just friends in the beginning, Cain
too preoccupied with carving out a life to think of anything more. But then
things had slowly slid into place. He'd enrolled in Portland State and
discovered that the formulas, theories and music that so often haunted his mind
suddenly had meaning. His professors didn't greet him with raised brows or
dismissive gestures as his father had done. Instead their eyes widened and they
demanded to hear more.
Cain had always known he was different. Most
people thought in words; he had a tendency to think in numbers or notes. He was
most intrigued by the number eight, of course. It was the basis for everything.
Chess, mathematics, music, even the periodic table. Nature had recurring themes—life
truly seemed to favor the cycle—and inevitably, the basis of such cycles was
the number eight. He'd once tried to speak to his father about it. Zechariah
had said harshly, "Chess isn't about numbers, boy. Who cares about
numbers? Chess is all about killing the king, that's what you should care
about. We are the last of the Minutemen, the last of the true patriots. We must
safeguard freedom against the ZOG and don't you forget it."
Cain had never had anything in common with his
father.
But at Portland State, he'd suddenly belonged.
He'd made friends for the first time. At least he'd thought they were friends.
Later, he'd had cause to question everything.
He'd made it through college in three years,
taking classes year-round and discovering his true calling. Graduation had
given him more job offers than he'd known what to do with and suddenly life had
been on track.
And somehow, he and Kathy had become more than
friends. He didn't remember the exact moment, anymore. He didn't remember the
first date. He remembered other things instead. For his twenty-third birthday,
she'd given him a marble chess set and challenged him to a game of strip chess.
For each piece you lost, you had to remove a piece of clothing. Kathy had been
lousy at chess and he'd had her naked and laughing in no time. He remembered
the time she'd served him French toast wearing nothing but a pair of red high
heels.
She'd been a generous woman, warm, intelligent
and funny. She'd made a small home for him and given him laughter when he hadn't
laughed since his mother had died.
He wished sometimes he'd had something to give
her in return. Maybe it was the way he thought. Maybe it was because he'd spent
so much time alone after his mother's death, but he didn't fit like other people
fit. Even in the middle of a room filled with people, he was somehow separate,
apart, isolated. Kathy complained that he didn't seem to need her. He'd
answered that he didn't understand why she would want that. People should be
with each other out of choice, not need.
She'd become more distant after that, veering
toward little games and petty displays he didn't know how to respond to. He
couldn't play the jealous type, he couldn't pour out his soul as she seemed to
want. If she didn't want to be with him anymore, he accepted that. It was her
choice to move on, and he honestly wished her well.
He would miss her, but that was life—cause and
effect, choice and consequence. He accepted that. He valued his independence.
And if he lived alone and died alone because of it, he was willing to pay that
price. Choice and consequence.
When Abraham had abruptly appeared in
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