Suicide Buddies

Sightless in Seattle

"Great," Haru said, sounding unsure.

I nodded. "We also have: The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, The Picture of Dorian Gray, some long cooking book, The Joy Luck Club, and Lord of the Flies." I shook my head. "Hey, I didn't know you were born in the fifties."

"Shut up. They're good books."

I continued. "We have: Camels, Lucky Strikes—"

"Don't list those."

"—two first aid kits, two toothbrushes, one toothpaste, one hairbrush—I better be the only one using that because we're not that close yet—stolen shampoos, two phones, a set of headphones, a bag of identification papers, and this great deal of a lighter."

Haru reached to snag it, but I turned out of his way. "That's basically part of my breakfast. Ahem, lastly, we got the socks on our feet, a duffel, two backpacks, a grocery bag, and your lunchbox. I'd say we're in pretty good shape."

Haru pointed at two boxes, a CD, and a rumpled card beneath my black jeans. "What about those?"

Ah, my foolish brain. Little bastard.

I blinked for a few moments. "Drugs," I said.

Haru stared at me. "The CD is drugs?"

"Oh. That. Uh. Porn."

"What."

"Hey, I'm a growing boy, it's only natural to be curious."

"I'm going to guess you don't want me to know." He handed it to me, giving it a pinched look.

I shrugged, tossing it back into my duffel. "You could watch it and see if I'm lying."

"I'm good." He eyed the envelopes warily.

I grabbed them, tossing them at him. "Open them, we'll need the extra."

"What are these?" he asked, pulling out the random clippings.

"Coupons, obviously," I said. "They expire in a few months though, so might as well use them now."

"When are we going to need a free can of corn?"

"Everyone knows corn is a superior vegetable, for starters, and also, we're in no position to trash anything free." I lifted a coupon for half-off JET-PUFFED marshmallows. "You like sweets, right?"

He scoffed, taking the coupon to slip it back into the envelope. I took the opportunity of his averted gaze to toss the rumpled card into my duffel.

"And these boxes?" he asked.

"Later. Inventory is more important." I clasped my hands together. "First order of business is definitely laundry."

"Where do we find that?"

"It's Washington, not Alaska. You never hit up a coin laundry?"

Haru shook his head. I clicked my tongue, ruffling his hair.

"Grab your clothes, kid," I said, gathering my own. "You haven't experienced true life if you haven't been to a coin laundry."

"Older than you," he snapped, and grabbed his clothes.

And so on.

We'd driven up out of Portland and into Washington, en route to Seattle. September was already halfway through, summer leaving its last footprints in our wake as we drove into autumn. The leaves were already tinged with brown by the time we hit Tacoma.

(The coin laundry went as expected for someone as meticulous as Haru and someone as careless as me.

"Just toss it all in."