nightlogs | ❅ SHITTY LITTLE TOWN ❅ PART 1

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dan sagittarius

❅ SHITTY LITTLE TOWN ❅ PART 1

SHITTY LITTLE TOWN ❅ PART 1

Each year in this town, the winters seem to get harder and the summers seem to get hotter, and this was no exception. After several months of sweltering afternoons and sweaty nights, fall is finally starting to break the town’s fever, although with the cooler weather comes the death of the horseflies, leaving many of the town’s flat surfaces coated in bug carcasses. The sky is overcast, the air remains humid, and in the distance thunderstorms can be heard almost every hour of the day.

During the day, people go about their usual routines, working primarily at the slaughterhouse or mines during the weekdays, vegetating in front of the television on Saturdays, and sitting straightbacked and paranoid in the pews on Sunday, fearful less of the wrath of God than the ire of the neighbors. Evenings for the average person are filled with drinking at Nog’s or Auntie’s or peering at the TV until bedtime.

This is where our heroes find themselves, waking with a new lifestory that integrates them into this, the shitty little town.

PROMPTS

a) NOG'S

Nog's bar is the preferred haunt of most of the miners and slaughterhouse workers in this town, who meet to drink their woes away, complain about their supervisors and speculate on the personal lives of the people around them. Despite Mr. Goluboy's constant harassment, Nog has managed to keep his liquor license, and as such is one of the few successful businesses in town on account of all the stress-induced alcoholism. While one won't find fancy cocktails here, if they're just looking for a beer and some scuttlebutt, this is the place.

b) AUNTIE'S

"Auntie's" is the name of the old-school, 1950's-esque, 24-hour diner in the middle of downtown, with big red pleather booths, checkerboard floors and a jukebox. Typically, the only difference in clientele between Auntie’s and Nog's is that the people at Auntie’s wanted a burger or a stack of pancakes alongside their beer – but unlike Nog's, Auntie’s is only barely hanging on, constantly getting ticketed for waterspots on the silverware and not having enough napkins. Thankfully, one can get a full breakfast meal at Auntie's any time of day for a few dollars.

c) THE DOCKS

The town is alongside a lake, and once upon a time there was enough fish to sustain a modest fishing economy and a river that allowed for trade by boat with other nearby towns. However, with the mines' pollution, fish are no longer considered safe to eat, and only the water immediately adjacent to the springhead on the Warren Family Farm is safe to swim in. Draining from the mines has lowered the level of the river enough that it's no longer navigable. Residents will still occasionally use the lake for boating recreation, but fees at the marina keep going up (into Goluboy's pocket) and mothers are increasingly worried about letting their children get wet in that water.

d) THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE

The other major employer, owned by Ms. Cygne. Most of the locals who don't work at the mines work at the slaughterhouse, where the work is disgusting, dreary and grueling. Sometimes people get promoted out of the trenches and into admin. Yay.

e) BIG TOP CIRCUS COFFEE

Dick's Coffeeshop is in the bottom floor of an apartment building, and many locals have no idea how it hasn't been shut down yet, given that the owner is famously generous with his resources in a way that clearly irritates the city council. Dick offers jobs to those who Goluboy and Cygne won't hire at the mines or slaughterhouse and frequently sneaks day-old pastries to the hungry. The coffeeshop is one of the few areas where artists tend to converge, usually at the weekly open mic night; however, whatever one expresses at the coffeeshop is likely to be picked up by the town gossips, mocked relentlessly, distorted and spread around.

f) THE FARMER'S MARKET

Because Mr. Goluboy's malicious prosecution of small businesses has essentially shut down any legal avenue for a farmer's market, a few of the residents of the town have established a black market for homegrown fruits and vegetables, small-batch soaps and candles, and other small products. Words gets out through a whisper network, and a few times a month everyone in the know meets in a parking lot, opens their trunk, and does some bartering and selling with each other until they get found out. Sheriff Mallard and her deputies have arrested many people at these pop-ups and confiscated their products. By now, these pop-ups have around forty people trading and selling at a time, and the city council has announced that out of concerns for food safety the sentence for being caught vending homegrown produce will be increased to a misdemeanor with jail time.

g) THE LIBRARY

The library, once well-stocked and indulgently funded, is now kept alive sheerly by the passion of the one paid librarian, Aziraphale, and the volunteers who work there. There is no interlibrary loan program and there have been no new books in years. The library is reduced to loaning damaged copies missing pages, and story hours or public events are difficult to organize due to the complete lack of resources. The city council has also forced Aziraphale to put up a sign against loitering or using the library "for any purposes besides the borrowing of books." An organization of local busybodies drops in frequently to comb through the stacks for "objectionable material," which is then destroyed at Ms. Cygne's behest.

h) WILDCARD/NEW LOCATION

Feel free to set things around town anywhere you want or make up new locations.

i) THE SPOOKY WOODS

Outside the town, there are foggy, dense woods, difficult to navigate by foot due to thickets and brambles that come up to a grown man's waist. The city council has done what they can to ban people from going into the woods, and the gruesome animal maulings are a compelling disincentive.

Note: Let the plot mods know when your characters are going into the spooky woods.

OOC DETAILS
❅ OOC Plotting: Here. More locations can be found there. You can also ask the players running the plot questions there.

❅ Event Length: This part of the plot is to establish CR and characters' roles in town. It will last about a week and half before future parts that allow the characters to start digging into the mysteries of the town.

❅ New Characters: If your character is introing at this time, assume they arrived just in time at the location the plot takes place in to be caught up in the magic drawing everyone in. They would have gotten the Man in the Moon's spiel from the welcome page right before being magically sucked in.

❅ Opt-out: Anyone that doesn't want to play in the plot can handwave their character didn't go on the mission that put the characters in the location where they were sucked in. You can thread your characters back at the Pole or send them on another smaller mission with other characters.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Aster can't help but chuckle. He feels some kind of way, still, that the first person he's managing to have a decent conversation with is the town pariah, still a potential child abuser, but they are locked in. "Any excitement at all would about kill half this town," he chuckles. "You should see how confused they look when I tell them about the train in Cambodia. They get so confused why someone with a perfectly good house to sit and watch TV in would go all the way to the other side of the planet to take an un-airconditioned train without a seat anywhere. I can't convince them that anything uncomfortable is worth doing." He raises his eyebrow at Dan's claim of six languages. "You get a lot of language teachers out there in drifter society?"

His history of uncomfortable but interesting travel lets him read between the lines of Dan's lack of capacity to navigate. "It's hard going out there," he acknowledges. "There's routes out through the mountains that I reckon can be camped, but you'd need a lot of supplies, and you might run into those bears that keep getting people. Or whatever it is that's getting folks." He sighs. "When I can get out of this town it won't be a moment too soon."

"Oh, they know Cambodia's on the other side of the planet? I would have could assumed they thought it was in Ohio." He snorts, then rests his head back against the wall. Even out of the rain, he sleeps poorly in jail cells. The deputies make it a point to be noisy every two hours just to wake him up, it's cold, and knowing he's going to get kicked out at six in the morning makes the whole endeavor feel not worthwhile. "I like learning how to talk to people. A lot of what I was doing between odd jobs was helping migrants on the southern border, so Spanish came first, and then everything else was just asking folks to teach me as I went."

That's when one of the deputies comes in, thumbs through his belt loop with his hips thrust out to show off either his belt buckle or his firearm in its side holster. He slams his billy club against the bars to Dan's cell.

"What, are the chomos in here swapping tips? Deciding what kind of rape van you want to rent together?" He rings the jail bars again. "Hands."

Dan gets up off the cot and waddles over in his blankets, holding his hands through the bars. No shaking yet; Dan can still feel the whisper of shoplifted tequila in his blood.

"Give me that. If he isn't using that, that doesn't make it yours," the deputy says, grabbing at Dan's extra blanket. Dan gives it up without complaint; unlike Aster, he's been here enough that he's given up fighting back against the deputies.

"Someone did ask me where in California it was." Aster listens with interest to Dan's reference to the border, and starts to ask, "Helping them with -" before he's cut off by the deputy.

The only clapback he can think of off the top of his head is that he already has a van that he'd never use to hurt anybody, and that isn't a good retort. He just growls at the deputy as he sticks his hands through the bars.

"You got no call not letting him keep it," he grumbles, not yet beaten down by imprisonment enough to keep his thoughts entirely to himself. "Nobody's paying you to make this more uncomfortable."

"This is a jail, not a soup kitchen. If either of you wanted a five star treatment maybe you wouldn't be molesting kids." The deputy rings the jail bars a third time, and Dan retreats back to his cot, one layer colder, chewing on his knuckle.

The deputy walks over to Aster's cell. "You're in here for what, a twenty-four hour hold for assault? Keep talking back and I'll ask the judge to set your bail so high you'll be here waiting for trial for a year."

Aster holds back the impulse to fire back that he can afford his own dang bail no matter how high, because inheriting a property even as prosperous as the Warren estate has had a bunch of legal fees and taxes he wouldn't have been able to navigate if their lawyer hadn't survived the winter, but his entire spirit rages at being told to do anything by this attack dog who's already bought into the worst possible interpretation of anything he's ever said and done. "Nobody here's done that," he does protest, even though he doesn't know for sure Dan hasn't. It just feels too true to keep inside, when he knows it's true of himself.

"His RAP sheet says otherwise, and don't think we don't see what you're up to with a "teaching school" on that farm of yours. Anyway, shut up, the two of you, the next guard will drop by in a few hours. Don't fuck up the cells."

The deputy leaves, slamming the door as he does, which makes Dan flinch. Dan feels like he's been jumping and startling and flinching over anything and everything ever since the police took his parents from him all those years ago. He feels like there's a cord inside his body that got wound tight that day and has never loosened.

"My RAP sheet don't got no child abuse convictions." Dan sighs, not sure if this has set him back in Aster's good graces when he feels like they've so tentatively started to consider each other's perspective. "They didn't have no evidence because it didn't happen and I refused to plead guilty to something I didn't do."

"This town's going to lose its 4-H without one," Aster shoots back, as the deputy leaves. He rolls his eyes, growls, observes Dan's flinching, wishes he didn't feel so impulsively bad for Dan every time he looks sad, expresses discomfort, appears to have been kicked and hurt before.

"Yeah, well. It doesn't look good," Aster points out. Dan has to know that. "Doesn't sound good by any stretch."

And nobody else in town is going to do enough to prevent this man from dying of exposure in winter, or give enough to get him out of town before it, but every moment Aster spends extending a mote of support or kindness to an alleged child abuser gives this whole town more fuel to pour on the pyre of his reputation. It's not fair. Here he is, trying to solve all the problems the town just wants to ignore until they become unsolvable, and all he gets for his trouble is accusations of being the worst person in town.

Furious and humiliated, he paces his cell and resists the urge to flip his cot, rattle his bars, fuck up the cell in a futile display of the only power being locked up has left him with.

"I know. Trust me, I know." He hopes Aster will still give him the benefit of the doubt when they meet outside these cells and he comes to clean his clothing. "Anyway. I was doing water work by the border, you know, leaving food and supplies caches along migration routes to help folks make the journey. Met a lot of folks who didn't speak English."

He lays on his side so he can look at Aster while they keep conversing. He's heard the whispers about Aster, and unlike Aster he's taken every nasty speculation people have made with a huge grain of salt. The people here were far too quick to believe the worst about him without checking; he doesn't want to make the same mistake they're making.

"I believe you just want to help folks out." Dan hopes it doesn't sound like he's offering Aster some goodwill in the mercenary hopes that he'll get some back in turn. "Ain't your fault the people here are...like this."

Aster's quiet as he reckons with how much the whispers about him echo the worst-interpretation-possible words spoken aloud about Dan in their community, how someone who's leaving food and supply caches for migrants doesn't align a lot with a child abuser; how nevertheless, people don't just take children away from their families for good reasons, usually, and the reasons Dan has can't be spoken in a police station.

When he looks at it, he doesn't want it to be true. He doesn't want Dan's situation, the way he lives his life, to be hopeless. He feels like so many people in this town do want other people's situations to be hopeless. They want someone else to be failing in a way that they never will fail, so dramatically that anything they do looks like success in comparison.

He wants none of them to fail, and everyone seems to receive that with suspicion. Like he can only be lying about every way he wants everyone to believe there's a future for all of them.

"Yeah," he says, at Dan's insistence that he knows. He believes. "Yeah. Ain't yours either."

He takes a deep breath, sits on his cot, shrugs out of his heavily embroidered green flannel and hands it over to Dan.

"Keep that hidden under the blanket," he says. "Tell me about the border work."

"You know, everyone I meet, I can find something I like about them. Even the worst folks I met - and I done met some real winners - there's something about them I like, like a great smile or a sense of humor or just this sort of earnestness...I can find that in anyone. But these folks make me work for it."

It's the meanest thing he's said about anyone in a while, and here he is saying it about the whole town. But the whole town has really calcified into some ugly smallmindedness. Dan sees the way they react to him and he knows, deep in his heart, that they'd rather he be a predator and they be correct than for no child to have ever been hurt and for them to not have someone to look down on.

"Thanks so much. I'm fucking freezing." He takes the flannel and takes a moment to look at the embroidery as he walks back to the cot. He raises his eyebrows and holds the flannel back out to Aster, palm under the fabric so a chain of roses and daisies on the cuff are easy to see. "I know this stitch. Where'd you get this?"

Edited 2024-08-25 02:45 (UTC)

It makes Aster laugh, that this feels like the meanest thing Dan can think to say.

"You could be unkinder about them, you know. They're not shy about saying what they think of you. You know what," he adds, thinking he might as well, "I can be ruder. They're all a bunch of drunk homebodies who can't think of anything more interesting to talk about than how they're better than everyone who's not in the room with them."

He says it loud enough that maybe a deputy in the next room over can hear him. So he's distracted when Dan points out the embroidery.

"Huh? I don't know. I've had it forever," he mutters. Embroidery's embroidery. "Honestly I don't wear much else."

His grey henley and khaki shorts look worn and washed enough to testify to that.

"I don't want to be unkind. What does that get me?" Dan doesn't seem to get much out of hearing the townsfolk insulted. It just makes him sad.

"I ain't never seen this stitch outside my family." He puts his arms through the flannel backwards, so it's a sort of Snuggie situation when he curls back up on the cot. "I always just assumed my dad invented it. Reckon he must have learned it from somewhere."

Not that Dan'll ever get to ask him. He groans and wraps his arms around himself, wishing that he were out already and could go grab some alcohol from his stash behind Auntie's and have a cigarette. It feels like his cravings are just interrupting every thought halfway through.

"Does it have to be unkind, if it's the truth?" Aster is so frustrated by the company he's got to keep here, how dull and unpleasant it is, and all he wants to do for a moment is feel like someone else understands it. "They don't have to be interesting, but by the dawn, they don't try."

He shrugs about the embroidery. "I don't know. Your dad must have traveled." He doesn't even know why he says that. It seems like the thing to say in the moment. "Is it doing the job, anyway?"

"You know," Dan says. "I can't read. There's a lot of interesting information that just fully ain't available to me without assistance. The idea of having access to all that and just thinking it ain't interesting is...painful to watch."

He doesn't feel like he needs to keep that a secret. He's been seen at a the library asking for help making cardboard signs often enough. He doesn't say that his dad didn't travel, never left California and Nevada, because if Aster doesn't remember where he got the flannel then there's no point in continuing to ask. He runs his fingertips over the embroidery, thinking that if he closes his eyes, it reminds him of being back home and feeling those same flowers under his fingertips around the wood-stove and upright piano.

"It's something. I'm grateful for it. I don't handle cold well." With the extra layer, at least he doesn't have goosebumps anymore. "I didn't intend to be here past April, but here I am."

Aster starts to say 'I know,' then his brain catches up with his mouth and he remembers there's no reason for him to have assumed Dan can't read. No reason at all, for him to automatically agree that it makes sense Dan can't. Or to agree that he expected Dan not to

"I didn't know," he says. "But you would be hard pressed to find many people who get lost in a good book here, so you're not missing much in terms of conversation."

Speaking of conversation, this is the best one he's had in months, but he's not going to admit that this soon, in a jail cell.

"Just don't let the cops see it. I'd rather them not take it." He doesn't want to part with his flannel in a way parting with, say, his shorts wouldn't be as painful. "Where would you go, if you could go now?"

Insane, how much he wants to think about every place other than here.

"What are you talking about? They read the good book all the time! Ain't their fault if they miss half the messages!" Dan says with a laugh, tossing the Bible onto the floor. He feels somehow certain that Aster won't be insulted. "I won't let them take the flannel. I may have to quickly cram it back into your cell if they come by."

He lets his eyes unfocus and tries to relax a little. "I don't know. Somewhere else, anywhere else. Probably back to one of them border towns. The government took my home away so I can't go back there and there ain't no one left anyway."

So that's something else he and Aster have in common, and that makes him sad enough that it doesn't merit saying out loud.

"You ever been to Costa Rica? It's beautiful. I only ever been once, but one of those beaches sounds like paradise right about now."

"Oh." Aster lets the idea that someone else has no one left to go home to float on the surface of his awareness, sink away, infuse his thoughts with sympathy that he doesn't want to pick apart in words. He suspects Dan doesn't want to either. "Yeah. Sorry."

He can barrel along, though, with Dan dangling the carrot of another place to talk about. "I lived in Costa Rica for two months," he's happy to say. "I went hunting down a strain of heritage maize, but I ended up at the beach for two weeks after someone gave me the best pineapple I've ever tasted in my life -"

He has a whole pack of anecdotes about chasing down rare and quality agriculture in Costa Rica, wandering the mountains hammock camping, bartering for space on a farmer's truck here and there between villages. It's a lot easier to roll through those old memories, enjoying those moments of trouble and excitement and discovery and beauty in the time before he had to put his dreams away and come home to take care of a town that hates him. "If I could be anywhere else, well, I reckon that'd be high on the list," he finishes, when he's run through every story he thinks is worth telling. "What about you, was that one time enough to make you want to go back?"

Dan attentively listens to every anecdote, eyes closed and smiling at the descriptions, chuckling at the funny exchanges, continuing to rub his fingers over the embroidery. What Aster's talking about is the kind of life Dan wanted when he was younger, what he tried to approximate with drifting and odd jobs. He loved doing as much of it as he could by himself, loved it all the more when Ellie was with him. Exploring new places, meeting new people, trying new things. He lets himself get lost in the fantasy that someday he may be able to do that again.

As he lays there with the flannel and Aster's lovely voice painting pictures of jungles and beaches, he thinks that jail's never comfortable, but this is as close as it gets.

"Absolutely it was. I was looking for a kid's parents to relay that he made it to Texas safely, you know, I'm good at that, good at talking to and finding folks, and on the way back I spent a few days with a fishing village. I even considered staying there. Now I wish I had." He exhales deep. "Don't take this personal, but I'm going to try and get some sleep while I still got a bed to do it on."

It's better than on concrete. When they kick him out at six, the shakes have already set in and he doesn't have much of a chance to say goodbye to Aster, and then they don't see each other for several days. Dan doesn't show back up at the farmer's market.

Instead, he waits until he knows Aster will be working on the farm, and he shows up with the morels he offered and Aster didn't accept.

"That offer for laundry still stand?"

"Someone ought to get some," Aster says, lying back on the cot and wishing he were anywhere else in the world but this town, and barring that, in his greenhouse. He listens to Dan's anecdotes about Costa Rica, and wishes Dan had managed to stay there too.

When he's out, he's too angry to do anything but run it out, and he doesn't look for Dan around town, though it's easy to check that Dan's still living where he says he was, outside the vent at Auntie's. Aster has been checking the weather probably more carefully than Dan has, but there isn't a freeze expected, and so there's no reason for him to hunt Dan down for those answers Dan said he'd give, or insist on that laundry opportunity Dan desperately needs.

Dan does finally turn up when he's digging sweet potatoes out of the field, checking his suspicion that the field will need a crop rotation sooner than later. There's dirt up his forearms and under his nails, the taste of it still on his tongue, but he has a few sweet potatoes tucked into his arm as he detects someone on his land before he sees Dan coming through the fields.

When Dan's downwind he's handsome enough that his blue eyes strike harder than the unwashed smell of homelessness. Aster wonders if that was how he got a teenager to leave her family to travel with him, and reminds himself that he's suspicious, even if he doesn't want Dan to be the first homeless casualty this town says "good riddance" to, as it spirals into poverty.

"I don't know, you still going to come clean on your story?" Aster tosses Dan a sweet potato, just to show there isn't any malice this time either.

"I am." Dan catches the potato easily despite the fact that he partook in some liquid courage on the way here, not because he's facing Aster's judgment but merely because he needs something to loosen the way his story with Ellie has gotten tight and private and ossified. He feels like he's taken everything about that situation and kept it so close to his heart that now he has to excavate it to get it back out.

He takes a moment to appreciate the farm, which is such a nicer space than a jail cell. He knows how much work it takes to care for this land, and he's surprised Aster manages it on his own. He remembers how when he was a kid, it was his parents and him and a half-dozen other children who learned to work independently before they were fully weaned, and their land still didn't look this good.

He didn't get a chance to appreciate the Warren property the last few times he was here. He was just desperate to sneak a shower and then take off as quickly as he could to avoid having that one comfort taken away. Now he realizes that even with Aster's trust held out only conditionally, he feels more comfortable here than he does anywhere in the town proper.

Maybe if Aster believes him, they can work this land together, be up to their elbows in dirt to nurture and care for little growing things. Dan realizes that he wants Aster to offer him that opportunity.

"I need you to know that this ain't easy for me to talk about, though. And what I tell you can't never get back to nobody." He puts his shopping bag of foraged mushrooms down. "It ain't because of me. It's because I don't know where she's at and I don't want to say nothing that might could ever be used to hurt her more than she already been hurt."

"Okay." Aster figures there's no harm in keeping the story to himself. Dan isn't in danger of finding this girl again, as far as he can tell, so there's not likely anything he can tell that is a present danger to the kid. Aster tilts his head towards the house. "I'll get you a change of clothes first. Go shower."

Inside, he walks through the cold, empty house quickly as he always does, like he's trying to look at as little of the house as possible. He drifts straight to the room of the cousin who was Dan's size, near as he can figure, without thinking about it too hard, and grabs jeans, shirts, sweaters, throwing them over his arm in layers so Dan has his pick and he doesn't have to go back into a dead loved one's room again for more belongings. Back down in the greenhouse, he puts the pile of clothing on a clean towel on a worktable, thinks about putting Dan's old clothes in the washing machine, and decides to leave that to Dan when he's clean and clothed again.

The greenhouse is still warm from sun. A hammock on a stand and a folding chair with an empty tea mug by a watercolor set and a half-finished painting, brushes still out and the palette dried from last night, indicate that this might, in fact, be where Aster lives more often than his house.

He pulls up another chair and hits boil on an electric kettle, and sighs as he realizes he needs to get another mug from inside the house if he's going to offer his guest any tea.

Dan knows he probably should rush his way through the shower, get to answering Aster's questions, but now that he isn't trying to just rinse off whatever filth he can and then bolting, he finds that it's hard not to take a moment to luxuriate in the water and the smell of the soap. He scrubs and scrapes and uses the water to draw swirls and smiley faces on patches of his arms and thighs that have gotten a layer of grime caked on. He washes his hair and digs nits and dirt out of his scalp, scours his facial hair with hot water and his fingernails for any trace of lice, picks lint and dried blood from his nailbeds. He feels like he's shedding a skin like a snake. He's surprised there isn't a hollowed-out, dirty husk at the shower drain when he's finished.

He was expecting maybe an oversized shirt to cover up in while his clothes are in the machine. He didn't realize he'd be getting his pick of some clothing that mostly all fits, and looks through it wondering who it belonged to. He tries to find any trace of the person who used to own this clothing, finding a hole from a skinned knee in the jeans, dirt stains on the cuffs of one of the sweaters, and thinks of someone who must have worked this land while Aster was in Asia and Costa Rica. He chooses some clothing that fits and sets the rest aside, folded back up neatly.

"Not to ask you for more generosity, but do you might could have a first aid kit?" he asks as he comes out to join Aster, wondering if Aster's going to see him or merely the absence of whomever owned these clothes. He holds a hand out; now that they're clean and the waterlogging has peeled away several scabs, the open sores from biting his hands are angry and pink and weeping, some looking like they're courting infection. When they're settled in, he takes a seat.

"I know what it sounds like, but I swear I wouldn't could never have done nothing to hurt her. She was on the run already when I met her. She was an eleven year old in foster care and- Ellie. I should could tell you her name. Eliora. She got taken away from her parents for something violent and then she started imitating that behavior in the home they put her in and she killed another little kid living in her foster home."

And rather than face her foster parents, rather than facing "justice", she ran, and she was lucky enough to run into someone who would never consider hurting her.

"I raised her after that. I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't would turn her over to the authorities, and she didn't have no one else looking out for her. That's what I meant when I said we didn't have many good options." Dan pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales long, slow and deep, trying to let the emotion slip out rather than choke him. "And I didn't want to tell no one why she was running, just in case- just in case they ever try to prove she did it. I'd rather they think the worst of me even if it's wrong than think the worst of her."

By the time Dan steps out of the blue tarp rigged as a shower curtain over the drain in the floor of the greenhouse, Aster's gotten the other mug of tea steeping and is sitting in the folding chair with his back to Dan, drinking his own, giving Dan privacy to dry off and dress in.

When Dan shows his raw knuckles, Aster's flooded with a mix of pity and bewilderment as he recognizes that the wounds are self-inflicted, that Dan gnaws his knuckles like an animal with anxiety grooming itself raw. He doesn't get how every single way Dan wears his indignities and his sadness and his wounds bypass his logic and go straight to his soft core of empathy.

He doesn't have to go inside for the first aid kit - he just grabs the one that's stashed with the garden tools on the workbench and opens it up, looking for the things Dan's going to need, and realizing that without help all those knuckles are going to be very awkward to bandage one handed. He doesn't offer the help before he gives it, just holds out his hand with a stern look, because if Dan's going to be using his supplies, the job might as well be done correctly.

"You're going to give yourself gangrene," he mutters, unrolling bandage to place over Dan's antiseptic-doused wounds. He frowns the whole time he's bandaging Dan's hands, thinking that no matter what, this interaction's going to go poorly for him - either Dan's going to confirm that he's a child predator and Aster will have to deal with the fallout of having given a child predator any kind of comfort, or Dan will somehow successfully turn his opinion of him around and then Aster will still have to deal with the community watching him give support to an alleged predator that only he knows isn't.

No matter what, this is a bad move for him, socially. No matter what, he just doesn't see the ethical high ground in letting anyone in the community, even an alleged predator, die of exposure or infection on the streets. No matter what, the community isn't going to agree with him that his intentions are prosocial, isn't going to make it easier for him to make this place better in the long run.

This place could still turn around. He's unwilling to believe otherwise. But the course correction is proving so hard, when he feels like the only one pulling on the wheel.

They settle in and Aster's relieved when Dan's story, in an unlikely twist, makes sense. And then he's annoyed that he's relieved to hear something so awful as the tale Dan's telling. One kid from a violent home murdering another and then running from the law, ending up in the unlikely hands of someone who wouldn't hurt her - why does he find it so easy to believe Dan wouldn't hurt a kid? Why does he find it so easy to believe that Dan would meet a kid who'd committed a murder and think he could give her a second chance that the authorities wouldn't, legally, be able to, that the family of the other kid wouldn't, emotionally, be able to?

He draws his hands across his face, heaving a big sigh.

"Well, I don't think the cops ought to hear that story either," he says, slowly. "It's gonna be impossible for you to ever be anything other than an alleged child abuser in this town." When that story is so unsharable. He pauses, before he launches into problem-solving, when he can solve this problem, but solving it is going to damage his reputation even more than it already is. "I'm sorry." It feels very insufficient, but what else can he say to that? "I believe you."

And that makes him having been no better than the rest of the town, who lean as eagerly into vilifying him as he leaned into vilifying Dan.

"Thank you." Dan wasn't expecting that Aster would insist on dressing Dan's wounds, but as he winces through the application of antiseptic and hydroseal and bandages, he thinks he should have. Aster seems to have his same ingrained impulse to ease hurt, an inability to merely tune it out as not his problem. For better or worse, some part of Aster's decided that Dan's his problem, if not to solve then at least to alleviate. "I been trying to keep it clean, but..."

It's hard when he doesn't have clean places to eat or sleep or bathe, when chewing his hands is the only thing he can do to ease stress when he's out of cigarettes and drugs and booze. It's hard when this town keeps giving him so many reasons to want to distract himself from getting lost in his thoughts, and at least the rhythm of pain and damage is a break from feeling so discouraged and lonely that it's like a physical weight pressing him down into the earth.

He doesn't think he wasn't expecting Aster to believe him, but somehow, when Aster says he does Dan all but sobs. For weeks and weeks, he's felt it was either dangerous or futile to tell his side of the story, and in part that's because he doesn't think anyone would believe him, and in another part because he doesn't think anyone would understand why he made the choices he did. It was only after getting to know Aster a little better than he realized there was anyone in this town who would understand why he would choose to shelter an unrelated, underage runaway murderer, why he would come to love her like a daughter, and why the world wouldn't believe anyone would do that.

"The authorities can't never know what I know about it. She'll be an adult soon. I don't know what that'll mean for her in the legal system, wherever she is now." Dan doesn't know if that means she'll be tried as an adult, doesn't know if they successfully tied the crime back to her, doesn't understand any of it except that he last saw her when he was getting arrested and that keeping her secrets is the only way he can still protect her. "I know ain't no rehabilitating my reputation here, but I'm stuck for now. Reckon we both are."

"Do you think there's a danger she'll hurt anyone else?" Aster asks. It could be that Ellie lays low after this, that she learned her lesson, that she disconnected herself from whatever she was learning in a house so violent that it'd lead her to murder another child, but deep down, sadly, he doubts it. Dan might be able to love and create safety for a kid that troubled. The rest of the world probably can't.

But that's not the problem before them. And it's a problem he can solve - maybe.

"Can you drive?" he asks, out of nowhere. "I can't."

But there's obviously a garage on this house. A big one, that a farming family of two dozen would obviously need, for a variety of transportational needs.

"I can't leave this town too long before Goluboy - I don't know, lights my house or my fields on fire, but I could - I need to get out of here, at least for a weekend. I'll get my lawyer to check up on the place for a few days, and we can probably be at the border tomorrow if you're well rested now. You could be back in Costa Rica before the weekend's out."

He's jealous. He's so jealous. He loves this farm like anyone who lives here couldn't help but do - but the way Goluboy has tied him to it as its only defender makes it feel like a chain around his ankle, and the thought of a long drive to Mexico and Costa Rica with someone he actually wants to talk to is enough to overcome his motion sickness.

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[cw: rape joke]

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