“Let’s go, we're gonna be late.”

“I needed to get some water.”

Deliah looked over from the driver’s seat, trying to read him. She couldn’t. But perhaps she could see more than most.

“You bring a poncho?” she asked. “It’s supposed to rain.”

“Nah.”

“So you like to get wet, huh?”

Cage laughed. “I guess so.”

Deliah put the car in drive and they pulled away. “I saw you earlier,” she said, “from the stand. You weren’t avoiding us, were you?”

“What?” Cage looked at her and turned away before she could meet his eyes. “I just needed to get home. I was feeling pretty out of it.” He fidgeted in his seat. “You were in my dream last night, telling me I needed to find something called the square stone.”

“I sent you on a quest?”

“Yeah, ha, I guess so. It was pretty fucked up. I was stuck in this hole surrounded by spider webs and you were just staring at me, saying I needed to find the square stone like a zombie while I freaked the fuck out.” He looked over at her. “It was a weird one.”

She smiled and drove the scratched up economy vehicle over the ridge. As they descended into the neighboring valley, they could see over the sprawling farms, the sun shining down through tired clouds and falling across the tractors and verdant fields. It really was a beautiful place, Cage thought.

When they arrived at the stadium, people were filing into the stands from the parking lot. Cage and Deliah got out of the car; he tucked his t-shirt into his jeans. They got their cases from the backseat and made their way toward the chain-link fence bordering the field.

“Cage!” Marten Kemp half-jogged to meet him. “What’s up, buddy?” He looked over to Deliah. “Hey Deliah, fancy seeing you here.”

“Kemp,” she replied with a slight smile.

Marten turned to Cage and slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got something for you,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

Just then, a group of girls called to Deliah. “See you guys up there,” she said, running over to join them. Marten and Cage watched as she trotted off in her short denim shorts and running shoes.

“Alright man,” Marten said.

“Here,” said Cage, changing the subject. He handed the thermos to Marten. Marten unscrewed the top, took a sip, and exhaled with an exaggerated ahh.

“And for you,” Marten said in return, pulling a lozenge from a small tin in his pocket and offering it to Cage. Without hesitation, Cage popped it into his mouth.

“Ready to hit it?”

Marten smiled.

“Let’s go, maestro.”

The two made their way into the stadium, Marten joining the drumline and Cage taking his place halfway up the stands with the brass section. He looked down and saw Deliah chatting with some of the other trumpet players. The game kicked off and the band director called tunes from the bottom of the stands: blips of the fight song, classic rock themes, “Another One Bites the Dust.”

“What you got there?” Matthew asked, nodding at Cage’s thermos. Matthew played trombone. His older brother, Eric, played the trumpet and sat in the row in front of them. Only 27 minutes older than Matthee, Eric was a classic eldest sibling. Matthew took a drink.

“Orange juice,” he said. “Does a body good. But I hear it’s terrible for unplanned pregnancies amongst troubled teens.” He took another drink. “Hey Enrique, you wanna hit this? You look like you could use a little vitamin C, bro.”

Eric shook his head. “I’m straight.”

“Mm. Not me--bendy as can be.” Matthew took another pull and handed the thermos back to Cage. “Cage knows what I’m talking about.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.”

Just before halftime, Marten’s lozenge began having its way with Cage. Pink rain clouds rolled in over the orange sky, and they could see the rain coming down just outside the stadium. Cage was captivated by the pinks and oranges and blues, becoming more vivid and swirling together in a technicolor pastel; he was comforted by the warm, humid air. As the clouds moved closer to the stadium, the woodwind players started packing up their instruments. There was a strong gust, and it became cold, and a loud crack in the sky opened it and poured rain down on the stadium. The low brass went on playing their raucous tones, and the trumpets shrieked and growled, the drumline hammering out rhythms of increasing complexity, the woodwind players dancing in their ponchos in the stands below. The game was called, and those in attendance began piling out of the stands, running for cars hunched under umbrellas, but by the time the band was relieved, the clouds had passed and the smoldering evening sun was reemerging. Cage filed down stadium stairs with the rest of the brass section, Marten catching him on the way out.

“I’ll give you a ride,” he said.

“Sounds good.”

When Cage caught back up with Marten, he (Marten) was sitting in the driver’s seat. “Hop in, player,” he said. Cage got in and Marten cranked the ignition. They each took another drink and then pulled off onto the streets of the small cow town. After the rain, the asphalt was reflective and bright. “I can’t see shit,” said Marten. Without answering, Cage stared out the window at the sharp and defined colors of the passing town, German-style farmhouses, simple mailboxes lining the street. They crossed the farmlands, the fields sheen and brilliant, the sky’s pinks and oranges fading to a light blue with the setting sun. Cage took another drink.

When they arrived at Cage’s house, Marten parked the car and the two walked in together. His mother yelled down from upstairs.

“Marten’s here,” Cage called back.

“Hello boys,” she said, walking down the staircase. “How was the game?”

“It was fine.”

“Better than fine, ma’am. The band sounded great. And Cage played his butt off--even in the rain. Little prodigy you got there.”

She smiled. She knew Marten could be trouble, but it was hard not to like him. “I’m sure you all sounded great,” she said.

“We’re gonna head out back for a little bit and have a fire. Just wanted to change first.”

“Alright,” his mother replied. “If you need anything, I’ll be here. Nan is going to stop by for a bit.”

The boys went upstairs and shut the bedroom door behind them. Cage topped off the thermos in the closet and handed it to Marten to carry in his bag. He then grabbed two shirts, tossed one to Marten, and they went out back through the kitchen.

A few summers prior, some of the local teens had built a fire pit with rocks they found in the woods at the back edge of the garden. The setup was fitted with a simple lean-to for keeping logs dry, and while the ground was wet, Cage soon had a fire going, the wavering smoke rising into the starlit night. “You got any more of those mints?” he said.

“Here,” Marten replied, handing the small tin to Cage. “You can have them. I’ll get more from my cousin.”

Cage put the tin in his pocket. He took a drink and stared into the fire. The smoke was clear now, and the logs snapped and released embers into the sky with each pop and crack. His stomach burned and he felt the whipping flames inside his guts. “I’ve been having these fucked up dreams,” he said. “I’m either paralyzed or attacked by something and I wake up yelling and shit. It’s been happening a couple of times per week.”

“Jesus dude,” Marten said, nodding forward in his chair. “Anxiety much?” He tried to straighten up. “Maybe you need to dry out a little.”

Cage watched Marten rock forward, took a drink from the thermos. He stared into the glowing coals, flickering between shades of orange and black. The coals glowed like the eyes staring at him from the darkness, the eyes that had infected his mind, and roiled in his guts.

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