Peripheral Visions: A Sip from the Pool of Civility

Peripheral Visions: They coalesce in the soft blur of darkest shadows and take shape in the corner of your eye. But you won't see them coming... until it's too late.

A Sip from the Pool of Civility

Joel heard the kind of ruckus in the village that could only mean one of two things: A fight had broken out, or a stranger had arrived at the gate.

He sighed, washed his hands, and turned to Madeline Peshlakai, whose badly cut hand he had just finished stitching up. "Madeline, you can go now. Go ask Priscilla if she has some aloe or some golden seal or something else to help fend off infection and promote healing. And come back to see me in ten days so I can take those stiches out. Meantime, keep watch for signs of infection, and if you see any, let me know."

"Thank you, doctor," she said.

"I'm just a medic," he told her, but she shook her head and smiled.

Just a medic, he mused to himself, heading out of the makeshift clinic and into the street to see what the fuss was about. A medic who stumbled on this village three years ago and made a home here... and who has almost come to belong.

The tiny town was called Townsend Freehold, though its residents had taken to simply calling it the village. It was located about forty miles from Socorro... what used to be Socorro. The one road that led here had been in rough shape even before the crash. Few stragglers passed by here, and when they did the villagers shouted warnings and sometimes chased them away. Wanderers wearing uniforms were regarded with special hostility; Joel knew something had happened in the past between the village and the Army, but he wasn't sure what. That had been before his posting to Socorro, and in the midst of increasing civil unrest and escalating military force against civilians under the last of America's governments, a cabal of theocrats who didn't seem to realize that their own dismantling of Constitutional protections and the rule of law would inevitably lead to their own downfall.

The villagers had responded differently to Joel. The villagers had taken him in despite the Army uniform he wore because of his Nez Perce heritage. The village was primarily Navajo, but included people from any number of other tribes - Akoma, Hopi, and people like himself who hailed from father away.

Joel was originally from Montana - one of the states that had been hit hardest by the crash. The state's population had tripled in the years just before everything fell apart; soft-living rich people had flooded the state, thinking it would be safer than other places as the United States lurched toward civil war and anarchy. They had brought their own problems with them, though, especially since many long-time locals resented what they saw as an invasion from other places.

Joel's brother lived in Great Falls. He had been planning to flee to Canada the last time he and Joel had spoken, less than two weeks before the crash. His brother had reminded Joel of the conversations they had had before the last election - literally, the last election Americans had been permitted, six years before. Joel's brother had predicted much of what had come to pass: Economic ruin, protests in the streets, civilians being slaughtered, leaders of the opposition disappearing along with thousands of people who expressed dissenting opinions.

" 'It takes time for democracies to fail,' " his brother quoted Joel as having said.

But it took very little time.

"And you're part of the problem, wearing that uniform, now that they're using the military against citizens. Or, what used to be called citizens, before they started calling us subjects," Joel's brother told him.

Joel had argued that there might be a period of upheaval, but order - and the Constitution - would soon be restored. "The military will endure. We have a chain of command, we have a sense of order and purpose, we have a set of ethics," Joel told his brother. "We're not the enemy. But we do have to balance the orders of our Commander in Chief with - "

"Commander in Chief?" his brother had interrupted. "You mean the self-declared dictator?"

Joel's faith in the integrity of the military had not wavered. But then came the day everything simply fell apart. Within hours the country's ruling elites had fled, the cities were in flames, and the military's most highly placed leaders were on jets for other countries.

Just like that, everything was different. Everything solid had crumbled; everything that should have been eternal had ended.

Early reports about the situation in other parts of the country made it sound like Montana had reverted to the wild west. All such reports had ceased as America's collapse rapidly proceeded, and Joel had no idea what was happening back home now. The country's infrastructure was in ruins - no electricity, scarcely any gasoline or oil, and drinkable water in short supply - and nothing was left of the chain of command. Joel had ventured into the desert to escape the chaos and violence that engulfed the town and the military police facilities. He had wandered for several weeks - or was it months? It was a period he hardly recalled now, though he knew terrible things had happened - and when the village welcomed him in, he felt no reason not to stay right where he was: In a pocket of relative normalcy, in a place that still felt civilized.

Nearing the village gate, Joel realized that the people were not simply in a state of excitement; they were angry. Quickening his pace, he arrived at the gate in time to see a man pulled through it into the village's confines. He was slight, blond, and looked scared. He hadn't been hurt - yet - but Joel feared that was next.

"What's going on here?" Joel asked, making his way to the front of the crowd. He saw that Ed Begaye - a former police officer who styled himself as the village sheriff - was holding the newcomer by the scruff of the neck. Troy Deschine held one of the newcomer's arms, and Roger Uintillie - a towering man who stood six and a half feet tall - pressed in from the other side, shouting into the newcomer's face.

"Guys!" Joel bellowed, trying to make himself heard. Begaye and Deschine looked at him, but Uintillie kept shouting - something about how the man was a killer.

"Roger," Joel called, approaching the trio of villagers and the newcomer. "Roger!"

Uintillie stopped shouting at the man and looked over at Joel.

"Who is he? What's he done?"

"He's ani'ᶖᶖhii," Uintillie said angrily. "A thief!"

"What did he steal?" Joel asked.

"Why don't you ask him?" Uintillie said, seemingly calmer now but shooting a hate-filled glance at the small blond man. He spat at the man's feet.

"He's a thief?" Joel asked.

"Or at least nakai," Begaye said - a wanderer or nomad. "How can we trust him? He's another raider come to steal from our village and make trouble for us."

"No, I'm not!" the blond man cried.

His starved, lean face was dirty, and his clothing was a mismatch of ragged odds and ends, but Joel knew the voice.

"Stenson?" he asked. "Willard Stenson?"

The blond man had been staring at Uintille with fear. Now he looked at Joel. "Shaughnessy?"

"What the hell, man? What's going on here?"

"I came up to the gate with my hands raised," Stenson said. "I asked for water. And this guy..." He nodded at Uintillie. "He opened the gate, then grabbed me and started screaming at me. And then all these other people came running up and started screaming, too."

"Because we know who you are," an older woman in the crowd called out.

"We remember you," someone else declared.

Joel looked at Begaye. "Do you know this guy?"

"No," Begaye said, "but plenty of others say they do. They know him from the water fight."

"The water fight?"

"Before the crash," Begaye said.

"It was a couple of years before the crash," Uintillie said. "This guy and a bunch of others from the Army were here."

"Yes, I know him from the Army," Joel said. "We were stationed together for a time."

"Yeah, well, before they sent you to Socorro, this guy and his pals were here roughing us up and threatening to arrest everyone, kill everyone, and burn the village," Uintillie said.

Joel looked at Stenson. "You want to explain?"

"They were blockading an area that surveyors were working in, and they were sabotaging the surveyors' equipment."

Now Joel understood. "The oil pipeline they wanted to put in through here? The protests? You were deployed here?"

"Yeah, and we..." Stenson took a breath and licked his dry lips. "We were trying to be respectful, but they were attacking us... throwing rocks and stuff..."

"We were defending our water!" Uintillie shouted, angry all over again.

"The same water you're here to take from us now," the older woman who had called out before put in.

"They said we were socialists," Uintillie said, his voice shaking with rage. "They said we were a risk to national security or some shit. They called us traitors!"

"But they were the ones betraying the earth and the water," the older woman cried.

The crowd had calmed with Joel's arrival, but now they were getting agitated again.

"Remember, people, the liars had everyone fooled!" Joel said, his voice loud. "Stenson here truly believed he was doing what was right."

"Right for his kind, maybe - not for us!" someone called.

Joel whirled toward the sound of the voice. "The crash was three years ago. There is no more 'his kind' and 'our kind.' There are just survivors. That's what we have to focus on."

"He's a criminal!" the woman cried. "A thief then, and a thief now! He wanted to steal our water... and here he is again, looking to take it from us."

Joel looked at Stenson. "You better say something in your own defense," he said.

Stenson stared at Joel desperately, then looked toward the woman. "I don't want to steal anything," he said, his voice thin but audible. "I just... I need water. I'm dying of thirst. I didn't think... back then, I didn't understand what you were trying to do."

"Trying? No, we did it!" Uintillie said, raising a clenched fist to cheers from the crowd. "They backed off, there was a big court case. Almost a hundred of us were taken hostage by your police and military, and your courts waged complete lawfare on us. They called us terrorists. They said we threatened soldiers. They tried to claim that we were plotting with people in Iran. It was all bullshit, and lucky for us the judge didn't buy it!"

"She had relatives by marriage in the area," the woman in the crowd added. "Otherwise, to her, as to all of your people, we would have been nothing but animals."

"But this animal and his friends, they were the ones doing the terrorizing," Uintillie declared, giving Stenson a shove. Stenson lost his footing, and Begaye and Deschine wrenched him back upright. Stenson cried out as Deschine twisted his arm.

"That's enough!" Joel ordered them. He knew he was pushing it; his status as the closest thing the village had to a doctor gave him influence, but he was still an outsider and he was in danger of being seen as siding with someone who had attacked the villagers in the past.

Joel sighed. "Look," he said, "we have talked about this in council meetings many times. We have all agreed... in principle, at least... that the world of the past is gone. The crimes of the past are gone with it. Don't hold Stenson here responsible for things that happened back then. When it was so easy, when water came from a faucet, people didn't understand how the world really is. And anyway, Stenson and his compatriots didn't succeed. You defended the village; you defended the water. Stenson and the whole world he came from are defeated. Those old wars are over, so let's talk about today. We have a visitor - a fellow survivor who has come to us for water. Why should we deny him?"

"He's a thief!" several voices cried out.

"I served with Stenson," Joel replied. "I know he's brave and principled. He's not a bad man. He can be an asset to the village."

"Him?!" Uintillie cried.

"Yes, him," Joel insisted, leaning into his argument.

"His people killed the world!"

"His people and our people are one now," Joel said. "Our task is to heal the world. We can't do that if we are fighting with each other."

"He will bring trouble," Uintillie said, shaking his head.

"Will he? Or is he just a man without a home, without a village, searching the desert for a place to belong to? Is he a thief and a troublemaker, or is just a man who's trying to survive?"

Uijtille, Begaye, and Deschine traded a look amongst themselves.

"Are you willing to vouch for him?" Begaye asked.

Joel looked at Stenson, hesitating. Speaking up on Stenson's behalf had been one thing; vouching for him would be a different matter. How well did he really know Stenson? Could he be trusted?

"He becomes one of us if you say so," Uintille said, as Begaye and Deschine nodded in agreement. "If not, he dies - because a thief, like a killer or a rapist, cannot be allowed to live."

"Don't let them kill me, Shaughnessy," Stenson said, his voice dry and ragged. "Come on, semper fi, brother."

That was a different branch of the military - or had been, when there was a military and a country for it to defend - but Joel nodded. "All right," he said, his words directed at the villagers but his eyes locked on Stenson's. "All right, I'll vouch for him. Let him go."

Begaye and Deschine turned Stenson loose and Uintillie gave him a shove that sent him stumbling in Joel's direction. Joel caught him by the shoulders and steadied him.

"You're one of us now," he told the former Army soldier. "Don't make me sorry I stood up for you."

*** *** ***

"These people are very proud to think of themselves as water defenders," Joel told Stenson as Stenson gulped from a cup. "Especially since drinkable water has become such a valuable commodity... and so rare." He nodded at the barrels that the water tenders looked after and over which a small cadre of armed guards kept vigil.

"I... I can see why," Stenson said, handing the cup back to Joel and giving him a pleading look.

"He wants more than a day's ration?" the water tender who had drawn the cup asked.

"You only give people a cup every day?" Stenson asked.

"You've drunk three," Joel told him. "And no, everyone gets a decent ration, but not all at once like this."

"I haven't had water for two days," Joel said. "And it's been so hot... so hot..."

"Give him one more, please," Joel said, handing the cup to the water tender.

The man filled the cup and handed it back. "It's not a good season to be wandering around out there," he said.

Stenson gulped at the water gratefully and then handed the empty cup back to Joel, who returned it to the water tender. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank you," Stenson echoed.

"You see? You're learning to be a civilized man again," Joel told him, leading him away from the water store and toward the living area.

Stenson forced a laugh.

"I'm not joking," Joel told him mildly. "Courtesy and respect are very important in this village, partly because American society got so rough and rude toward the end. The people here regard themselves as civilized and look at American society... the societies of the rest of the world, actually... as having degenerated past the point of being salvageable. It's hard to argue with them, given the way things ended."

"What's this?" Stenson asked, looking at the houses they were heading to.

"This is where we live."

"That's not a lot of houses," Stenson said. "How many people are in this village?"

"Two hundred and twenty," Joel told him. "To hundred and twenty-one, now that you're here."

"And they live in, what, a dozen houses?"

"No, about half the village lives in these houses. There are a few more scattered around, and some of them prefer to stay in pit structures near the wall."

"And how many people live in each house?"

"Around eight to twelve," Joel said.

"In those tiny houses?"

"They make it work," Joel said.

"So... how do you decide housing?"

"Mostly, people make that decisions themselves. The guys who stay in the pit structures feel that's where they can best serve by helping guard the village perimeter. Some of the boys live with them."

"And where are the women?"

"A lot of the women and children are in those houses. Some of the women live in the sheds by the gardens, and some of the men, as well."

"They live in sheds?"

"They've made the sheds comfortable, but yes."

"So, it's not families living in their own homes?" Stenson stopped walking toward the cluster of houses. A look of anger and disgust crossed his face. "And you're gonna put me in the equivalent of the women's dorm? You're telling me you're gonna longhouse me?"

"I don't even know what that means," Joel said, puzzled and anxious at the hostility in Stenson's voice.

"What I mean is, I have to live in a big group, overseen by, like, a house mother?"

"We have to make use of the housing we've got," Joel told him. "Don't you remember this village from when you were here before? The people here told me stories about how the Army guys torched half the homes in the village, most of them trailer houses. And I'm guessing no one saw any disciplinary action due to that."

"Things happened," Stenson said in a surly voice. "It was a time of war."

"It was not. It was fat cat oil guys versus a tiny village in the New Mexico desert, with the military being used in a way that should have been illegal. We both know how stories like that used to end."

"And now?" Stenson demanded. "Do we stand up for America and American values? Do we stand up for manhood? Or do we let ourselves get packed away in some kind of socialist nightmare lorded over by matriarchs?"

"Were you always like this, or did the sun bake your brains?" Joel asked, as they stepped onto the porch of a brown wood-sided house.

Stenson looked at the porch's floorboards and didn't answer.

Joel knocked at the door. A woman opened it.

"Barbara," Joel started.

"What the hell is this?" Stenson interrupted.

Joel looked at him. So did Barbara. Stenson stared at her with shock and loathing. "This is a man wearing women's clothing!" he exclaimed.

"I am not," Barbara told him. "I am a woman."

"Some tribes would call her a two-spirit person," Joel added.

"No, he's a..." Stenson seemed lost for words. He shook his head.

"Barbara organizes housing for this part of the village," Joel told him. "She's the one we go to if you want a place to sleep. Preferably a bed."

"We do have some available since it's been so warm," Barbara said.

"And share living space with that?" Stenson asked, staring at Barbara with a look of enraged disgust. "I'd rather go back out in the desert."

Joel took a handful of Stenson's filthy, ragged shirt in each fist and drew him up roughly. "All right, you listen good. We don't have the luxury of arguing about the stupid shit that brought America down. We do what we have to in order to get through each day. Everyone does their part. We let them do it. We don't try to tell them who they are or micro-manage their personal lives. We don't have time for that, and we don't have the energy. Barbara tells us she's a woman; okay, she would know who she is. It's not our job to tell her. We leave it at that."

"And you let the kids see this?"

"She takes care of the kids along with taking care of the houses. Some of the kids work for her, doing chores for the upkeep of the houses. And she helps run the school."

"He teaches the kids?" Stenson screeched.

"She does, yes. You gonna come in here, drink our water, and then try to tell us how to run our village? How well did that work before?"

Stenson stepped back, breaking free of Joel's grasp.

"I'll tell you something else," Joel said. "If a man wins the love of another man and wants to protect him, provide for him, live with him... or if two women join their lives together... we don't try to tell them they're wrong. We don't assume someone is good or bad based on the color of their skin. All of that is behind us now. You want to talk about freedom? That's what we have here: Freedom! It's not based on feeling big and exercising power over others, it's based on knowing you are not the center of the goddamned universe and showing a little goddamned respect to other people."

Stenson stared at the ground, radiating hatred as Joel spoke.

"You had better get your head straight," Joel told him.

"What would you people know about straight?" Stenson asked.

Barbara sighed. "I have room, all right, but I'm not sure I have a place for someone like him," she said apologetically. Looking at Stenson she added: "I am responsible for people's safety, you know."

*** *** ***

"Let me guess what you've been up to since the crash happened," Joel hissed at Stenson, marching him away from the cluster of houses. "You and some Army buddies formed your own little band and went around raiding, stealing, killing... until some of the people you targeted started killing you back."

Stenson struggled against Joel's grip.

"Or maybe your buddies drank some tainted water. A lot of the water in this region isn't drinkable anymore. You know that, right?"

"Let go of me," Stenson said plaintively.

"Well? Am I right? A guy like you couldn't have survived for three years on his own," Joel told him. "And you won't survive now unless you turn over a new leaf pretty goddamn quick."

"I can't believe you're lecturing me about - about anything, Stenson snarled. "What happened to you, man? I remember when we were in uniform together and you seemed okay."

"I am okay," Joel said. "But I also know the time for all that MAGA bullshit is behind us now. We rely on each other, we work together, we respect each other... or we don't live to see another goddamned day."

"Yeah, whatever," Stenson said.

"'Whatever' better not be your answer tomorrow," Joel told him, giving hm a shove toward a small building that looked like a goat shed. "Or else your stay with us will be a short one, and I will end it myself."

"What is this?" Stenson asked, looking the shed over.

"It's where you're sleeping tonight."

"I thought you said you all made the sheds comfortable."

"Nobody's using this one. You want comfort, you can fix it up yourself," Joel told him. He turned his back and walked off.

"Hey!" Stenson shouted after him. "What about food?"

"Dinner is at six," Joel answered. "Listen for the bell. And if you can't wear good clothes, at least try to remember what it was like to have manners."

*** *** ***

Stenson didn't partake at dinner, but he did surveil as the villagers gathered at a communal dining space and took their places at a number of long tables.

I won't eat at a goddamned long table, Stenson thought, and I won't live in a goddamned longhouse, either. He had only the vaguest notion of what an actual longhouse was, but he knew what the word had come to mean before the crash: A socialist system run by women that forced men to give up their natural roles as leaders and decision makers.

Stenson saw Barbara moving among the people who were serving dinner. He narrowed his eyes.

If that's what a man had gotta do to earn some respect in this place, then this town has gotta burn, he decided.

Taking note of where the food seemed to be coming from - a tidy blue building that must once have been a café or a restaurant - Stenson retreated to the goat shed to wait for dark. Late that night he stole forth and began making preparations.

First, a knapsack. Skulking around one of the communal houses he found an open window and crawled in. The house echoed with the sound of snoring as he crept toward the back door and the small mud room where, he reasoned, he might find something suitable. Sure enough, several backpacks were stacked in a corner; they looked like the sort that would be used for short day hikes. That was fine for now, Stenson decided. Slinging one onto his shoulder, he cautiously turned the know on the door leading outside. The door opened noiselessly. When his thumb encountered the button in the center of the knob, he realized that the door hadn't even been locked. He could simply have walked in, rather than having to crawl through a window.

Stupid commies, he thought. Anybody can come right in and help themselves. Let this be a less on to them.

His next stop was the blue building that served as a kitchen. It was only reasonable to think it would also be used as a pantry. That building, too, was unlocked; Stenson let himself in and rummaged, mostly by feel, through the cabinets, hoping to find a few tins of pre-crash food. There was none, but he managed to locate some dried meat and some soft bread - cornbread, he realized, feeling its crumbly consistency. That made sense, given the cornfields the village maintained.

His knapsack had come with two plastic bottles - empty, but he would remedy that soon enough. Stenson made his way to the water supply, but hesitated when he saw that there were as many water tenders and armed guards on duty at this time of night as there had been during the day. He had no interest in getting shot at, though he wouldn't mind taking a gun or two off the guards if he could manage it. He decided to return after his next task - the villagers would be in a panic when they saw what he intended, and he thought the water tenders might abandon their posts.

Standing in the deep shadows alongside the house Joel had escorted him to - the house where that Barbara guy lived - Stenson chuckled to himself. Reaching into a pocket, he brought out a match box. He only had a few matches left, but using one or two to set the house on fire would be worth it. May the flames be a beacon to any real, true Americans still ranging around out in the desert. May this burning hell house be a signal for patriots to come lay waste to this place!

But that didn't happen. Instead, a flashlight shone abruptly in his eyes, and a familiar voice - Uintillie's - growled, "Better blow that out before somebody gets burned."

Stenson blinked into the light, then turned and bolted He had barely taken two steps before a he saw a white flash. It wasn't a flashlight this time; it was a fist had catching him square on the nose.

Stenson sprawled on his back. Staring up at a dark figure above him, he heard another voice: Joel's.

"You've done it now, you stupid son of a bitch," Joel told him.

*** *** ***

Barbara was on the tribunal that tried Stenson.

Of course, Stenson thought.

"Stealing from us - just as we knew you would," she said, addressing Stenson but intending her words for the villagers who had gathered to watch. "Attempting to set fire to our houses, just like you and your Army colleagues did before. Do you even want to try to justify these things to us?"

"I don't have to justify anything," Stenson growled. "You people are an offense to God, and an offense to American freedom. You wanted to turn me into another puppet of your sinful regime. I was resisting. That was my duty as a patriot."

"Your duty was to burn a house filled with sleeping children?" Barbara asked, her tone cold and skeptical.

"They would have seen the fire and come for you - the real Americans who are still out there," Stenson spat. "They would have defended God and freedom, just like I was doing."

"Or maybe you just felt that we didn't bow to your superiority," Barbara said. "So you wanted to teach us a lesson. Well, here's a lesson for you: When people want to live in peace, let them." Barbara turned away from him. Facing the villagers, she continued to address Stenson: "You people used to get away with murder - literally. A corrupt judicial system coddled you when you flooded the streets of peaceful towns and brought violence, chaos, and bloodshed for your own laughing fun. Well, the world has changed. When you pulled down the rule of law, you pulled it down around all our ears - yours as well everyone else's. What did you think would happen? You would be welcomed as heroes, set on thrones, and handed scepters to rule over everyone else? A mystical, magical kingdom of holy righteousness would grow up from the brambles?"

Stenson's mouth twisted into a silent snarl.

Barbara turned back to him. "Your time is over," she declared. "What counts now is who is strong - strong of character, not just of arm. Who can contribute, who can build... that's what matters now. Not who's a loudmouth, not who can spread the most lies on social media."

Barbara walked away from where Stenson sat on the bare ground, his wrists tied together. She nodded at Begaye as she joined the others on the tribunal, who stood in a semi-circle around the area where Stenson found himself on trial.

"Anyone want to speak on behalf of the accused?" Begaye asked the gathered villagers, his gaze resting pointedly on Joel.

Joel shook his head. "Accused, hell. He's guilty. We watched him steal property and food, then it looked like he would have stolen water, and finally he attempted to commit arson." Joel looked around. "I'm sorry, everyone. Those of you who said this man is a thief - you were right. Those you who said he was going to make trouble - you were right. I vouched for this man because I thought I knew him. But then I saw how he reacted when he saw that we live together in mutual respect for each other's dignity. If he ever was a decent person, life out there in the desert after the crash has taken that from him, and it's a shame. I had hoped he could become one of us... one of you. But even the little bit of civility he saw in his brief time among us was too much for him. He's become an animal, vicious and entitled, assuming he has a right to take from others for no reason other than his own arrogance. He's become what half of America became before it all fell apart."

Begaye addressed the crowd again: "Does anyone dispute the guilt of the accused? Does anyone offer mitigating testimony?"

No one spoke up this time.

Stenson looked around, angry and afraid. What were they going to do to him?

Begaye gestured at Barbara. "This man harmed all of us, but he was about to try to murder you and those in your care. Sentencing will be up to you."

Barbara glared at Stenson, who glared back.

"We don't have the luxury of coddling criminals the way we used to," she said. "There's only one possible punishment: Death."

The crowd responded with low hoots and rapid noises that sounded a little like whistles and a little like panting. Stenson realized this was their way of applauding.

"You're gonna kill me? You're the ones who should die!" he screamed. "Perverts! Commies!!"

"Shut him the hell up," Begaye said in a tired voice, and Uintillie stepped forward, a large cloth in his hand and a humorless smile on his face. Stenson's shouts and curses were muffled as the huge man stuffed the cloth into Stenson's mouth.

*** *** ***

Stenson wasn't sure why the villagers were waiting to execute him or how they intended to do it. He had been waiting for hours to see what his fate would be.

They had marched him to where he was now: A sort of watch post just outside the village walls. His feet were tied now, too, and a rope around his waist tethered him to a boulder. At least they had yanked the cloth our of his mouth, making it easier for him to breathe.

Stenson looked up at the wooden slat roof. The watch post was a crude structure, but it gave him shade from the sun.

Hours passed. Stenson sat with his back to the boulder, looking out at the bright midday desert, listening to the silence. He mulled the injustices visited on him until his mind became a blank.

Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching. Joel came into view and paused, looking into the watch post. He shook his head.

"What do you want?" Stenson asked. "You gonna lecture me about what a Nazi I am or something?"

"No need," Joel said. "You know it well enough yourself, or you wouldn't have put it into words like you just did."

"Listen," Stenson said. "I know I fucked up. I know I... I overreacted. You're right, I was running with some wild people. They raided, they killed..."

"And they must have gotten what was coming to them, or you wouldn't be alone now," Joel said. "Or did you manage to make enemies even out of them?"

Stenson clamped his jaw, unwilling to say anything about that.

"Look," Joel told him. "I'm sorry. Maybe with more time and patience you could have adapted... maybe not. But it's like Barbara said, we don't have the resources to try to rehabilitate people. This is not a 'three strikes' society. Here, you're part of the village only as long as the village trusts you, and they didn't trust you from the start. They took you in only because they trusted me. And they don't trust me anymore, either, because I insisted on them giving you a chance." He shrugged off his knapsack and held it up. "This is my home now. I've been exiled."

Stenson stared at him. "They're kicking you out?" He shook his head. "Doesn't that tell you everything you need to know about them? They're socialists. This proves it! Their whole thing comes down to 'My way or the highway.' That's not freedom."

"Neither is you trying to order other people's lives for them and then trying to punish them when they don't submit," Joel told him. "This is a community, Willard. Maybe you forgot what that is. Maybe you never really know. Weren't you in the Army because it was either that or prison? Isn't that what you said whenever we'd all start drinking?"

"I was... that was..." Stenson sighed. "Fuck it," he said. "Look, set me loose. Alone, we're dead. Together, we can survive."

Joel laughed. "Set you loose? Set you loose? Hell, no! I'll survive on my own, or not at all. Let's say I take you with me: I'm dead the first time I turn my back on you, you psycho."

"Then we can each go off on our own."

"And put the village in danger by letting you run around free? I don't think so. You're a cancer left over from the old world, Stenson. It's too bad you couldn't see the difference between socialism and society. It's too bad you didn't see how the social control you kept complaining about described your own brand of fascist theocracy. It's too bad..." Joel shook his head, running out of steam. "It's just too bad you couldn't be a man. You had to be a goddamn brute."

With that, Joel turned and walked away.

Stenson watched him recede across the desert, becoming a speck in the wavering distance before he disappeared.

Be here next week, when our glance lingers on the everyday sight of two young men sharing a park bench... only, one of the two friends isn't who he seems. He's got a twisty problem on his hands, one that perseverance won't solve – because he's finding out that, in his particular instance, "Practice Makes Pointless."