The Gray House

“The War with the Girls” means Jackal wheeling in shouting “It’s them! Again!” Everyone jumps up and then sits down and returns to whatever they’ve been doing. In the meantime a group of surly maidens storms the Coffeepot and occupies it for the next two hours, only to vacate it afterward in the same belligerent fashion. It’s not entirely clear why they call it “war,” and why the guys insist on hiding in the dorms and ceding the hallways to the girls, and then sulk that the hallways have been forcibly taken from them. I have a strong suspicion that this is yet another invention of those who don’t know how to amuse themselves. Like Lary and Jackal, who seem to require nonstop excitement of the scary variety.

The plasterers have scrubbed and smoothed the walls and moved to the first floor. The stepladders and the protective plastic remain, though. They say that the painters arrive tomorrow.

Logs struck their camp temporarily. Lary’s back in the dorm. Logs spend their days out in the yard now, because the new hallways creep them out, and they’re already out of habit of being inside a room.

“I’m out to hunt,” Tabaqui says, maneuvering his way out of the room in the morning. Every day the footboard of Mustang acquires one more weight, but the backpack is gaining bulk faster. Tabaqui clanks and rattles as he drives, like a hardware shop on wheels.

“He’s like the White Knight,” Noble says. “Tumbling down every couple of feet. It’s only a question of time before he hurts himself.”

“His luck seems to be holding so far,” Sphinx counters. “You’re not suggesting we take that backpack off him? That would be equal to at least two invasions of Jerichonies.”

“Of course not,” Noble says in a frightened voice. “Better to go on the bus than that.”

“What is that bus?” I ask Lary after breakfast. “You know, the one they keep talking about.”

He yawns widely, like a crocodile, and stares at me dumbly.

“What bus? There is no bus, what’s gotten into you? Where would they find it? It’s just people talking stuff. Someone’s joke. And now here you are spreading it around.”

“But you’re spreading it around too. You talk about it all the time.”

“Me?” He takes offense for some reason. “I never did. Why would I? I’ve got enough problems as it is.”

“You mean you don’t care. Whatever happens, you’re content.”

Lary darkens.

“Of course I am. I mean, why not. If they tell me ‘Here’s the bus, get in,’ I will.”

“Get in the imaginary bus?” I attempt to clarify.

“If that’s what they tell me, yeah.”