Looks like humility was finally starting to sink in.
"I love the quiet here," the kid rubbed his ear, still smeared with a streak of lime-green paint.
The entire time I'd been fixing up the place, Oz had been helping me. That restless little runt couldn't sit idle for even half an hour. So when it came time to paint, he'd insisted on picking the color for his own walls and joining in.
He wasn't exactly a natural at it. His brushstrokes were uneven, some patches darker than others. But then it hit me—it looked better this way. Like the kid was just starting his journey as an artist, and this was his first stab at impasto.
"I've noticed most folks around here are pretty meek," I said.
"Wrong," Oz kept scratching his paint-stained ear. "Wouldn't call 'em meek. Just… calm."
"I envy that," I plucked a dry maple leaf from the pile we were sitting on and dropped it into the lake, watching it drift away.
"Save your envy for Kurt," Oscar snorted.
"Don't bring him up."
I still hadn't let go of the idea of tracking that guy down to talk about the motorcycle—the one we needed to reclaim from those shady mechanics.
"In silence, you hear more," Oz said, eyes following the floating leaf. "We keep quiet so we don't miss what matters. No point wasting attention on the same noise looping over and over. And we always remember the golden rule."
"Which is?"
"Noise is contagious," Oz shrugged and sprawled across the dry leaf pile, staring at the sky. "It only takes one loud argument in a crowd before the dissonance infects everyone, turning cognitive."
I immediately remembered my bar fight (one of many) and felt uneasy. Trying to "drown" in loud crowds to avoid being alone with my thoughts in silence had always been my default.
"Do you know where that Vance lives? The one the illusionists mentioned?" It suddenly came to me.
"Yeah. Why?"
"Frank mentioned his wife left him for some Vance. We should pay them a visit. Maybe…" I reasoned.
"No way. Absolutely not. Nuh-uh," the kid jumped up, ruining the neat leaf pile.
"What's got you so worked up?" I asked, surprised. "Maybe she could help us find Frank and Glenn."
"Maybe you're right and the woman knows something," Oz shifted uncomfortably, choosing his words. "But Vance won't let you anywhere near her. He's explosive. And jealous."
"I'm not going there to propose marriage," I smirked.
"And Vance owns guns," Oscar reminded me. "Multiple ones. His ranch is huge too. Step foot on his property, and no one can protect you."
"You're actually scared," I observed, watching Oscar. "I'm not asking you to come. Just show me where it is."
"Your funeral," Oz muttered, staring at the lake for a long moment. "But remember – if you can't find common ground with Vance, I can't guarantee you'll walk away in one piece."
* * *
"Maybe we should've bought a bulletproof vest?" Oscar fretted nervously as we approached the ranch gates.
My foot sank into the damp earth with a careless step. A muddy puddle seeped through the clumps of clay and sand, mixing with the soil before splashing across the toe of my boot.
I lifted my foot with a grimace, producing a wet, sucking sound from the mire. A few dirty droplets flew off—one landing on the wooden sign nailed firmly to the ranch's handmade gates.
"Private Property. No Trespassing," the sign declared. Below it, someone had carved with a knife:
