4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Oliver

When Oliver arrived at the brass board, Floyd was already there waiting for him. Following Floyd through the mine, Oliver noticed that many men, especially those who were older than either Floyd or Oliver, had boys working with them—kids who looked to be between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. Floyd said that they had essentially been hired by the miners themselves. Sometimes they were relatives, sometimes neighbors, sometimes kids who had previously been working as a spragger or a breaker boy. Oliver wondered if Floyd would have stuck it out with Billy if it hadn't been for him. He kind of hoped so. Because that would mean that Floyd had chosen him, in a way, which was a really touching thought. He really liked Floyd so far. It'd be a Goddamn miracle if Floyd liked him back even half as much.

For safety reasons, everyone in the mine needed someone to work with. Some men worked in clusters of four or six, but many worked in pairs, oftentimes with a friend, rather than with a child.

"Whoever you're working with, we call 'em your butty," Floyd said very matter-of-factly, enunciating the t's .

It was clear that the potential silliness of the term had never even occurred to him.

"I'm sorry, my what?"

"Butty," Floyd repeated in the same serious tone.

"Like B-U-T-T-Y."

"Yeah."

Oliver started chuckling, which soon changed to full-blown laughter.

"Oh my God," he said.

"What's funny?"

"I am one hundred percent sure you will not appreciate what I'm laughing about."

"Why not?"

"Because I have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old. Actually, twelve-year-old kids around here seem to be more mature than me. Clearly none of them are laughing about this."

"Ollie, tell me. I want to know."

"It's... well... the term ‘butty' has the word ‘butt' in it, right? So, it..." Oliver snickered. "Jesus Christ, it'll sound even more demented when I say it out loud, but to me, the word makes it sound like we're... like we're friends who like each other's butts."

Floyd's subsequent facial expression was one of the funniest that Oliver had ever seen—his mouth hanging open and eyes wide. Oliver couldn't tell whether Floyd was horrified or amused or merely in a state of shock from the comment. Just when Oliver thought he should probably apologize for his clearly inappropriate humor, Floyd started to laugh, and then Oliver watched this behemoth of a man—one who couldn't have been a hair shy of six foot three—slowly but swiftly lose his composure, eventually laughing so heartily and loudly that Oliver found himself wondering about the chances of a cave in.

"I feel like I broke your brain with that comment," Oliver said.

Through a happy sniffle, Floyd replied, "Jeez, Ollie, I can't remember the last time I laughed like that. Not even from that lunkhead comment of yours yesterday."

Oliver grinned. "You're welcome." He clapped Floyd on the back. "Come on, butty, let's pick up our long, steel rods and—"

Floyd shoved his elbow into Oliver's side, cutting him off.

"You'll be run out of town with that mouth of yours," Floyd scolded in a friendly way.

"Don't people like raunchy humor around here?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, yes, they do. Everybody does. People are reluctant to admit it, that's all."

"Ollie, hush up before people think there's something wrong with you. Or with me."

"Ah, that's what this is about. You're worried that since we're friends, people will think you're as strange as I am."

Floyd seemed to have no response for that other than to shove Oliver sideways.

"Alright, I surrender," Oliver said. "You can show me how to mine now."

"Well," Floyd said with a big, heaving sigh. "Lord help me, but we need to... to..."

"Drill the long, steel rod into the coal seams?"

Floyd leveled a look. "Yes, Ollie."

But Oliver could see the faintest hint of a lingering smile on Floyd's face, and so, he threw Floyd a wink, which made Floyd smile even more, even though he was rolling his eyes a little.

Oliver and Floyd worked side by side to extract and shovel the coal, traveling up one of the newer coal arteries—a little "road" in their underground city that had been named Sycamore Street—and even though Floyd wouldn't let Oliver handle the blast powder or light the fuses, he tried not to let it bother him. He was still learning.

All in all, it had been a really nice workday.

***

By the end of May, Oliver and Floyd had become friends. Every morning, Oliver would wake up bursting with energy, eager to spend time with Floyd. Even though spending hours swinging a pickaxe and shoveling pounds of coal wouldn't have been fun otherwise, being with Floyd made it so. Especially since they spent a lot of the time teasing each other. Becoming so close to someone, it was wonderful. Floyd never minded his rambling. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. And Oliver never minded Floyd's comparative shyness.

Well, not never .

Even though Floyd had previously informed Oliver that he had once been a breaker boy, he hadn't shared more about his past otherwise. Despite Oliver having inquired about Floyd's upbringing a few times, Floyd had stayed stubbornly tight-lipped. His secrecy was becoming a little upsetting. After all, friends should be open with each other, shouldn't they? Sure, Oliver had never really had a proper friend before, so he wasn't exactly certain how close the two of them should be by now, but...

He really wanted them to be close. He had never felt this kind of kinship, this kind of pull, toward another person before.

Craving to know more about Floyd's life, Oliver thought he'd try pushing Floyd a little. Not by making him uncomfortable, of course, but by reminding Floyd that they could trust one another.

While they were both resting up against the rocky black wall, taking a break from shoveling, Oliver turned to Floyd and said, "So, tell me more about the time you spent as a breaker boy."

Floyd let out a long breath.

"I can't talk about that part of my life with you."

"Why not?" Oliver asked. "I thought we were friends. You can trust me."

"Ain't about trust."

"What is it, then?"

"Just can't."

"Don't be silly. Of course you can."

Floyd only responded with one word. "Ollie."

And the way Floyd said it—stern yet pleading—it made Oliver want to crumple in on himself.

"Sorry," Oliver said, self-loathing twisting inside of him. God, why was he so nosey?

For the rest of the workday, Oliver continued to mentally pummel himself for being the world's biggest bastard. After their coal car was weighed, Floyd and Oliver parted ways. While Floyd hadn't seemed upset in the end, Oliver continued to feel horrible.

Halfway home, Oliver spotted Roy, who lived one house over. He hurried to catch him, hoping he could take his mind off his earlier blunder somehow.

"Hi, Roy," Oliver said, slightly out of breath. "How are you?"

"Not bad. Just looking forward to relaxing a little."

"What would you say to playing some pool?"

Roy sucked on his teeth, thinking it over, and then said, "I'll need to tell my wife first, but I reckon it'll be fine."

"Great!"

While Roy left to talk to his wife, Oliver hovered outside near the picket fence. Not everyone's houses had fences, but Roy's had a nice one. He had probably put it up himself. Gripping one of the posts, Oliver tried to wiggle it back and forth. It seemed sturdy. Oliver couldn't help but be impressed.

Not much later, Roy flung open a window and stuck his head through the opening.

"Gotta clean myself up first, but I can meet you there," he hollered.

"Perfect!"

Oliver looked at his clothes. He really was filthy. While he was itching to play pool to take his mind off how badly he had messed up with Floyd, he knew he should probably bathe first, too.

Over the next half hour, Oliver took a sponge bath in the basin, and then he chose some clothes to wear to the pool hall. Even though he enjoyed looking nice, he found he wasn't as keen on wearing one of his better suits this time. Not like he had been when he had met up with Floyd. After choosing a simple beige suit and brown fedora, Oliver threw everything on and rushed over to the pool hall. Roy was already there practicing.

"Sorry I took so long," Oliver said.

"Not a problem." Roy nodded toward the table. "I'll re-rack the balls while you find a cue."

Oliver left to find a cue. Resting next to the others on the wall, Oliver spotted the one that Floyd had used last time. It was the only one with a blue wrap, rather than red. He chose it immediately.

While Roy and Oliver took turns with their shots, Oliver's thoughts kept finding their way back to Floyd. Probably because of the stick. He wondered when the two of them might spend some more leisure time together. Maybe he'd see if Floyd wanted to come with him to the company store soon. Oliver needed some more work pants.

When they were nearly finished with their first game, the man who seemed to run the pool hall—a middle-aged man with an impressive mustache—left to fetch some more chalk from the company store. After he left, Roy shot the seven ball into one of the corner pockets and then turned to Oliver, planting the butt of his cue on the floor.

"Did Floyd tell you about the violence over in Mingo County?"

"No," Oliver said. "What happened?"

Roy proceeded to explain to Oliver what was happening in some other areas of West Virginia, how coal companies were resisting coal miners unionizing, sometimes even responding with violence, which had resulted in many pro-union miners being forced out of their homes. Miners who continued to support the UMWA were living in tent colonies, and the previous summer, militiamen employed by Mingo County itself had raided colonies, supposedly over suspicion of bootlegging, though Roy suspected they had wanted to send a message to the striking miners, too.

Oliver wondered how people could survive in colonies like that in the mountains. Where did they find food? What about medical care? Picturing the families and their broken lives had Oliver's stomach roiling. Finally, Roy informed Oliver that there had been some sort of skirmish recently, resulting in bloodshed. Oliver could hardly believe events like these were happening only a short ways away.

"I thought I'd try to find out if you had already heard about all this stuff happening," Roy said. "John and me have been saying that you kind of look like one of Chafin's men in those fancy clothes you keep wearing."

"Oh..." Oliver wrinkled his nose. "I think I've heard of Sheriff Chafin, maybe, from Fred Donohue. He's the one who keeps the UMWA from coming here, right?"

"Yep. I reckon Fred Donohue pays him a pretty penny to keep watch. Chafin has a whole lot of people working for him—watching the trains, threatening those who try to come here to organize us. We probably ain't supposed to know as much as we do. But some of us got families in other counties. We find out everything that's happening. Sooner or later."

"No one has ever really challenged Chafin on that?"

"Couple years back, yeah, but..." Roy shrugged. "Nothing came of it. I heard thousands of miners were trying to come here some years back, but the Governor at the time—Governor Cornell—stopped them. Nothing since."

"Hm." Oliver thought for a moment, twirling his cue. "Would you want to unionize? If you could?"

"Better pay, shorter hours, better safety. Don't see why not."

Oliver nodded.

Just then, the man with the mustache came back with a box of chalk. Oliver and Roy turned back to the pool table. Oliver supposed that was the end of their conversation. He bet a lot of miners would want to be members of the UMWA if they could. He wondered how Floyd felt. Would Floyd want to fight for the changes? Why hadn't Floyd talked to him about any of this? Surely they could have kept their voices low enough in the mine.

For the rest of the evening, Oliver couldn't stop thinking about everything Roy had told him.

***

Later in the week, Oliver and Floyd were walking through the company store together. Floyd was having Charlie sharpen his pickaxe. While they waited for it to be finished, Floyd accompanied Oliver to the men's section so that Oliver could find a new pair of overalls. Oliver took two wildly similar pairs off the rack.

"What do you think? Grayish blue or blueish gray?" Oliver asked playfully, holding up one and then the other. "You know, the array of choices here will never not impress me."

"Whatever you choose, it'll be stained tomorrow."

"Well, not permanently. I mean, coal dust washes out."

"Yeah, when you got a strong woman like Effie to scrub it."

"I'm stronger than Effie!" Oliver sputtered, pretending to be offended, which had Floyd chuckling. "Jesus." Oliver looked back and forth between the two pairs of overalls before settling on the blueish-gray ones. He set the other back on the rack. "I should ask James or Frederick to order some other colors. Brown or beige. I mean, those are more my colors than blue. I look nicest in them. Do you want to know yours?"

"Mine?"

"Yeah, sure. Everyone has colors."

Oliver studied Floyd's face, only intending to try to figure out the man's colors, but instead, noticing so much more—his thick eyebrows, his chiseled jaw, and the light shadow of stubble. Last, Oliver's eyes found Floyd's—sky blue, the prettiest eyes Oliver had ever seen. Wow, Floyd was handsome. What a strange thing this was, to focus on someone else's features so closely.

"What are mine?" Floyd asked, which reminded Oliver that he was supposed to have been thinking about the colors Floyd would look best in, not how handsome he was.

"Uhm, yours are . . . hm . . . blue, probably, because of your weirdly pretty eyes, and . . . oh, maybe black and dark gray."

By the time Oliver finished his sentence, Floyd had started to look a little queasy, like a spoonful of ipecac had been shoved in his mouth. Oliver wondered if it was the comment about his eyes that had upset him. Christ, he needed to stop sharing every little thought that popped into his head.

"Don't look at me like that," Oliver said. "Sometimes I can't control the things I say."

Floyd continued to look slightly nauseated.

"Oh, take the compliment and move on," Oliver said, unsure why he was stubbornly trying to force Floyd to be fine with what he had said, rather than apologizing for it. "I like your eyes. I'm allowed to like things, aren't I?"

Finally, Floyd sighed and said, "Yeah, you are."

When Oliver turned to head to the register, he noticed a couple of well-dressed men loitering around the canned food aisle. Briefly, he wondered whether either of them was friends with James, but then he remembered what Roy had told him about Don Chafin's men—the people who supposedly spied on the townsfolk.

"Hey," Oliver said in a hushed voice, leaning in closer to Floyd. "Do you think they work for Chafin?"

Floyd's eyes widened. "How do you know about Chafin?"

"Doesn't everybody know about him?" Oliver continued to watch the men. "No chance they're men from the UMWA, right? If so, I'd be interested in talking to them."

"Shh!"

"What?"

"Don't talk about the UMWA in here! Where's your head?"

"What, is it illegal to even talk about the United Mine Wor—"

Floyd's hand flew to cover Oliver's mouth.

"Ollie, if you keep this up, I'll carry you out of here!" Floyd whisper-yelled in a manner that was, admittedly, a little funny.

Even though Oliver wanted to press Floyd on it—he was curious to learn how Floyd felt about the UMWA—he could tell by the intensity behind Floyd's eyes that he was serious. Oliver held up his hands, one of them still clutching tight to the pair of overalls he had chosen, in mock surrender.

"Go pay for those," Floyd said, taking his hand away. "I'm finding my pick."

When Oliver met up with Floyd outside, he took Floyd by the sleeve and pulled him farther away from the store, both of them kicking up dirt as they moved across the footpath and over toward the railroad tracks.

"Alright, now that we're out of earshot, what's your opinion on the UMWA?"

"I..." Floyd huffed. "I'm not in the mood to talk about this."

"Why not?"

"I'm tired from work."

Oliver narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Floyd's reaction. After a moment, Floyd looked away, and then Oliver noticed how Floyd had started nervously wringing his hands.

"Do you . . . not want to unionize?"

"Change would be hard, Ollie. Let's leave it at that."

God, why was Floyd being so tight-lipped? First, he wouldn't tell Oliver more about his past, and now, he was refusing to have an honest conversation about the benefits of the UMWA? It wasn't like Oliver would be upset with him for his opinion. Oliver was still new. He was still figuring out how everything worked.

He couldn't resist pressing further.

"Well, what would be hard? Maybe you should enlighten me."

Floyd let out an irritated-sounding sigh.

"Did Roy tell you about the tent colonies?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Then you know what could happen."

"But—"

"I won't put Effie or Jo through something like that."

"Don't you want a better life for your family?"

Floyd's eye twitched, nostrils flaring. "I like our life!"

Jesus Christ, why was Floyd becoming so irate? Oliver was only trying to have a conversation with him!

"Doesn't your family deserve—"

Floyd took a step forward, closing the distance between them.

"Don't you talk about my family, Ollie," Floyd hissed through clenched teeth. "You know nothing about where I come from or how hard I worked to make a life for us here."

Irritation zipped through Oliver's veins faster than lightning.

"Of course not! You won't talk to me! You won't even tell me about your childhood!"

Floyd curled his lip. "I talk plenty."

"Bullshit!" Oliver yelled before remembering not to be so loud. "You refuse to tell me anything real about your life."

"What's wrong with you? I've known you for less than a month."

Floyd's words hit Oliver like a bucket of cold water, cooling every ounce of his fury instantly. With the flames of upset snuffed out, Oliver could see his request for what it was: selfish and childish, a misplaced expectation of a fool who had never had a friend before.

Without waiting for Oliver's response, Floyd turned to leave. And Oliver stayed fixed to the spot, wondering how the hell he could ever come up with a sufficient enough apology.

***

That evening, Oliver was standing in front of Floyd's house, nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the soft late-spring breeze whipped through his hair and rustled the fabric of his worst-looking suit—a rust-colored, ill-fitting atrocity. Earlier, while Oliver had been stewing in his remorse back home, he had started to feel that all-too-familiar itch—the itch to cut his losses, either by simply ignoring Floyd and finding a new butty or by reaching out to Frederick to inquire about employment with the steel mill instead.

But Oliver had never felt such a strong connection before. He had been having so much fun with Floyd. And Floyd was so, so sweet. Oliver couldn't explain it, exactly, but Floyd had a sickly sweetness about him sometimes. It seemed as though he truly cared about Oliver, even though they'd only met earlier that month. Ever since Floyd had made Oliver his butty, he had been such a patient teacher, always looking at Oliver with kind eyes and speaking to him like he wasn't ever frustrated, even when Oliver had made a mistake. No one else had ever really treated Oliver like that. Not family members. Or teachers. Which, Oliver realized, was probably why Floyd's random bouts of secrecy had bothered him so much. In some ways, it felt like the two had known each other for much, much longer.

Floyd seemed to like Oliver's playfulness as well. He had never once scolded him for his strange humor. He listened to Oliver babble, which was really sweet of him, especially since most people either stopped listening or made excuses to leave the conversation whenever Oliver veered off into one of his tangents. But not Floyd. Not since they had started to become friends. All of these things together—they made Oliver realize that he had to try to fix things.

So, Oliver smoothed out the fabric of his terrible suit (mostly out of habit, because, God, there was no way to make it look less hideous) and started up the porch stairs. With a slightly trembling hand, Oliver rapped his knuckles on the wood.

Floyd answered with a scowl, and Oliver smiled sheepishly.

"Uh, hi," Oliver said. "Can we talk?"

"I never talk."

"Right." Oliver blew out a breath. "I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry for, well, everything."

Floyd simply crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like he was waiting for Oliver to elaborate, which made Oliver's stomach creep up into his throat from nervousness.

"Do you mind if we talk inside? Or outside?" Oliver asked. "Anywhere else, really. Just not, you know, with you standing in the doorway like that. You're making me worried that we'll let your cat out or something."

"Cat?"

"Yeah, uhm, I had a cat in New York—a sweet little fellow I found by a dumpster when he was only a teeny tiny kitten. I brought him home with me, and then, once he was big, it became clear to me that I shouldn't keep letting the poor fellow outside. It wasn't that I was worried about him running away or anything, but I realized that he was the type of cat who would run into the street and try to fight other cats and even try to fight squirrels sometimes. After that, we had to be careful not to keep letting him out, and so, now I end up feeling nervous whenever people leave their doors open for too long." Oliver took a pause. He couldn't stand how Floyd was just staring at him, not making a single comment of his own. Instinctively, Oliver continued to ramble. "I kind of miss Colonel Whiskers—that was what I'd named him. Which I know is a strange name for a cat. It's not like he was in the military. Obviously. I mean, he was a cat, for Christ's sake. Or is a cat. He's probably still alive. Jesus, I sound like a fucking lunatic."

Just like that, Floyd was laughing that perfect, melodious laugh of his. With a flick of his wrist, he pointed toward the other end of the porch, and so Oliver took a few steps back, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet. Floyd followed and shut the door. Then they stood around awkwardly for what felt like a year but was probably more like four minutes.

Floyd cocked an eyebrow. "Colonel Whiskers, huh?"

"He might be General Whiskers now. I have no way of knowing."

Floyd's face broke into the nicest smile—one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and little dimples etch into his cheeks like little parentheses. And, God, Oliver loved seeing him smile like that. Suddenly, Oliver couldn't stop thinking about how nice of a smile Floyd had and how badly he wanted to keep making it happen. He hadn't ever experienced something like this before.

"I'm really, really sorry," Oliver said. "Sometimes, when we're together, it feels like I've known you for a long time, and then I realize I know next to nothing about you and—" He ran a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

After a moment, Floyd leaned against the porch column, looking a bit lost in thought, tilting his head and furrowing his thick brows. Oliver had to force himself to look away so he wouldn't ruin everything by talking at him. He wished Floyd would say something.

Floyd heaved a sigh and said, "I'm from McDowell County. My family had a farm there."

I thought you worked in a coal mine, Oliver wanted to say but stopped himself. Instead, he forced himself to wait so that he could hear what else Floyd might want to share on his own.

"Coal companies were buying up a lot of the land around us. I'd been working on the farm since I was little—helping out here and there—but when I was ten, I started as a breaker boy for the closest coal company. Just wanted to earn some money."

Floyd became quiet again. His eyes had a faraway look about them as he stared off into the night. Oliver tried to focus on the high-pitched chirping sound of the spring peepers coming from the woods so that he wouldn't feel the need to fill Floyd's silence with commentary of his own.

Floyd eventually continued, "Years later, some events happened and... we had to leave. Me and Effie. I chose Logan for us since I knew there were some big coal companies here. Effie was pregnant with Josephine then, and I knew I had to take care of them both."

Oliver tried to imagine what had happened to make them have to leave but couldn't come up with much. Floyd and Effie were probably the kindest people in the entire world.

"Our lives ain't perfect, but I like to think I made the right choice," Floyd said. "Don Chafin may be a bully, but I'm thankful we're here, not over in Mingo. If we'd had moved there, I'm sure I'd have felt the need to strike with my work buddies, too. We'd have probably ended up in one of them tent colonies." He clicked his tongue once, shaking his head. "I couldn't put Effie and Jo through that. We're lucky that, well, if it happened here, if we were forced out of our home, I think I'd have the means to help start our lives over somewhere else. I'd have to sell something first, but I could come up with some money. Not much. Just, you know, maybe enough to move to another coal town. But I like our life here. I can't... I can't never start over again."

"I understand," Oliver said, trying to keep his voice soft and kind. He hoped he could make Floyd see that he really hadn't meant to upset him. "I'm sorry for pushing you about it earlier. I couldn't understand why you wouldn't want to better your lives and—" He realized he was putting his foot in his mouth again. "Sorry. I respect your choice."

Floyd nodded. Oliver nodded back.

Seconds passed. Both men stayed silent. Oliver chewed on his bottom lip while Floyd seemed to be studying his boots. After a minute or two, Floyd looked Oliver up and down.

"What in the heck are you wearing?"

Oliver grinned. "This is my worst suit. I thought that by wearing it, I'd be able to prove to you how terrible I feel about how I acted earlier. You know, because I made myself look terrible. I tried to make my outsides match my insides. Does it look horrible?"

Floyd's mouth twisted up into a half-smile, and he raised one of his eyebrows. "Yeah, pretty bad."

"Alright, well, pretty bad isn't nearly horrible enough." In rapid succession, Oliver loosened his tie, popped the top button of his shirt, and yanked one of the buttons clean off his suit jacket. And then, as the final touch, he mussed up his hair. "Better? Worse?"

Floyd snorted a laugh. "Worse."

"Good," Oliver said, feeling relaxed and content once again.

And Floyd looked plenty relaxed now, too. His shoulders weren't tensed up anymore, and he had finally uncrossed his arms.

He said, "We had supper earlier, but you can come in if you want. Effie and Jo would be happy to see you. Sorry, I meant I'd be happy to see you."

"You haven't seen too much of me already?"

"Not at all," Floyd said, a sweetness in his voice.

"I'd love to come in, then."

As soon as they were inside, Josephine skipped over to them. She stopped a handful of paces short of Oliver and tilted her head to the side.

"Why's your hair like that?"

"I thought I'd try a new style tonight. What do you think?"

Josephine pursed her lips for a moment as she thought.

"Too messy," she said.

"Yeah, I thought so, too."

Oliver noticed Effie sitting on the sofa, kneading the sole of one of her feet with her thumbs, and Floyd went to sit beside her. Even though Oliver knew what was coming, seeing the scene unfold still made his stomach drop like a rickety old coal elevator.

"Let me help," Floyd said, pulling Effie's feet on top of his lap, which made Oliver have to turn away for some reason. "I told you not to bother washing clothes today. You spent too many hours on them feet of yours yesterday."

Oliver's heart fluttered at the way Floyd said the word "wash," which sounded more like "warsh" because of his accent. It was so... God, it was fucking adorable. What a peculiar thought that was. But it was so true. Water was wet, and Floyd was adorable. Facts were facts.

"I can't let Josephine run around in rags," Effie said. "All her nice clothes were filthy."

Oliver looked back to see Floyd massaging Effie's feet.

"So, uhm..." Oliver looked around, eager to focus on something other than the way that the sight of Floyd massaging Effie's feet was making his neck burn and his ears feel hot. His eyes found Josephine, who was sitting on the floor cross-legged, fiddling with the dress of a very well-loved doll. "How was school, Josephine?"

Before Josephine could answer, Effie cut in.

"Floyd, stop massaging my feet. You're making poor Oliver uncomfortable."

Floyd looked like he wanted to protest but released Effie's feet anyway.

"School was boring," Josephine answered before looking up at her parents. "Can Mister Oliver play with me?"

Floyd chuckled. "I reckon Mister Oliver is a little old for toys."

"Well, he certainly looks like a schoolboy with his hair mussed up like that," Effie teased. "He reminds me of you, Floyd, messing around near the mines when we were kids."

Oliver knelt down to talk to Josephine. "I'd love to play, but I'm afraid I forgot to bring my own dolly."

"What about checkers?" Josephine asked.

"I can play checkers," Oliver agreed.

"Mama, will you be on my team?"

"Josephine is still learning. We only started playing earlier this week," Effie explained. "Yes, Josephine, I can help you."

While Josephine scrambled to her feet to find the board and pieces, Floyd pulled the coffee table closer to the couch and then made his way to the burnt orange armchair. Oliver looked over to the bookcase, which was mostly filled with knickknacks and other board games, and saw that they had a chess set, too.

"So, which of you is better at chess?" Oliver asked.

"Effie," Floyd said without hesitation. "Because she won't teach me how to play."

Oliver laughed. "Why's that?"

"Floyd always picks things up so quickly. If I teach him, I'll lose my title."

"Title?" Oliver asked, arching an eyebrow.

"It's not a real title, but—"

"Effie is the best chess player in the entire town," Floyd said, his voice filled with unmistakable pride.

It pulled at Oliver's heart.

"I learned when I was little. I was only a couple of years older than Josephine."

Josephine plopped the board and pieces onto the table. She and Effie started setting them up. Oliver scooted over to sit across from Effie, sitting back on his heels. Floyd nudged him with his foot from behind.

"Want my chair?"

Oliver smiled up at him. "Nah, I'm fine."

For the next half hour, Oliver played Effie and Josephine in checkers while Floyd looked on. It was so strangely calm. Blissful, really. Oliver had sometimes imagined that there were families like Floyd's—ones who spent time together, who laughed with one another, who enjoyed each other's company—but he had never expected that he might become close with one of them. His own family was nothing like this.

On the surface, the Bennetts looked like every other family that Oliver had ever spent a small amount of time with, but now that he had spent time with them, he could see that they were something truly special. He could sense the tightness of the bond they shared.

It reminded Oliver of the time he had broken open one of those special rocks—the ones that were sparkly inside. At first look, the thing was utterly unimpressive—an ordinary rock, like every other rock—but once he had broken it open, Oliver had been completely taken aback by its beauty.

God, how incredible Floyd's family was.

When Oliver sighed, Floyd nudged him again, and Oliver turned to see Floyd looking at him with one eyebrow raised inquisitively, perhaps to check on him. Oliver nodded, silently reassuring Floyd that he was fine, but as soon as he turned back around, Floyd nudged him again, more forcefully and playfully this time, which made Oliver chuckle.

"King me!" Josephine suddenly cried.

"You only say that when you reach the last row on Oliver's side," Effie said with a laugh.

"Well, then, what do you say when you win?"

Oliver answered, "Whatever you want."

"Queen me!"

Oliver reached across the table and tapped each of Josephine's shoulders.

"Oh. I think I knighted you instead," Oliver said. "Sorry."

"Good enough, Oliver," Effie said. "Now it's time for the Queen to go to bed."

Josephine threw her head back and groaned. "Why?"

"Because it's late, and you got school tomorrow morning."

"Fiiine," she relented before hopping off the couch.

Without even a parting word, she ran toward the back room.

"Want to me put her to bed?" Floyd asked.

"You stay with Oliver," Effie said.

"I should head home anyway," Oliver said.

Floyd pushed himself to stand. "I'll walk you out."

"Yes, I mean, your front door is so far away," Oliver said, hopping to his feet. "How ever would I make it on my own?"

Floyd responded by shoving Oliver forward a step.

Once the two of them were outside, Oliver paused at the edge of the porch and said, "I really liked spending time with all of you tonight."

"Why'd you seem sad earlier?"

"Hm?"

"You were sighing and such."

"Oh. I was thinking about my terrible parents. We never spent time with each other like that," Oliver said. "In fact, they rarely ever wanted me around when I was a kid. God, I can't even fathom what it would have been like to play checkers with my mother."

"I'm sorry, Ollie," Floyd said, and the sweetness in his voice made Oliver's stomach tumble. "Was there really no one you were close to?"

"Well, I suppose I had my Aunt Betty for a bit. We weren't close, exactly, but she was kind to me. Actually, I've been considering visiting her. She lives in Charleston. And, well, she isn't in contact with my parents anymore. I tried to visit her when I first came here, but I was too nervous."

"Why?"

Oliver shrugged. "Just was. Everyone in my family makes me nervous."

Letting out a soft hum, Floyd nodded in response. Oliver was thankful that Floyd was respectful enough not to press him for more information. He wished he possessed that kind of willpower himself.

After a moment, Floyd asked Oliver to wait while he fetched something from inside. Floyd returned a short time later with Oliver's hat.

He held it out and said, "Here, Ollie. I plum forgot I was wearing this when we played pool. Kept it on the whole way home."

"I know," Oliver said. "Keep it."

"It's your hat. I can't take it from you."

"You're not taking it. It's a present." Oliver took the hat from Floyd's hands and placed it atop Floyd's head. "Gray is definitely one of your colors."

"Ain't it a little depressing?"

Oliver's voice softened. "Not on you."

When Floyd reached up to adjust his hat, Oliver's chest warmed in the most wonderful way. He loved seeing Floyd wear it.

Even though they'd see each other in less than twelve hours, it pained Oliver that he had to leave. He wanted to keep spending time with Floyd. He'd honestly spend every second with him if he could. Which was a strange feeling. Oliver had been his own best friend for as long as he could remember. Now things were different, though. Oliver liked Floyd way more than he liked himself. He liked Floyd more than he had ever liked anyone.

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask you, how does everyone spend their leisure time around here? Like on weekends?" Oliver asked. "I've mostly been reading, myself. I found a few books at the company store like you said I would. Just Dickens and Poe. I played pool with Roy once, too, which was fun. I think he's a little sour that I keep beating him. But, uhm, what else?"

"Well, a lot of people work in the mines on Saturdays, especially if they need to make some extra money to pay what they owe at the store. Settle their debts and whatnot. Sundays, though, most people attend church."

"Do you?"

"Yep. All three of us."

"I'm not . . . I mean, I . . ." Oliver cleared his throat. "I'll probably stay home on Sundays. Unless . . . uhm . . ."

"If you change your mind, you can sit in our pew."

"Thank you."

"You know, I'm not one to work on Saturdays."

"Oh?" Oliver's heart started beating a little faster.

"You and me could do something."

"Sure!" Oliver exclaimed before intentionally reigning in his excitement. "What?"

"I can show you how to shoot a rifle gun."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Wow, that would be wonderful. I have to warn you, though, that I'll probably be a terrible shot. I mean, I'm shit even with a slingshot."

With a snort of amusement, Floyd shook his head.

"I might have to sew my mouth shut before I come to church, huh?" Oliver teased.

"Nah, I like listening to you. Even those silly remarks of yours and the obscenities you seem so fond of."

Oliver's stomach fluttered as Floyd's compliment made his face tingle, his cheeks heating up from Floyd's unexpected praise. God, he had never felt this way before. About anyone.

"Alright, well, I'll see you tomorrow for work, Floyd."

"Goodnight, Ollie."

Oliver was so Goddamn excited for the weekend.