limitless.

chapter nine

The morning fog is crisp against the windows of the car, condensation bubbling against the glass. 

"Do you actually have a plan, or are we just driving willy-nilly?" 

JFK grins at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "I have a plan!"

Van Gogh glares at the boy playfully.

"Okay, that plan might involve driving willy-nilly."

"Well, I guess that's still technically a plan..." Vincent laughs. And then, "Wait, I actually have a legitimate idea."

"No you don't," Kennedy jokes.

This earns him another glare from his best friend. "Did you see the general store when we first drove in?"

JFK nods. "You think they'd have stuff there?"

Vincent shrugs. "It's worth a shot. I mean... someone's gotta be living in this town, right?"

"Well, they don't have to do anything. It really could just be abandoned."

"So why are the roads so fresh?"

"Fresh?"

Gogh rolls his eyes impatiently. "You know what I mean. Clean. Maintained." 

JFK goes silent, and at first Van Gogh worries that he's been too pushy, too pretentious, but Kennedy is only thinking. 

"Maybe there's a groundskeeper," he suggests, and Vincent looks up at him with knit brows. 

"One, for a whole town?" He sits back in his seat. "That hardly seems feasible." 

John shrugs, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the road. "The wear in the houses is... I don't know. Formulaic, I guess is the word."

Vincent raises an eyebrow at the boy. "Maybe you mean fabricated?" 

JFK nods eagerly. "Yes! Fabricated! That's exactly the word!" 

Van Gogh snorts. "What, like someone built this hellhole to look the way it does?" 

"It doesn't sound ridiculous coming from your mouth."

"Maybe not, but it would sound ridiculous coming from yours." 

Kennedy shoves the boy playfully. "Asshole." 

Vincent shoves him back, but doesn't throw an insult. 

The boys drive in pleasant silence for a few moments longer, both sitting contentedly in their pyjamas, the seat heaters turned up to high. The windows are fogged over and Van Gogh draws a smiley face with his finger, dotting the eyes so firmly his bent finger turns yellow. 

"You know that won't come off without, like, Windex or something, right?"

Vincent flashes his most innocent smile. "Oops."

JFK grins without looking at the boy, and Gogh's breath catches at the sight of his Colgate-white teeth. 

"We're here," Kennedy says not a minute later, the low rumble of the car engine ceasing. He and Van Gogh unbuckle their seatbelts at the same time; they seem always to be in unison. 

The wooden porch is wet and soft, lichen eating away at it. The door is hanging lopsided off the hinges, but only just enough; there's nothing wrong with the hardware. 

"Looks like someone hung it like that on purpose," Vincent mutters as he walks through the door. 

JFK turns around, his lips parting in satisfaction. "Told you."