Fallout
After my usual morning patrols on the Thursday after the party, I checked back in at the station before lunch. The room was quiet except for the hum of the fans and the crackle of the park radio that Soraya had left unmanned for her lunch break. A cloudless day, almost too hot for August, my boots stuck a little against the mat just inside the door.
Dean looked up from his desk, an energy bar half-unwrapped in one hand.
“There’s something for you,” he said.
I set my gear behind the counter. “For me, like personally?”
“Letter. Dropped off just before Soraya left for lunch. Guy in a black Audi, tinted windows. Didn’t leave a name, just said it was for you.”
Dean nodded to the front counter.
Sitting there, right beside the hand sanitizer and this month’s trail closure notices, was an envelope.
Cream cardstock. Heavy. Formal.
Stamped in the top-left corner in silver foil:
Sloan, Pierce & Carr LLP
Family Law • Estate Strategy • Reputation Protection
Vancouver | West Vancouver | Richmond | South Surrey | Victoria | Kelowna
I stared at it and couldn’t move.
Dean raised an eyebrow. “Friends of yours?”
I gulped and stayed silent.
I picked up the envelope, turned it over. No name on the back. It wasn’t sealed. Just tucked closed, like someone expected it to be opened by more than one set of eyes. My name was written across the front in calligraphic script:
Mr. Charles Deyton
Not Charlie. Not Ranger Deyton. Charles.
My throat tightened.
I took it and stepped outside without a word.
The August sun hit me square in the eyes, too bright, too wide open. I walked around the side of the building and sat down at the picnic table. Somewhere beyond the parking lot, I could hear kids laughing near the canyon steps. The kind of normal sound that made everything else feel heavier.
I opened the letter.
August 13, 2025
Mr. Charles Deyton
Lynn Canyon Ranger Station
District of North Vancouver
Mr. Deyton,
Thank you again for your work this season. I’ve always believed some of the most important interventions happen far from courtrooms.
Your handling of the unfortunate incident near Twin Falls last month, and the young man in question, was, from what I’ve gathered, calm, precise, and appropriately quiet.
I find that rare.
Please note that I’ve made a donation in your name to both the Lynn Canyon Ecology Centre and the DNV Parks Donation Program. Consider it a civic gesture, and a personal one.
I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.
Warm regards,
Gerald Sloan, K.C.
Founding Partner
Sloan, Pierce & Carr LLP
The letter weighed even more now. Not because of the paper.
Because he knew.
Not just about Twin Falls. Not just about the jumpers, the rescue, the quiet professionalism I was supposed to show. He made it obvious he wasn’t talking about Chase; he was talking about Drew.
He knew the real reason I was hanging around with Drew. The truck rides. The stolen glances. The garage, and maybe even what happened on his leather couch.
He knew me. Not just my name, but my choices.
The donations weren’t thank-yous. They were markers. Like someone tapping a chess piece down and smiling politely.
I read the phrase again: calm, precise, and appropriately quiet.
It wasn’t a compliment.
It was a boundary. Drawn in monochrome laser printer toner.
He was telling me: I see you. I see what you’re trying to do. Let’s keep it… appropriate.
I folded the letter once, then again. Slid it back into the envelope, as if it might bite.
My mouth was even drier than before.
Drew hadn’t even texted this morning. Our weekend plans suddenly felt complicated. We had talked yesterday about spending Saturday at Ambleside. Now, I wasn’t even sure if I was supposed to go.
Sloan hadn’t told Phillip. That much was obvious. If he had, I wouldn’t be holding a letter; I’d be in a meeting, probably at the Municipal Hall.
But this… this was worse.
Because Sloan wasn’t stopping me.
He was watching me.
And waiting to see what I’d do next.
I looked around for Soraya and found her upstairs in the classroom we used as a breakroom, cross-legged in one of the plastic chairs that looked straight out of the UBC Student Union Building, eating sushi from a Bento box like half the province wasn’t on fire.
“Hey,” I said, standing just inside the doorway.
She looked up mid-chew, then pointed her chopsticks at the paper bag on the table. “You didn’t get miso. Again.”
“You’re welcome for lunch,” I said.
“Mm,” she said, mouth full. “Generous and predictable.”
I stepped further inside, let the silence stretch just long enough to make her look up again.
“What?”
“Sloan knows,” I said flatly.
That got her attention.
“Knows what?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“About Drew. About Twin Falls. About me.” I crossed the room and set the envelope down in front of her.
She looked at it. Heavy cardstock. The letterhead shone faintly in the bright LED lights.
Sloan, Pierce & Carr LLP.
She didn’t touch it.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How would he…?”
“You tell anyone?”
“No,” she said immediately. Then paused. “…No one important.”
“Who?”
She flinched like she’d already figured it out.
“I mentioned it to Amrit,” she said. “It wasn’t a big thing. I just casually mentioned that you were the one who was there when that jumper died a few weeks before the party.”
I ran a hand down my sweaty face.
“I didn’t name Drew,” she said, softer. “I swear.”
“You didn’t have to.” I tapped the envelope. “Somebody did the math.”
She picked it up now, finally. Read the address. My name was written out in full, Charles, like a summons. She looked back up at me.
“What does it say?” She asked.
“It says ‘calm, precise, and appropriately quiet.’ That’s not a compliment. That’s a boundary.” I said, opening it for her.
She read it. Slowly. Twice. Her face didn’t move much, but I could see it behind her eyes, the guilt hitting like a slow tide.
“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” she sniffed.
“You didn’t,” I said. “Not technically.”
“But?”
“But now I have to cancel Ambleside this Saturday.”
“CJ…..”
I held up a hand. “I can’t risk it. Not when Sloan’s sending messages. Not when he’s letting me know how easily he sees around corners.”
She nodded once, lips pressed tight.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, quieter now.
“I know.”
I turned to go, then paused. “Just… maybe keep anything about me and Drew to yourself from now on.”
She didn’t argue, and I didn’t wait for a third apology.
I took the stairs two at a time, envelope still in my hand, and walked straight out into the sun, like I could sweat the whole thing off before I had to text Drew and tell him we weren’t spending the Saturday together after all.
Sitting back in my truck, I thought I noticed a black Audi in the next row, so it was a full five minutes before I even pulled out my phone.
The sun was baking through the windshield, turning the cab into a sauna, but I didn’t roll the windows down. I just stared at the home screen like it was going to type the message for me.
Hey, about Saturday.
Before I could put my phone away, Drew’s name popped back up.
Drewby:
I bought new board shorts for the weekend.
He followed up with a photo, not of him, just the shorts on his bed. Ocean Pacific. Blue, orange, and white, the kind of loud pattern only a slender blonde teen like him could pull off without it looking like a safety vest.
I smiled. Tension gone. Mostly.
I called him because I needed to.
He answered on the first ring. “You saw the shorts?”
“I did. Bold choice.”
“Boldly appalling,” he said. “You’re lucky I didn’t go full flamingo print.”
“Actually…” I hesitated. “That’s why I was texting. About Saturday.”
“Wait,” he said, already catching the shift. “What’s up?”
“I might have to bail.”
“Ah.” Just that. Flat, but not hurt. Yet.
“Something came up. I might have to take a weekend shift at Deep Cove.”
"You sound like you had the choice not to," he said, too lightly. Like he was testing me.
I huffed. “I just don’t want to get into it right now. But it’s not you. Seriously.”
“Okay,” he said. “Rain check. I’ll wear the shorts somewhere else, less embarrassing.”
I paused. “Drew…..”
“It’s fine,” he replied, and this time it didn’t sound defensive. Just resigned. “I’ll see you soon, Charlie, right?”
“Soon.”
We hung up, and I sat there for a second, staring at my reflection in the rear-view mirror, wondering how long soon could stretch before it meant something else entirely.
By the time I got home, it was just before 4:00.
I tossed my uniform shirt over the back of the couch, washed my hands at the kitchen sink like it would scrub off the whole day. I was wired but useless, too tired to nap, too restless to sit still.
So I stayed in motion.
I walked a few blocks to Safeway and picked up groceries I didn’t need: trail mix, a Caesar salad kit, eggs, and the same overpriced organic peanut butter I kept pretending to like. Anything to fill the time between thinking about the letter and talking to Drew again.
Back at home, I put everything away too neatly, then ate the salad straight from the bowl standing at the counter. Opened my laptop, tried to get a head start on an email Dean had asked for, confirming my availability for the last two weeks of the season.
I stared at the cursor blinking in the subject line: Final August Schedule: CJ Deyton.
Didn’t type a word.
Eventually, I gave up and folded the laundry that had been sitting clean on my bed since Monday. Socks. T-shirts. The park fleece I hadn’t needed since the last stretch of July drizzle.
The whole apartment felt off. Too quiet. Like someone was watching me.
Around six, I cracked open a Gatorade and sat on the edge of my bed, checking my phone. A notification from Soraya, just a meme. Another from Drew’s private Instagram story. I didn’t open it immediately.
I told myself I’d call him after dinner. Then maybe shower. Then maybe sleep.
Then, at 9:47, the screen lit up again.
Conrad (Work):
You still awake?
I stared at the screen for a second. Technically yes.
ME:
What’s up?
The reply came fast.
Caught a group of SFU students drinking in the park. Everyone’s accounted for after close… except one.
RCMP are sweeping the west creek bank by the main parking lot, Nick is out by the east lot, but I could use an extra hand. Tried calling Dean, but his wife is on shift at RCH. You available?
I spat out my toothpaste, wiped my face, and stared at my reflection.
Was I available?
No.
I was cracked open and running on the fumes of a day that had already eaten more of me than a random Thursday should’ve.
But I said yes.
Because Charlie Deyton always says yes.
Thirty-five minutes later, I was back in uniform, rolling down my window to the RCMP Constable posted at the parking lot gate.
The lot was empty save for Conrad’s Volvo, a Jeep, and a Dodge Charger I didn’t recognize in the upper lot.
Conrad met me in front of the ranger station, his vest half-zipped and a radio clipped, his usual late-shift supervisor face still on, all angles and authority.
“There were six of them,” he said in that French Canadian accent I had never gotten used to. “Fourth-years. Said they came to celebrate finishing the summer semester. Brought a cooler and some vodka sodas. We found them by the east lot, loud and dumb. Five came up when Nick did a sweep. One didn’t.”
“Drunk?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said. “The last one’s name is Emilio. They say he went to take a piss and never came back. That was over an hour ago.”
“Nice.” I adjusted my headlamp. “Pretty late to be playing hide and seek.”
“I just want to get home before my cat makes me regret getting that new armchair,” Conrad sighed. “You up for it?”
I nodded, already swinging my pack onto my shoulder.
“Good. Nick has the truck over there and is gonna loop back, starting from the bottom of the Baden Powell. Let’s head up to Thirty Foot. NSR is trying to get a drone up from Bone Creek, but it’s mostly thermal guesswork unless he’s moving.”
The phrase hung there a second longer than either of us liked. ‘Unless he’s moving.’
I took point, flashlight beam cutting into the trail’s dense shadows. The air was cooler now, the kind of quiet that only happens after heat. No wind, no crickets. Just the crunch of boots and the occasional crackle of radio static.
“You tired?” Conrad asked after a while, like he knew it was the wrong time to care but couldn’t help it.
“Define tired.”
He didn’t ask me to elaborate.
We walked in silence until the darkness pressed in deep enough that it felt like a different world entirely.
I let the focus of the job take over. Terrain. Distance. Time. All the things I knew how to control.
Because what I couldn’t control, Sloan, the letter, and Drew’s silent resignation to not spending Saturday together, were waiting for me when this was over.
And right now, someone else’s recklessness was a better weight to carry than my own.
We’d just passed the first bend after the Suspension Bridge when the radio clicked.
“Delta Two, This is Ranger Six. Truck’s heading back down to the BP trailhead. If he loops south, I’ll catch him there.”
Conrad clicked back. “Copy that, Six, I’m with Three headed up to Thirty Foot.”
We kept moving. My boots snagged on a root, and I stumbled, catching myself just in time to avoid faceplanting in front of Conrad.
“Long day?” Conrad muttered, half a smirk behind the beam of his headlamp.
“Started long. Just kept going.”
Before he could reply, Conrad’s phone rang. I looked at the screen: North Shore Rescue. Conrad put it on speaker.
“NSR at Bone Creek here, drone is airborne. Thermal imaging active. We’re scanning starting at Rice Lake to the bottom of the Lower Reserve. Nothing so far. Elevation map’s not friendly here.”
Conrad acknowledged the volunteer and slowed near the entrance to the Thirty Foot Pool.
We stepped past the fence and walked toward the pool, the ground slick with runoff and decades of careless steps.
Then Conrad’s beam stopped.
Abandoned on a boulder: a sweatshirt. Gray. Twisted like it had been yanked off mid-run.
Next to it, a phone, face down, screen spiderwebbed. The kind of break you don’t get from a simple drop.
He crouched and picked it up, turning it over slowly in his gloved hand. The screen flickered once, then died.
“Dammit,” he muttered, pocketing the phone.
“Think he slipped?” I asked.
Conrad didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he stood up, scanning the edges of the dark water just ahead. Thirty Foot Pool was calm, slick black in the dark, and silent. The kind of still that made your breath sound too loud.
“We’re calling this in,” he said finally. “Marking the location. Rescue needs to get a diver out here, even if it’s just a precaution.”
I nodded. The flashlight in my hand suddenly felt too small.
Then Conrad added, “Keep walking the east ridge. Follow the creek down. If he panicked, he might’ve tried to bushwhack back to the parking lot.”
I gave one more look at the sweatshirt before continuing.
The ravine narrowed as I climbed past the rocks. Sap stuck to my gloves. Sweat ran down the back of my neck. I tried to stay sharp, to stay focused, but the echo of what could be waiting behind every tree branch started to wear on me.
Because finding someone this late?
It was a miracle.
Not finding someone?
That stayed with you longer.
And right now, I didn’t know which weight I was walking toward.
My radio buzzed again, sharper this time.
“Three, this is Delta Two. NSR just called back. Drone’s got a possible visual on an embankment just down from your position. Some heat signature, and, wait, definite movement. You’re close.”
“Copy that Delta Two,” I said, already adjusting my route.
The ridge sloped sharply, the way forward thinning to little more than a goat path between roots and loose stone. My headlamp picked up the glitter of quartz along the runoff and the occasional flash of moth wings. Every step was a gamble against gravity.
Then I heard it.
Not loud. Not panicked. Just the kind of strained breath you don’t forget once you’ve worked a few too many long weekends: pain held tight behind the teeth.
“Hello?” I called out, firm but even. “District Ranger”. I’m here to help.”
A rustle. Then a groan.
My beam landed on a figure hunched against a moss-covered boulder, half-sitting, half-sprawled in the underbrush. Filthy white t-shirt. One shoe missing. Dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“Emilio?”
He turned his head just enough to squint into the light. “Yeah,” he rasped. “You guys took your time.”
I exhaled through my nose. Relief, sharp and instant.
I crouched low beside him. “The drone found you about five minutes ago. You hurt?”
“My ankle’s messed,” he said, voice tight with pain. “Slipped. Heard a pop. Didn’t wanna move.”
I pulled my gloves tighter and did a quick visual scan. Swollen ankle, definitely. Some scrapes along his elbows. Dirt on his jeans. But no blood. No bone. No obvious head injury. Lucky didn’t even begin to cover it.
“I’m gonna radio this in,” I said. “We’ll get you out of here.”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned his head back against the rock and closed his eyes.
I radioed the good news. “Delta Two, I’ve located the subject. East bank, 200 meters south of Thirty Foot. Conscious. Possible fracture left ankle. No major bleeding. Requesting Fire Rescue to get him out of here.”
“Copy.” Conrad clicked back. “Sit tight. Nick’s headed back up here with lights. I’ll reroute with RCMP to your location. Good work.”
I signed off and lowered my pack. Pulled out a water bottle and handed it over.
Emilio took a sip. Winced. “Tastes like Dasani.”
“Better than creek water.”
I stayed with him while the minutes stretched. Checked his pulse. Kept him talking. Nothing deep, just enough to hear he was wrapping up his Business Degree and came out to party. He’d been trying to find a shortcut. Misjudged the grade. Classic. Dumb, but survivable. I didn’t judge. Not out loud.
By the time I heard Conrad’s voice again over the radio, an ambulance and fire truck were en route, and the worst was already behind us.
Though my body still hadn’t relaxed. Not fully.
Because this was what the job really was: showing up when it mattered. Even if your brain was fried. Even if your heart was somewhere else entirely.
Even if the person you wanted to see that weekend was still waiting for a rain check, you didn’t know how to cash in.
By the time Fire Rescue arrived, Emilio had stopped trying to pretend he wasn’t in pain.
Two firefighters in dark blue t-shirts and harnesses moved in with a rescue basket, one of them clapping me on the shoulder as they passed. I backed off to give them space, flashlight beam now just trailing shadows as they did their work.
“Hold still, guy,” one of them said. “We’ll get you out clean.”
Emilio grimaced as they stabilized his leg. “All this for an ankle?”
“Yeah,” the firefighter muttered. “You can thank North Shore Rescue for finding you; you’re lucky they just started nighttime drone ops.”
Conrad emerged from the ridge above us, sweat darkening the collar of his vest. He watched in silence as they lifted Emilio into the rescue basket and began the slow carry-out toward the Pipeline Bridge gate. Then he turned to me, expression unreadable in the dark.
“Not bad,” he said. “Kid’s dumb, but he’ll walk again.”
“Glad I didn’t come up for nothing,” I said, shifting my weight.
He grunted in something like agreement, then added, almost too casually, “You’re one of the best seasonals we’ve had in a while, CJ.” Then a pause. “Shame you won’t be doing it much longer.”
I blinked. Conrad was usually never that direct. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re graduating next spring,” he said. “Don’t usually see people come back after their degree, especially from UBC.”
“We’ll see what my options are then.” I shrugged.
“You’re not lifer material,” Conrad said as he clipped his radio back to his chest. “Still. Dean says trying to find someone like ‘Three' next summer is going to be tough.”
I flexed my still-gloved hands. Conrad was right about one thing: I didn’t need this job for my resume anymore.
But Conrad couldn't know how the canyon had become my compass over the past three summers, how the smell of damp cedar and the weight of my gear had started feeling less like a uniform and more like a second skin. Or how every trail marker now pointed two ways, toward the exit, and toward something I couldn't name but wasn't ready to leave behind.
We watched the firefighters carry Emilio off, his head resting against the straps, muttering something no one could hear over the gravel crunch.
Then the weekend dragged when it arrived.
I didn’t work on Saturday. I told myself I could’ve picked up a shift at Deep Cove if I’d wanted to. But the truth was, I stayed home. Cleaned out the fridge. Sorted socks. Sat on the edge of my bed for twenty minutes, trying to decide if folding laundry twice counted as a coping strategy.
I didn’t text Drew aside from a few memes on Instagram.
Not because I didn’t want to, but because Sloan had made it clear: he was watching. And staying quiet suddenly felt like the safest move on the board.
By Sunday afternoon, I started to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing, the yacht, the garage, the safe room, the kiss that rewired my lungs. Maybe that was Sloan’s real power: not threats, but silence. Letting you fill in the blanks.
I saw a text come in from Soraya, just a photo of her dog in sunglasses with the caption ‘You are missing prime North Shore content’. I replied with a thumbs up and didn’t add anything else.
Then came Tuesday.
I’d just gotten back from walking the Greenway after work and was scrolling without purpose when Drew’s name popped up.
Drewby:
So… PNE this Sunday?
One minute later:
Drewby:
Marianas Trench is playing that night. My dad got a pack of gate passes, concert tickets, plus ride passes from the office. You in?
Drewby:
Please say yes before I cave and go with Samir. He listens to NOFX on purpose.
My stomach flipped, not nerves, not guilt, just relief threaded with something lighter.
ME:
Only if you promise not to make me do the Glass House.
Drewby:
No promises. I need to see if you scream like an Unc.
I stared at the screen for a long second.
It didn’t fix anything. Sloan still knew. I was still pretending. But for the first time since Thursday, the static had cleared just enough for things to feel like they were getting back to normal.
On Sunday afternoon, I paid twenty bucks to park in an old Asian woman’s backyard three blocks off Renfrew, Vietnamese, maybe Filipino, didn’t matter. She waved me into her alley with a plastic lawn chair and a glare as if she’d already dealt with two full Honda Odysseys and a guy who tried to e-Transfer her.
“Thirty if you’re still here after 10,” she warned, and I nodded like I’d heard that threat every summer of my life.
I texted Drew:
Main gate. On Renfew by the Forum, don’t make me think I’m lost like downtown.
Drewby:
Got it. Just got off the 28 bus, pray for me, it’s a hike from here.
It wasn’t hot exactly, but the pavement still radiated the kind of heat that made cotton shirts feel like bad choices. I caught him just as I thought I had heard the Prize home ticket seller next to me repeat “Win a house, win a car!” for the 30th time.
Drew looked good, white tee under an unbuttoned floral shirt, shorts that were absolutely not the boardshorts from the photo, and Vans already a half shade grayer from walking along Hastings.
“Good, not late this time, Charlie,” he smirked.
I just shook my head as he handed me one of the tickets, and we passed through the turnstiles.
“Agrodome first,” he said as the smell of the food truck alley already hit my nostrils. “I need dogs doing ramp jumps.”
The SuperDogs crowd was already half seated when we found a free section. We slid into the seats near the back, just good enough to see the action.
A parade of border collies and one disproportionately jacked dachshund raced by below us to the Paul Brandt classic “My Heart Has a History.”
Drew leaned over. “Have you ever had a dog?”
I didn’t answer right away.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Scout. Golden mix. We had him until I was thirteen.”
“What happened?”
“Old age. We buried him out at my uncle’s place, just outside of Mission. Big rural lot. We camp out there on most summer long weekends.”
“That sounds… kind of perfect,” Drew said quietly
I glanced over, remembering the final schedule I submitted to Dean on Monday. “We’re going again for Labour Day Weekend. Just tents, a fire pit, and someone always brings a camper. It’s not fancy.”
“Do I look like I need fancy?”
“I was thinking in the back of my mind, maybe if you’re free, you might want to come,” I shrugged. It was a big ask, meeting my parents, camping with strangers, but I’d already met Phillip, so it didn’t feel unfair.
For half a beat, I braced myself.
Drew didn’t even flinch. “My dad’s going to Toronto on Thursday. Seeing some of his friends from UBC and Anna. So yeah, Mission sounds way better than babysitting the wine fridge and waiting for the cleaner.”
I nodded, half-hiding my smile of victory, and looked back at the dogs. The finale was chaos: a dueling obstacle course. Two handlers lined up with their dogs at opposite ends, spotlights cutting across the concrete floor. The music kicked harder, ‘Canadian Girls’ by Dean Brody and the dogs exploded out as they were let go like it was the Calgary Stampede.
They raced side by side through tunnels, over hurdles, around cones. The Border Collie slipped on the weave poles, and the whole crowd groaned like it was a missed penalty shot. The Jack Russell Terrier shot ahead and cleared the final leap, crossing the line with a huge cheer from the crowd, and the announcer shouted something about “paws-itively amazing talent.”
Drew stretched. “Okay, I need a bathroom before we start fair food damage.”
“Sure thing,” I said, watching him disappear into the crowd near the upper exit. I stayed behind, letting the flow of families and snack-carrying teens move past me. The Agrodome always smelled faintly of animal bedding and spilled Sprite, a weird mix of nostalgia and bleach.
That’s when I saw it.
Tucked just past the west concourse, near a half-dim vending area and a wall-mounted AED station, was a small booth. Plain table. Branded banner clipped to the front.
Official PNE Superdogs Sponsor: Sloan, Pierce & Carr LLP
The logo hit me in the chest like a second sunburn. Right there under the firm name were QR codes on laminated stands, labeled:
Free Estate Planning Resources
High Net-Worth Asset Protection
Family Transition Planning
There was no staff. No brochures. Just the banner, the QR codes, and a plastic bowl full of branded pens like they were giving away candy. The kind you’d find in a job fair or a private school open house.
No one else seemed to notice it. But I did. And it noticed me back.
I stepped a little closer, not too close, and scanned the edge of the booth, half expecting to see a camera tucked behind the signage. Nothing obvious.
Still. I suddenly felt hot again, like my shirt was sticking to my back for a new reason.
This wasn’t just a coincidence.
This was how Phillip got the tickets.
They probably came in a firm-wide pack: gate passes and coupons for staff and family. All perfectly normal. But now I was standing in front of a branded reminder that even here, with funnel cake smells and fake cows mooing on a loop somewhere, the firm was watching. Maybe not directly. But Sloan didn’t need to watch you himself to let you know he could.
I backed off just as Drew came around the corner, wiping his hands on the sides of his shorts like the sinks had been too aggressive.
“All good,” he said, not noticing my face. “Let’s find the mini donuts before the line hits religious experience levels.”
We cut across the main concourse, past a portable ATM with a handwritten “NO RECEIPTS” sign taped to the screen. The line for mini donuts was already doing a snake impersonation, so we detoured.
“Poutine?” Drew asked.
“Obviously,” I said. “You’re not allowed to leave without cheese curds in your bloodstream.”
We found the Poutinerie stand under a bright yellow tarp near the Agrodome. It had that heady smell of hot oil, pepper gravy, and economic regret. Drew ordered the “Trio Smash” like a man on a mission, pulled pork, fried onions, and a drizzle of something orange I refused to identify.
I played it safer with classic. Medium. Still nearly the size of my forearm.
We grabbed a spot at one of the high tables between food trucks, dodging a toddler with a light-up bubble wand and a guy trying to balance corn dogs like juggling pins.
Drew took one bite, groaned theatrically, and said through a mouthful, “This could kill me and I’d die grateful.”
“It’s part of the charm,” I said.
After that, we made our way to the barns, a quieter pocket behind the noise, where the air shifted from fryer oil to hay and animal funk. A couple of 4-H kids were brushing show goats. A sleepy cow blinked at us like we were the ones out of place.
Drew leaned on the half-wall beside the alpaca pen. “So… is this what you grew up with?”
I looked around at the branded feed displays, the too-clean sawdust, the kid trying to get a selfie with a sheep.
“Not even close,” I chuckled. “You might think Maple Ridge is all farms, but I grew up on a Cul-de-Sac just off 232nd St.”
We wandered a bit after that, letting the noise of the fair fade in and out as we moved between zones. I bought us slushies that melted in five minutes. Drew bought cotton candy and insisted it wasn’t going to make him thirsty.
By the time we hit Playland, the sun had dipped low enough that the lights started to matter. Neon hummed to life on the flume ride. The old Tilt-A-Whirl spun with that unmistakable metal-on-metal shriek.
We did three rides in a row. Drew screamed louder than anyone on the Sky Bender and tried to play it cool after the Coaster, though I caught him bracing his legs a little like he’d just landed a plane. I didn’t say anything, partly because I was laughing too hard, and partly because I didn’t want the night to change yet.
By the time we looped toward the Coliseum, the crowd was thickening, a soft tide of fans forming for the concert.
Drew glanced at his phone. “Doors at 7:30. You ready to sing along to a song you barely remember?”
“Only if you promise not to judge my rhythm.”
“Too late.” he teased.
We joined the slow-moving line at the side entrance, the last of the daylight catching the shimmer of the stage lights already warming up inside.
It didn’t feel like real life, not quite. It felt better.
Even with Sloan’s name still hanging somewhere, printed on a banner, tied to that QR code booth, I let myself stay in the moment.
By the second song, the lead singer, Josh Ramsay, had already peeled off his shirt.
The lights hit him in rhythmic flashes, sweat-slicked brown hair plastered to his forehead, arms out, showing off his tattoos like he was born to be backlit. His falsetto cut clean through the noise, note-perfect, even as he launched into some high-energy B-side only the superfans recognized.
The floor of the Coliseum shook like it was built on drum kicks. Giant LED panels glitched behind the band, blue and violet strobe lights dancing across the faces around us.
I remembered some of the songs, faint echoes from bus rides, junior high dances, or one of my high school friends’ ex-girlfriends who swore Fix Me was a spiritual text. But most of it? This was a millennial crowd. A little older than me, nostalgic for the hometown band.
Drew didn’t care. He was fully in it, yelling every word, bouncing lightly in place beside me, his hand brushing mine when the chorus hit hard enough.
By the fifth song, the lights dimmed just a little, and the opening riff of “Fallout” rang through the arena like it had its own gravity.
The crowd screamed.
Drew didn’t even look at me, he just launched into the chorus like he’d been waiting the whole night for this one:
“I know you're fine, but what do I doooo?”
His voice wasn’t perfect, cracking a little on the high notes, but it was loud. Confident. Like he meant it.
I didn’t sing. I just stood there, watching him lit by stage spill, and realized the word had changed shape in my head.
Fallout
You're the fallout
It wasn’t the potential heartbreak. Not end-of-summer distance. But all of it, Sloan’s letter, Phillip’s silence, the weekend I’d lied to Drew to keep him safe. I’d already invited him to the camping trip without knowing what it'd cost.
He kept singing, mouthing every line like it belonged to him, and I couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be to let this night matter too much. How easy it would be to fall into something I didn’t have the words to protect.
Still, when the last chorus hit, I didn’t stop him from grabbing my wrist to tug me closer, just an inch.
Not a kiss. Not a handhold. Just an anchor.
A reminder that no matter what Sloan saw, or what Phillip suspected, this part? This wasn’t pretend.
Not anymore.
The encore was loud, messy, and perfect. A final chorus of “Stutter” with half the arena on their feet, phones up, sweat and glitter clinging to the night like it didn’t want to end.
We waited until the house lights came up and the superfans surged toward the barricades for discarded guitar picks and setlists. Drew didn’t rush. Just stood there for a second, flushed and smiling, head tilted back like he was still catching the last vibrations in his chest.
When we finally filed out with the crowd, the air outside felt cool for the first time all day. Night had dropped clean and fast over Hastings, and the buzz of neon made the fairgrounds glow like something out of a dream we hadn’t earned.
I nudged his arm. “You want a ride home? I parked near Renfrew. At least the freeway is right there.”
He glanced at me, then shook his head once. “No.”
“No?” I replied.
“I wanna come back to your place.”
It wasn’t flirty or dramatic. Just… clear.
I didn’t question anything else, just nodded and followed him down the midway, past the last few stalls still barking about deep-fried Oreos and imitation JapaDogs.
We reached the truck just before ten. The old woman who’d taken my twenty was standing behind her patio door in a housecoat, arms folded like she’d been timing us.
I lifted a hand in apology.
She held up a single finger. “Six minutes,” she said. “You cut it close.”
I pulled out a five and handed it to Drew without breaking stride. “Tip her.”
He grinned and jogged up to the porch, slipped the bill through the crack, and gave a mock bow.
“Have a good night, Lola.”
She made a sound that might’ve been approval and closed the door.
We climbed into the truck. Windows down. Fingers brushed on the console. Neither of us said a word until we’d turned onto Broadway.
And even then, the silence felt earned. Full of the kind of anticipation you couldn’t name out loud just yet.
I turned onto my street and slowed as I neared my building. That’s when I saw it.
An Audi. Parked across from my apartment, dark windows, engine off. Clean. Too clean. It didn’t belong to any of my neighbors. Not the couple upstairs. Not the guy in 216 with the lime green Kia.
For half a second, my stomach dropped.
Then I shook it off. After staring at it for a second longer, I realized it was Dark Red, not Black.
I pulled into my usual spot and killed the engine. Beside me, Drew didn’t move. Just looked at the Audi, then at me.
“You okay, Charlie?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just... tired.”
He nodded once and opened his door. As we entered the lobby, I still felt the hairs on my neck standing up. But when I glanced back, the Audi hadn’t moved. No lights. No silhouette in the driver’s seat.
Paranoia. Nothing more.
Upstairs, I unlocked the apartment and let Drew in first. He dropped his bag with the 3-inch stuffed Spam plushie he won in the Midway, then toed off his shoes without saying anything.
I watched him a second too long. Like I was trying to memorize the feeling of him here again. In my space. Like it was normal.
Finally, I asked, “What are you going to tell your dad?”
Drew snorted softly, then looked over his shoulder.
“Tell him I got back just before midnight,” he said. “That’s all he needs to know.”
“And if he asks who you went to the PNE with?”
Drew gave a small shrug and flashed that same overconfident grin as when I first saw him at Twin Falls. “I’ll say I went with Maddy, we’re still technically friends.”
That earned a tired laugh from me, and I reached past him to flick on the entry light.
We didn’t talk about the fair. Or the concert. Or Sloan. Not yet.
I stepped into the kitchen, opened the fridge more out of habit than hunger, and came back with two Fuze Iced Teas. Drew was already in my room, socks off, lying back like he belonged there.
He looked up at me, eyes a little softer now, like the adrenaline of the concert had worn off and left only the afterglow.
“You want the cold one or the slightly colder one?” I asked, holding up both cans.
He reached for one without sitting up. “Dealer’s choice.”
I handed it over, but before he cracked it open, he set it down on the nightstand and tugged lightly at my wrist. Not hard, just enough to bring me down beside him.
Then he kissed me.
No warm-up. No question. Just lips on mine, confident and familiar. His hand slipped behind my neck, thumb brushing the base of my hairline. I kissed him back, and just like that, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full.
I leaned forward, pushing him gently back into the mattress, our mouths finding a rhythm we didn’t have to think about anymore. His fingers fumbled at the hem of my shirt, and I let him tug it up and off, flinging it somewhere toward the door.
When his hand slipped beneath the waistband of my jeans, I shivered, half from nerves, half from how completely I didn’t want to stop.
He hooked a finger in the elastic and paused.
“Old Navy, seriously?” he asked, teasing.
I smiled into his mouth. “Sorry, they’re not the Batman ones.”
He blinked, then grinned widely. “Wait, so where are they?”
“What?”
“The PSDs.” His voice was light but intent. “You wore them that day. At Uncle Gerry’s. Don’t think I forgot.”
I didn’t forget about the party; the PSDs were half buried under my regular underwear. I didn’t wear them today because I wasn’t sure where we would end up tonight, and the longer inseam was more confining. “They’re in the drawer.” I shrugged.
Drew didn’t say anything; he just got up and opened my dresser like he remembered where everything was, dug around for them, and pulled them out with a triumphant grin.
“You want me to put them on?” I asked, already gripping the sides of the Old Navy ones I was wearing.
“Nope,” Drew threw the PSDs on the bed beside me, unbuttoned his shirt, took off his undershirt, then shucked off his shorts to reveal his green, white, and red crocodile teeth Ethikas.
“What are you gonna do with them?” I asked, sitting back up.
He took the Batman PSDs back in his hand and pulled down my boxer briefs, wrapping my already hard dick in the stretchy material.
“This,” Drew said, as he stroked me through the underwear I had only worn once.
Drew's grip tightened around the base of my cock, his strokes growing more urgent as he pulled the PSDs up and down over my erection.
We’d done this before, used underwear as a teasing barrier, and every time it sent a jolt of pleasure through me that was somehow more intense than skin on skin. My hips began to rock in sync with his hand, my breathing growing ragged as I chased the sensation, the synthetic fabric of the boxers gliding against the sensitive skin of my erection.
He watched me intently, his eyes darkening with desire as I leaned back into the pillows, a silent plea for more. The sound of his hand working me filled the room, mingling with my quiet gasps, the tension building in a delicious crescendo that made me feel like I was floating just outside my own body.
Drew’s hand moved faster, the fabric of the PSDs now slick with my precum, and I could feel the climax building in the pit of my stomach, coiling tighter and tighter. With a guttural moan, I arched my back, and my release shot out, soaking the Batman boxer briefs and his hand.
He didn’t stop moving, though, milking every drop out of me, his eyes never leaving mine, until my body went slack and I was left panting, my chest heaving. Drew grinned, a smug look that told me he enjoyed the power he had over my body, and slowly pulled the boxers off and held them to his face to stick out his tongue over the crotch area, where my wad had made a mess of Batman’s blue cape.
“Mmmmm, you like that?” I moaned as I watched him lick my salty seed off the briefs.
“Oh yeah,” Drew breathed. “That was so hot,” He threw the dirty briefs to the floor and lay back down beside me.
I rolled over to face him and hooked my fingers into his Ethikas to pull them down. He helped as I got to his knees, lifting his legs so they came right off. With his Ethikas back in my hand, I did what he had just done to me, wrapped his dick in the material of his briefs. Only he had worn his Ethikas all day, and they were already damp with his sweat and scent.
I took a moment to appreciate the view of Drew’s cock, the way it pushed against the damp fabric of his Ethikas, the head flushed and leaking a trail of precum. It was mesmerizing, the way it bobbed with each beat of his pulse, begging to be touched. I leaned in, my hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, and began to stroke him with the same urgency he had shown me.
The fabric of his underwear was warm and damp from his arousal, and the scent of him filled my senses, starting to make me hard again. His eyes fell closed, and his breath hitched as I picked up the pace, watching the precum seep through the fabric, leaving a wet trail in its wake. I could feel the tension in his now naked body building, his thighs tensing and his toes curling with every stroke, his dick pulsing in my hand like a living thing demanding more.
My strokes grew more rapid, my hand wrapping tighter around Drew's cock, feeling the heat and the pulse of his blood beneath the fabric. His breaths turned to gasps, his hips began to jerk upwards in time with my hand, and I knew he was close. The fabric of his Ethikas grew wetter, sticking to his skin, as precum seeped through in a steady flow.
The room was filled with the sound of our ragged breaths and the faint sound of fabric on skin. Then, with a low growl, Drew spasmed, his hips bucking upwards. I watched as he came, a hot wetness spreading across the crotch of his underwear, the head of his cock peeking out briefly as he shot ropes of cum against his stomach and chest.
His body went taut, then relaxed in a boneless heap on the bed beside me, his chest rising and falling rapidly with the effort to catch his breath. He looked over at me, his eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, and a lazy smile spread across his face. "Damn, Charlie," he murmured. "That was... something else."
Afterward, we didn’t rush.
We lay tangled in the heat of it all, the soft whirr of the ceiling fan doing nothing to cool us down. Drew's head rested against my chest, fingers drawing small, absent circles just below my ribs like he was mapping out something only he could see.
Eventually, reality crept back in, his phone buzzed, but it wasn’t his dad.
Drew sat up first, stretching, his hair a mess and his cheeks still flushed. He glanced around, spotted his Ethikas somewhere halfway under a pillow, then looked back at me.
“Not putting those back on,” he muttered. “They’re wet.”
I smirked. “They are.”
He padded over to my dresser again, tugging it open without asking. “Gotta borrow yours for tonight.”
“You want performance or comfort?” I asked.
“Both.” Drew held up my favorite Navy Blue Manmade underwear I had just gotten at the start of summer and pulled them on. They hung a little loose on his hips, the waistband sitting lower than it was probably meant to. He adjusted them, looked down, then up at me.
“I feel like a kid trying on his older brother’s clothes.”
I stepped in behind him, looping my arms around his waist. “You look like mine.”
That shut him up.
We finished getting dressed slowly, like the air had thickened since the concert, since everything. Shirts, shoes, the same subtle glances that meant more than either of us wanted to admit out loud.
As we stepped out under the awning, the street before was quiet again, the hum of the city softened to background static.
The truck waited where we’d left it, and for a moment, I half-expected movement in the Audi I had spotted earlier.
But it wasn’t even the same car in that space.
We climbed in, and as I started the engine, Drew leaned his head against the window and exhaled slowly, content.
“Don’t speed,” he said, eyes half-closed. “I like this part.”
“What part?” I asked, glancing over.
“The part where we don’t have to say anything.”
So we didn’t.
I put the truck in gear, and we drove back toward the Second Narrows, quiet, side by side, letting the night hold the rest.
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