Drone Command

She giggled. “You’re a funny kid.” She pulled on her coat and took the steaming cup of coffee Troy offered her. She sipped it. “Can I make you some breakfast or something, honey?”

With what? The fridge is empty, lady.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

The woman saw the clock on the wall. “Shit. I’m gonna be late. Can I give you a ride to school?”

Troy saw the clock, too. If he left now with her, he’d only be late for gym, and the PE coaches didn’t give a shit. But this being nice stuff was getting on his nerves. These women always wanted to be nice to him. Like somehow being nice to him would get them closer to the old man. Stupid. And he didn’t want them around anyway.

“I’ve got it covered. But thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

She set the cup down on the counter and started to tell him something but thought better of it. Troy figured it was along the lines of “Tell your dad to call me,” but maybe she was smart enough to realize that would never happen. She pushed through the trailer door and headed out to her Jeep.

Troy felt stupid. He should’ve taken her up on her offer for a ride, but he didn’t want anything from her. Or anybody else, for that matter. People only cause you problems.

The Jeep engine coughed into life and the transmission clunked into first gear as Troy grabbed a couple of pieces of stale bread from the cupboard. He smeared two big gobs of peanut butter on them and washed them down with coffee before heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He’d shower later at the school gym. Hotter water.

He pulled on a heavy flannel shirt out of the laundry basket and sniffed it. Not too bad. Found his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. His tiny room was crammed with dog-eared paperbacks and a 1959 Collier’s encyclopedia set he bought at a garage sale for twenty dollars when he was a freshman. His twin bed was perfectly made with a single wool blanket and sheets so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. His dad was a lot of things, but a slob wasn’t one of them. He insisted that his son make his bed “the army way” every morning to start his day. “Bed’s made tight, the day goes right,” his dad always said.

His dad said a lot of shit that didn’t make sense.

Troy made his bed this way now because he actually liked it. It also avoided an unnecessary fight with the old man. There were plenty of necessary fights to go around. Like trying to get his dad to take his meds. “Don’t need ’em” was what he’d say if he was in a good mood. “Shut the fuck up about the goddamn meds” was the more common response. They were probably expired by now anyway. Troy had done his own research into the subject of PTSD at the small public library and managed to convince his dad last year to go to the VA for an evaluation. But his dad never followed up and never took his meds, so he kept cycling down, as deep as the next whiskey bottle would take him.

Troy laid his hand on the doorknob to open his father’s door but stopped. If his old man needed to sleep, better to let him sleep. He’d be home right after school and the two of them together would get more done if his dad was rested up than he would working by himself all day without Troy, tired and hungover. And Troy didn’t like the idea of his dad running those saws by himself, especially if he was having Mr. Jack Daniels over for lunch.

Troy shut the front door behind him and began the long trek to school. With any luck, he’d hitch a ride once he got off the dirt track onto the main road. His feet were already sore, cramped inside the too-small boots he got from Goodwill last week. He was probably an idiot for turning down that lady’s offer for a ride. His dad would’ve laughed at him, but he had his own rules to live by.

NINETEEN

TETON COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL

JACKSON, WYOMING

APRIL 1991

Troy was more than an hour late by the time he arrived on campus, a collection of cinder-block boxes strung together by covered walkways, typical school architecture from the 1960s. Troy never found a ride to hitch and had to hike all the way in. His still-hungry stomach grumbled for more food that wasn’t going to be coming anytime soon. For two bucks he could get a deep-fried bean burrito and a chocolate milk, but he didn’t have two bucks, and he wasn’t a mooch.

He qualified for the school lunch program, but his father wouldn’t allow it. “Pearces don’t beg.”

Pearces also didn’t make their son’s lunch, either, Troy thought, as he crossed through the faculty parking lot. The third-period bell rang and he knew he was in trouble. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Felcher, a vice principal with a serious hard-on for misfits like Troy who had warned him just last week that his next tardy would get him expelled.