Page 34 of If All Else Sails
I do as Wyatt suggests.
The pigs, however, do not move.
They simply stand there. Stare. Make me wonder if we actuallyarein some kind of horror movie.
“Will your neighbor be upset if I run them over? Or would that mean we get fresh bacon?”
“I’m more concerned about the car and the damage they might do to the undercarriage.”
Wyatt is throwing me with his slips in and out of lucidity. He’s way chattier than normal, shifting between giggly goofiness and spouting random facts. In any case, I have at no point in my life given thought to the undercarriage of a car. In fact, this is basically a new vocab word for me.Undercarriage.For reasons I cannot explain, it seems like the most ridiculous thingto be discussing right now, and I hide a sharp bark of laughter with pretend coughing.
I continue to inch the Bronco forward, but the pigs remain in a formidable and bristly wall. The closer we get, the more disturbing this whole thing becomes.
“Do we wait them out? Lead them into the woods with a trail of fresh slop?”
Wyatt snorts at this. “I’m all out of fresh slop. You?”
“None on me.” I pause. “I don’t want to continue this battle of the wills with the oversize Wilburs forever. Or damage your preciousundercarriage. Can I go the other way on this road?”
Wyatt shakes his head. “It dead-ends at my neighbor’s house.”
“Of course it does.”
“I do have my practice gear in the back,” he says, as though this is some kind of answer to the pig problem.
“That’s...cool. I have a Target gift card I bought for a friend three years ago in my purse, but it won’t help us with the pigs.”
Wyatt gives me a long look. One that is trying to convey something he clearly seems to think I should have picked up on.
Finally, it clicks. “Oh. Like you’ve got the stick?”
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “Yes. I havethe stick. Which is an integral part of my hockey gear.”
“And you want me to...use it to scare the pigs?”
Wyatt raises a brow. Slowly. With attitude. “It’s strange Jacob always talked about your quick wit.”
“Mywitis just fine. If I’m not in top form, I’m going to blame the leftover heat exhaustion. You know, from being handcuffed in the back of a hot cop car.”
“Are you going to bring that up forever?”
“Until the day I die,” I say solemnly.
Wyatt leans toward me and, without thinking about it, Ishrink back against my door. The look he gives me would be enough to wither an entire farm’s crops. Especially since he’s been so goofy and sweet. Now I’m getting whiplash from the various versions of him.
With a grunt, he twists, rummaging around behind our seats. His shoulder brushes mine, even as I try to lean away. The heat from the open windows is suddenly oppressive, though not as intense as the heat ofhimbeing this close.
But then, Wyatt pulls a hockey stick from the back of the car, practically taking off half my face.
“Hey,” I protest. “That’s cross-checking.”
His expression remains unamused.
“High-sticking?” I am trying to dredge up hockey terms I learned from having to attend Jacob’s high school games. But he played lots of sports, not just hockey, and I think I know more about football.
“Roughing the driver?”
He shakes his head and shoves the stick my way, the end of it going right out my open window. “Here.”
