Lighthouse Burning (Harlan Winter) by Jordan Farmer

Author:Jordan Farmer [Farmer, Jordan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2023-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

Alice wheeled the Jeep across dirt backroads, down mountainside paths that looked too narrow and treacherous for even an ATV. Carson had witnessed all manner of chaos from his time on the road and his fair share of calamity since he’d been on the needle. After a certain point, fights, overdoses, and robberies were, if not expected, at least part of the lifestyle. He’d never imagined being an accessory to arson as a form of art criticism. Was that what he’d seen? He still wasn’t sure. All he knew was the girl had loved the mural once, and now that it was gone, she seemed reborn. Fortified in the way that only great loss hardens you. Meanwhile, Carson felt weak. He was scared, sick, and praying their eventual destination would have the cure she implied.

Alice stopped the Jeep at the end of the road. They walked through the woods until the path opened onto a large field. Under the canopy of a few twisted oaks sat a small cabin. Carson had expected something once quiet and cozy gone to ruin. Birds in the eaves and holes in the roof. Roaches and rats prowling the dark rooms. This was pristine, the lumber exterior treated with a dark stain that brought out all the wood’s luster. Small flower boxes framed the single front window, and the porch offered a hanging bench that rocked in a lazy sway from its suspended chains.

Too perfect, he thought. A witch’s candy cottage in a fairy tale.

“This is my friend’s place,” Alice said. Carson let himself be led up the path toward the cottage. Despite all he’d seen that night, following was easy. He fell into her stride, trusting, in that childlike way, that even after the bizarre revelations of the last hour, Alice would take him inside, tie off his arm, and slide the needle in gently. The fix was more important than anything else.

The living room was quaint—a small sitting area with rustic high-backed wicker chairs flanking a coffee table, where forgotten mugs created rings on the tabletop. Past this, Carson could see a kitchen area with an old woodstove and what he believed to be an icebox. He collapsed into one of the chairs and sat, hugging the guitar. Exhausted, he took deep breaths, pulling the scent of recent fire into his lungs. Alice walked into the kitchen and returned with a small pitcher of water. The water was lukewarm and tasted metallic. Alice straddled a ladder-back chair. She looked at him with a deep sadness, and Carson realized there were no drugs here. He took another drink.

“That’s good,” Alice said, her hand reaching out to tip the pitcher until the water rushed into his mouth. “You need to stay hydrated.”

Carson wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He swore he could still taste the ash and bubbling paint.

“I’m still sick,” Carson said.

Alice only nodded. A sad acknowledgment, as if she were ashamed for having expected better from him.

“What did you think of the sacrifice I made?” she asked.

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