Bearman looked up at him. “I meant to ask you last night if you had a jacket. You’ll be needing one out here.”
“I left it in the café,” Billy replied. “You know, the one where I had the french fries and gravy.”
Bearman smiled at that. “Oh, that café.”
“I didn’t think we could go back for it.”
“Well, you were right about that.”
“What are you doing?” Billy pointed at the tin can Bearman was holding over the fire with a pair of pliers.
“I’m cooking ravioli. Over there’s tea. There’s cups in the backpack. Why don’t you pour us some.”
“We’re having canned ravioli for breakfast?” Billy made a face.
“Sorry, the waffle iron’s not working this morning.”
“That’s okay. I like ravioli. I’m just not used to having it in the morning.” Billy poured tea into two tin cups and handed one to Bearman. “What are we going to do today?”
“Well . . .” Bearman stuck a fork in the open tin can, pulled out a steaming piece of ravioli and carefully bit off a piece. “Whoa, hot!” he exclaimed. “I’d say they’re ready. Grab yourself a fork.”
Billy did as Bearman had suggested and pulled a ravioli chunk from the can. He blew on it for several seconds before placing the pasta in his mouth.
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” he admitted, then added with a grin, “way better than waffles or the other stuff normal people eat for breakfast.”
“Told ya. Now as for what we’re going to do today,” Bearman mumbled, his mouth carefully working around another of the ravioli squares, “I don’t know. You have any plans?”
“Not really. I’ve never run away before.”
“Me neither.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Bearman took a noisy sip of tea, “turns out that last night was my first night on the road too. Well, not exactly my first night. I’ve camped out by myself lots of nights before, but all the other times I was always going back. This time I’m not. I’m gone for good. Actually, I took off just before I met up with you.”
“You mean you ran away?”
“Took off. Left home. Ran away. Take your pick.”
“Geez . . .” Billy reached again for the ravioli can. “How come?”
“Well, now, how come?” Bearman repeated. “Good question. You see, my old man has a drinking problem. Big time. And when he’s been drinking, his favourite weapon . . .” Bearman undid the two top buttons on his shirt and pulled it back over his shoulder to reveal a long, curving scar that started just below the back of his neck and ran down below his shoulder. The wound looked recent. “. . . . is a chain from a chain saw.” His voice was flat and without emotion. “Uses it like a whip. He’s pretty good with it.”
Billy didn’t talk or eat for a long time. Bearman pulled his shirt back into place, refastened the buttons and dug into the ravioli can once more.
“Better eat,” he advised. “There’s not much left.”
“That’s okay. I’m not very hungry. You finish it.”
“Well, at least you’re an easy keeper.” Bearman reached for the last of the food.
“Did he . . . did he do that very often?”
“Often enough.”
Billy took a long drink of the hot tea, then studied the steam rising in misty tentacles from the cup.
“So . . . so what do you think we should do?” he asked. “I don’t mean today. I mean, for the next while.”
“Well, we’ll have to make this camp a lot more permanent. Maybe even come up with a bit of a tent. You’ll be glad to hear that. That way I figure we can last here maybe a month or six weeks . . . that is, if you’re planning to stay. You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to, you know.”
Billy looked around. The camp was pleasant enough in the daytime with the sun threading its way through the tall trees to create a patchwork pattern of light and shadow in the clearing. He could hear the wind up high and see the tops of the trees moving, but here on the ground, the shelter of the bush kept the wind from being much more than a whispering breeze.
“I think I’ll stay.” He nodded approvingly at the surroundings. “But won’t they look for us here?”
“I doubt it.” Bearman reached for the tea and refilled their cups. “This is one spot even my old man doesn’t know about. And he wouldn’t bother looking for me if he did. Now the cops are another matter. Especially after that little . . . scuffle in town last night. But I’m a better bushman than any of them. How about your parents? They gonna be looking for you?”
“Yeah, I think they’ll try to find me.”
“Don’t matter, they won’t, not out here.”
“What about food?” Billy asked. “And I don’t have any clothes except for what I’ve got on.”
“We’ll have to get some. I’ve got a little money for food, but that won’t get us far. We can trap some and shoot some.” Bearman slapped Billy lightly on the shoulder. “You’re gonna be livin’ off the land, Kid. I’ll make you a mountain man. Maybe they’ll call you Bearman Junior.”
“Or Bearman Two,” Billy grinned.
“Come on. Let’s get down to the creek and clean up. Then we can go get some supplies.”
“But we can’t go into town. The police . . . the cops . . . they might be looking for us.”
“Correct,” Bearman said, pouring the rest of the tea on the fire, “so we go to a different town. There’s a little place, Palliser, south of here. There’s no RCMP post there, so we should be able to get in and out without much trouble. There’s even one of those Goodwill stores there, so maybe we can scoop you a few clothes.”
“What about you?” Billy asked. “Maybe you could use some clothes too. That coat, it . . .”
It happened so fast that at first Billy wasn’t sure exactly what was happening. Bearman jumped to his feet and threw the pot down so hard the last drops of liquid splashed up and into the fire while the pot itself bounced noisily over the rocks. Billy started to laugh at what he thought was a joke or some kind of crazy acting out for fun.
He choked back the laugh when he saw Bearman’s flushed face and wild, out-of-control eyes. Billy had seen that look before — on his stepfather — and it was a look that brought a wave of fear that travelled through him like pain, hard and quick.
“What?” Bearman bit the word off. “Stinks? Is that it? You think my coat
