Page 35 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Kittens,” Mike repeats. He’s smiling a little when he meets Toby’s eyes, clouds chased away. Toby smiles back.

It isn’t anything big, no earth-shattering realization, but something in his brain slots into place, two synapses connecting, and—okay. Yeah. It isn’t just that Toby likes Mike—he cares. He actually cares about him.

That rather complicates things.

VII. Near Tulcàn, Ecuador

VII. Chapter One

F lying Economy was an informed decision. It allows them to enter Ecuador unobtrusively, just two of about twenty-five thousand Americans visiting the country on an annual basis.

What Toby didn’t account for was how little legroom Economy seats leave for passengers. Personally, he’s fine with it, but Mike’s knees are tucked up against the seat in front of him, and his customary shifting starts before the plane even lifts off. An aisle seat would have been better for him, and then a free seat between them so their elbows don’t keep brushing on the armrest between them.

As a general rule, Toby needs chemical assistance to get significant rest on a flight. With Mike leaning into him, changing position every ten seconds, sleep is so far out of reach it might have taken a trip to Mars. Even though Toby angles himself toward the window to make more room for Mike and his long legs, he can’t seem to get away.

To distract himself, he starts talking.

He can’t touch on anything of real importance—not with strangers all around, not with the noise of the plane forcing him to raise his voice—so he dives into how rice is an obvious obstacle to democracy. (Admittedly, his favorite part about the thesis is the provocative simplicity of taking a country’s cuisine and linking it to its political status.) Mike counters with Italians dining on pizza and pasta rather than rice, yet their democratic satisfaction has dropped by a lot in recent years. Rather than challenge Mike on picking Italy as an example, Toby steers them towards a debate of pizza versus pasta (they agree on pizza, but their views on appropriate toppings differ irrevocably), and from there it’s just a small step to arguing over the world’s best coffee. Mike insists it’s Kona Coffee from Hawaii, which supports Toby’s theory of Mike’s origin. When Toby declares himself torn between Blue Mountain from Jamaica and Café Britt from Costa Rica, Mike falls silent.

Again.

He dozes off shortly later, his left knee a firm weight against Toby’s. His head is tipped back against the seat, displaying the column of his neck, and if Toby were to reach out, he could run his fingers along the sharp cut of Mike’s jaw, down over his Adam’s apple, let them linger at the hollow of Mike’s throat, thumb resting on the pulse point.

Yeah, except Toby isn’t a creep. Straightening in his seat, he flexes his leg muscles to keep the blood circulation going, then tries to read for a while. When he notices that he’s been reading the same sentence three times in a row, he closes his book and leans back. The steady vibrations of the plane’s turbines resonate in his head, a deep hum that dampens his thoughts, calms them until they’re flowing along like a wide, lethargic river.

The next thing Toby knows, Mike nudges him awake.

Mike’s hand stays on Toby’s shoulder a beat longer than necessary, the warmth of his touch lingering even after Mike moves away with a soft-spoken, “Touching down in a couple of minutes.” Mike’s voice is slow, sleep-rough.

Toby nods, the motion as sluggish as his thoughts. Through the window, he watches Quito’s sprawling mass of buildings emerge through the clouds, gaining color as it draws closer. Mike is motionless beside him, inclined a little toward Toby for a better view.

It takes the jolt of landing to jerk Toby fully awake.

***

There are some jobs that clearly fall into Mike’s domain. Breaking open a locker is one of them.

Toby is casually, oh so casually, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and hips jutting out, pretending to be busy with his phone while keeping his eyes open for unwanted attention. Behind him, Mike is fiddling with the lock. It takes him all of ten seconds to get the door open and pull out the duffle bag that’s been dropped by a local contact. He checks the contents, then nods at Toby. “We’re good.”

“Hallelujah,” Toby says with all the cheer of a funeral DJ. “We can blow up some stuff.”

Well, at least they’ve got the ingredients. He shoulders Mike’s backpack and picks up his own suitcase. A car—local license plate, no rental sign—will be waiting in the parking lot, the key buried in the bag Mike has just slung over his shoulder. He seems cheerfully indifferent to the explosive potential of what he’s carrying. No surprise there, really.

The car turns out to be a cross-country pick-up truck, its dark green paint flaking in several places to reveal a layer of rust underneath—it’s fit for purpose. They stash their baggage on the back seat and start driving, windows open.

With Quito at an elevation of more than nine-thousand feet, the high-altitude air feels thin and cool on Toby’s face, chasing away any lingering tiredness. The enormous mountains surrounding them seem less impressive than they would if seen from sea level, but they curtail the city on both sides, forcing it into a lengthy shape that conforms to the valley’s expanse.

As the airport is close to a residential area, locating a supermarket is an easy feat. They pick up enough supplies to last them for a week in the wilderness—non-perishables, hidden under the tarpaulin that covers the truck bed—and leave Quito to follow the Pan-American Highway toward the Colombian border. Their GPS claims it will be a four-hour drive, but if Toby’s experience with Colombia translates to Ecuador, it could take them up to twice as long depending on factors such as road condition, the number of mountain passes, or a slow truck creeping along in front of them that can be hard to overtake on a narrow, winding road. Then again, Mike is not the kind of driver who will patiently wait for an opportunity.

Oh well. Toby didn’t choose this profession for its attractive retirement package. He will be picking the music, though.

***

The car swerves off the dirt road onto grass. Low, knotted bushes crunch under the wheels.

There’s a patch of penetrable forest up ahead, gnarled trees that bend under the weight of rich green moss climbing their trunks. Mike sends the van on a path straight towards it, and they veer in between trees, low-hanging vines slapping the windshield, to the sound of Dave Brubeck’s Unsquare Dance.

As soon as the car pulls to a halt, Toby throws his door open and clambers out, takes a deep breath. “You” —he turns around and points at Mike— “are a menace. A menace!”

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