He shook his head at no one and pushed across the road up the steep driveway. When he reached the truck he tried to dump the wheelbarrow sideways, but the right handle almost ripped off. So he stopped and unloaded the boulders one by one next to his old pickup. When he finished, he returned to the Black and retrieved the rest of the boulders, also dumping them near the pickup.

Sucking air and sweaty, he went into the shack and sat on a chair. He chugged water from a jug and ate saltine crackers and peanut butter. He didn’t bother to use a knife, instead sticking the flimsy saltines into the jar, breaking most of them as he tried to scoop. Then he licked the peanut butter from his fingers, feeling a rush of energy. Satisfied, he pulled out the mangy box from under the bottom bunk and rummaged through it. He took duct tape, rope, and twine. Then he hoisted the dusty rope on his shoulder, took a knife from the hutch, and walked back to his old trusty truck, the one his father had so proudly handed him the day he got his driver’s license. So long ago, fading taillights on a dark highway.

He rolled out a long section of twine and cut it with the knife. Matt then wrapped the twine around the rusty truck frame closest to the passenger’s-side door. This was repeated in four sections down the frame to the rear bumper, allowing multiple strands of twine to hang a few feet. He went back inside the shack and took one of the spotty blankets from Sucker’s Bunk. Then he cut the blanket in half and did the same with the middle bunk blanket. When he finished the alterations (as his mother would say) he brought them out into the day, laying them flat upon the grass.

A demented picnic, he thought.

Matt cut holes one foot inside each blanket corner and wrapped duct tape through the inside of each hole, reinforcing them. He dragged a blanket corner towards one of the twine sections and tied the dangling threads to each corner. The blanket looked like an upside down parachute. He repeated this for the rest of the frame, using three corners of a blanket in two twine sections. When he finished he stepped back and examined his handiwork. His truck looked like the world’s worst parade float, decorated by the insane and feeble.

Then he bent down and picked up one of the boulders, placing it carefully inside the blanket pouch near the rear bumper. The twine creaked and groaned, but held. He reached out and plucked the twine like a harp string and it made a sour note. Next he filled the back blanket pouch with boulders and it sagged, the twine ripping into the tape.