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“You know what my dad told me once?” Charlie said.
“Whoo boy, your dad.”
Charlie ignores the implication. “Dad said they used to ski up here, at the big domed-shaped mountain up 10.”
“Crazy,” Gwyn shakes her head. “Wonder what kind of death rates they posted. Didn’t they care about life?”
“’Course it was covered in snow then.”
“Jesus, can you imagine putting a kid through that?”
The tall man in the blue coat sets the cap down beside the other man, then walks to the bar. Charlie shrinks lower in her seat, her head against the wall. She looks at the last little puddle of blue in the bottom of Gwyn’s glass and thinks she would like to drink vodka, to feel that brave burn in her stomach.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Gwyn is saying. “You think you could ski.”
“Why not? Dad says there were hoards of ‘em up there every weekend. They can’t all have broken their legs.”
“But why would they want to risk it?”
“See, it all fits together.”
“What fits together?”
“That thing.”
“That thing?”
“You know.”
“No, no, no, no. You are not calling me a slave again.”
“You said I could insult you.”
“I lied.”
“But it fits.” The tall man nods at the bartender and turns to the back of the bar. Charlie gets a look at his face. He is handsome. “A good slave doesn’t take risks; he just works. Risk takers revolt.”
“I lied, Charlie. You cannot call me a slave.” Gwyn is already reaching for her wallet and unclipping her phone from the wall.
About Robert Woolridge
