Brothers/Sisters

I lay off the gas pedal to let a brown Ford Taurus pass. “What?” I ask again. I don’t know how many times I’ve said that word today and I’m starting to get tired of this game.

“Why are we slowing down?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, that. I’m...” He takes a melodramatically deep breath. His voice changes, like he’s half-imitating and half-mocking someone, “An artificial intelligence designed to mimic human thought and behavior.”

“What?”

Ask sticks his hand back out the window. “You say that too much.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’re a robot?” For a moment, I thought the kid was serious. The people in the Taurus have stopped to take pictures, but they’re parked poorly and I have to maneuver around them.

“That’s not what I said.” Again, his fingers twirl absently in the wind.

“That’s exactly what you said.”

Ask looks at me, the smile replaced with something akin to a snot-nosed sneer. “I’m not a Roomba, asshole.”

“If you’re not going to be serious—” My eyes shift back to the road.

Something clicks. Three more: click, click, click—

And I don’t know what I expect to see when I look back at him, but something nails me in the cheekbone and then sails out the window.

I slam on the brakes. “What the fuck!”

Thank whatever deity or demon or—on the off chance I haven't been excommunicated—angel that’s got Garrett duty today, because I didn’t hit anything. Also, the road ahead and behind us is nearly bereft of traffic, which is a rare pleasure in tourist season.

“What did you throw at me?”

“I don’t know.” The smugness is back, the little shit. Ask lifts his left wrist, which seems to be lacking a hand. “What did I throw at you?”

I’m still not buying it.

He must see the incredulity on my face. “I can do it with my other hand if you won’t accept that. Or do you want a leg this time?”

I don't have time for this. Shaking my head, I ease my foot off the break and allow the Jeep to crawl forward, steering it toward the shoulder. Then I park and unlock the passenger door. “Go get your hand.”

“It could be half a mile back!”

“Then you should’ve thought about that before you threw it at me!”

“It got your attention, didn’t it?”

“Just get out and go find your goddamn hand.”

Ask doesn’t move.

“What?”

“What if I get hit by a car?”

“Then you won’t be my problem anymore.” I do see his point, albeit reluctantly. Heaving an exasperated sigh, I turn the Jeep around in a U-turn. “Tell me if you see it.”

I have to drive up and down the same godforsaken stretch of highway twice before Ask finally points (with his remaining hand) to a shrub by the side of the road. He has to dig a little, but after a few minutes we’re speeding back towards Red Lodge.

After a swell fifteen minutes of silence, Ask starts again with a “Hey, Garrett?”

I find something interesting on the horizon.

“Garrett?” A pause. “Mr. Sokoloff?”

“Don’t call me that. That’s weird.”

“Garrett...Garrett?”

“What?”

“Are you mad at me for throwing my hand at you?”

Honestly, I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation. “It was uncalled for.”

I expect an apology of some sort. Instead, Ask settles back in his seat and mutters something.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘whatever, dude.’”

I don’t want to laugh; I really don’t. But I snort in spite of myself and hope he doesn’t notice. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eight months.”

Although I can’t think of any other explanation for the hand-throwing stunt, I’m still not sure that I believe the Roomba crap, but I play along. “How old are you supposed to be?”

Ask shrugs and goes back to toying with the wind.

I stop three times during the trip, other than the hand-in-the-bush incident. The first time I stop at a gas station, he still doesn’t say anything when I offer to buy a snack or something. He seems to have found my sunglasses in the glove compartment, though.

The second time, he asks for a Red Bull.

“Why? Have you ever even had an energy drink?” I ask.

“No. But it’s what everyone drinks at UM.”

“They’re stressed broke college students and slightly less broke professors. Besides, there’s probably a reason they’ve never let you have one.”

That shuts him up. Ask lets out a huff and puts the sunglasses back on, the aviator lenses making him look like a bug. I stop one more time to get a full tank and get back in the Jeep to see that Ask is weirdly hunched over, glasses off, his forehead against the dash.

“What are you...hey! Give me that!” I snatch my phone from him and clean it on my shirt. “What was that all about?”

He straightens up. “I-I was bored. Who’s Car?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, Car texted you.” Sure enough, there’s a message from Carina. I ignore it for now; we’re a little over a half hour away, and at this point I really want to get home.

The third stop is uneventful, but I take my phone in with me to pay.

There’s a tad bit of traffic near Boyd for some odd reason (tourists), but it’s half past two, which means that I’ve made surprisingly good time.

Don’t get too impressed at my knowing the names of all the little towns; I just read the sign names as I pass. Usually, there’s nothing more than a country store or gas station, with every home in the town either obscured or nonexistent. Or maybe they’re all nonexistent and the signs are weird pranks played by country store owners. Maybe they want to feel powerful; the vastness of the Rockies can be a little overwhelming sometimes.

I pull into Red Lodge, but this time I’m turning off Broadway and going a short ways up the mountain (not to million dollar levels; don't get excited) to my uncle’s blue house, nestled between some pine trees and a rickety wooden fence. The thing was built in the 1920’s, but it’s been renovated more than a few times since.

I pull up to the driveway, around the apple tree out front. “We’re here.”

Arms folded like the little tyrant he is, Ask all but kicks open the Jeep’s door and stalks toward the house. I turn the key, and it’s only then that I actually look up at the house. Someone’s standing in front of the door.

“Car!” I shout as I struggle to unbuckle my seatbelt and practically fall out trying to get to her.

She’s got her bobbed black hair tied back and she’s leaning against one of the wood pillars by the stairs, a white paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other. When I say her name, she looks up and shouts back, “Car? Where?”

Carina glances from me to Ask and back again as I say, “God, am I glad to see you.”

“Eventful day? Who’s this?”

My attention shifts back to Ask. “Oh. A cousin.”

“We’re not related,” Ask says.

“Oh...kay.” She doesn’t prod.

“How long have you been waiting?” I ask, suddenly feeling bad for ignoring her message.

“Not long. Just got here. I texted you earlier to tell you I got this.” Carina holds out the paper bag, and I see that it’s got my name on it. I know instantly what it is and want to hug her, but I know she'll cringe away.

I take it, briefly wondering how she could get my prescription. “How…”

Carina elbows me. “Pharmacist parents, remember?” Right. And, from all my visits there, they know me pretty well.

It’s been a long day.

Wedging the syringe- and (more importantly) vial-filled paper bag under my armpit, I walk past the others and unlock the door for them. To Carina: “Did Dave not let you in?”

“I literally just got here.”

The door shuts behind us and we’re in a wood-panelled entryway. From there, it’s the kitchen, with its gaudy salmon-tiled walls that trickle down to meet the wood panelling about halfway down the wall. Dave’s there, standing at the yellowed and magnet-covered fridge with Spartacus at his heels.

He shuts the door when we file in. “Well, hello, there! How’s my honorary granddaughter?”

Carina smiles. “Just fine.”

“And what are you two—oh.” He’s just spotted Ask lurking in the entryway. The jolliness falters, but he manages to turn it back on to ask, “Who’s this, then?” when he damn well knows the answer.

Spartacus, a floppy-eared German Shepherd mutt, runs to the newcomer, her claws clicking against the laminate floorboards.

“This,” I say, “is your friend.”