Life is Strange, page 5
* * *
The first thing I notice about Owen’s house is how clean everything looks. Sure, it’s small. Tiny, even. Definitely a trailer for a single person. But it’s pristine. The whole thing is a sharp white—like, hospital white. So sterile, it hurts my eyes. There’s not a scrape of rust or dirt anywhere, which, compared to the rest of Barbazal, makes it look brand new.
You’d think the mayor lived here.
I suddenly feel out of place standing here next to Steph, with our duffel containing all our belongings, and my guitar, armed with only a message from Ethan to prove we’re safe to harbor for a night.
“What do you think Owen is like?” asks Steph.
“Clean,” I say. And that’s all I really have to go on. She nods and looks around the place, probably noticing the same things I have.
“Nice statue,” she says, looking down at the one thing keeping us company out here on this front porch: a clay figurine of a knight holding a sword to the sky. It’s not well done—looks homemade. Could it be Ethan’s?
I smile, remembering his comics. I’d kill to have a copy out here with me, something to pore through, something to distract me from the timer counting down the hours ’til our show.
If we just had Isaac Harson’s number! But all we’ve got is a memory of a nod from him, and a promise that “I’ll be there.” In Fort Collins. Waiting to hear us.
I feel something well up in me—persistence? Defiance? We’ll make it to Fort Collins, even if I have to walk our instruments there myself. We have to.
Steph leans forward and knocks again, harder this time.
“Think he’s home?”
The door flies open, and Steph and I jump. Guess there’s our answer.
A man more than a foot taller than us leans out, glances at the outside of the front door nervously, and then looks up at both of us.
“Yes?” he asks.
Everything about his stature—his hunched-over posture, the way his eyes shift between my face and Steph’s…
His head glows purple.
Yup. He’s afraid of something.
“Uh,” she begins, sensing that there’s something weird going on here. “I’m Steph Gingrich. This is Alex Chen. We’re from Haven Springs.”
His eyes widen and that purple glow retreats just a bit.
“Haven Springs,” he repeats.
“We know your nephew, Ethan,” I say.
The purple flares up again.
“What’s going on? Is he okay?” His voice is totally panicked. “Did something happen to Charlotte?!”
Oh god, I’m handling this horribly.
“No, no,” I reply, “I mean, yes, Ethan’s fine! And no, nothing happened to Charlotte. We’re not here about Ethan. We’re here to talk to you.”
“About what?” he asks, recoiling just a bit back inside the house. “If you’re here with the press…”
“We’re not the press,” says Steph, her voice sharply turning this conversation back to the relevant topic. “We’re here to ask if we can stay in the… guest room for the night. Ethan said it would be okay.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Look, we know it’s late. But we’re supposed to play a show in Fort Collins on Friday night and our car is stranded up the road with busted pistons, and no one’s available to drive us, there’s no bus and—”
“Crown Inn is booked with Jonah Macon’s fan club,” I cut in.
I hate to interrupt Steph like this, but I can feel her spiraling next to me, and I have to ground us. Someone has to. That’s the real problem anyway—if this hadn’t happened the week that Jonah Macon was running for office out here in the middle of nowhere, we’d be cozied up in that hotel and figuring out a way to get to Fort Collins.
Hell, somebody out here would probably be able to drive us.
I unclench my fists and shut my eyes, willing the patience to manifest in me.
It doesn’t.
“So you’re with Maisie’s people?” asks Owen, visibly stiffening.
“We’re not with anybody,” insists Steph.
“Least of all a state senator,” I say. Least of all a right-wing politician, I want to add. “We’re just looking for a place to crash, and then we’ll be out of here. Promise.”
His shoulders relax. That purple halo shrinks just a bit. Clearly he’s more comfortable with us now that he has the idea we’re not cool with politicians, but honestly? I don’t know how to feel about Jonah or Maisie. I still haven’t heard a single detail about their political positions. Just that people around here feel very strongly about both of them.
“All we know is there’s a dam and a drought and Jonah and Maisie,” Steph replies better than I can, “and a lot of really strong opinions one way or the other.”
“You’ve been talking to Elias,” he says, a smile playing on his mouth. He glances over his shoulder as if he’s going to find some guidance on a final decision here, before turning back to us and nodding.
“Come in,” he says. “Just… please don’t touch anything.”
5: Owen
Steph and I sit at Owen’s table as he stares down at his mug of coffee. I can tell it’s coffee because I can smell it, and not because we have cups of coffee in front of us.
Because we don’t. We have nothing in front of us.
I feel my stomach turn over with hunger, and I look around to keep myself busy so I don’t ask what kinds of snacks Owen has and come across rude.
We really did just knock on his front door and ask for a place to stay, after all. I don’t expect this single man to have enough food to feed three adults.
“So, uh…” he begins, breaking the silence. “How is Ethan, anyway?”
Steph and I nod silently until I venture a reply.
“He’s great,” I say, although it’s been several days since I saw him. “Last we checked.”
I spot a picture on the small console table behind us that looks worn down for decades based on the state of the wood. Inside the picture frame is a shot of Ethan. A much, much younger Ethan. It’s a professionally shot picture—looks like it might have been taken at a department store. He’s grinning between his chubby little cheeks, arms outstretched to the camera. I smile. He looks so damn happy, so bubbly, I wonder if even back then, people could tell he saw the world as a mecca of adventure, ripe for the taking. His parents, Liam and Charlotte, had to see it even then, right? He looks so out of place in such a formal photo studio. I might not even have recognized him as the LARPer who bravely defended Haven Springs from evil with me.
I look back at Owen, who hasn’t taken his eyes off the table, gripping the coffee mug like something serious is on his mind. His head looks like an iris with that deep purple aura. He’s scared again, the fear creeping bigger and bigger above him, like a looming, swelling giant threatening to swallow the whole room, like a balloon. It feels light and floaty, gossamer like a spider-web. He’s absolutely terrified.
Of what?
His index finger traces his coffee-mug handle. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Then he taps three times. Tap tap tap.
Then up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
I glance at Steph to see if she notices, but she’s engrossed in her phone. I glance over her shoulder to see she’s texting Ethan.
Thanks, man
Yeah! Have fun. I hid chocolate under the guest
room mattress. If it’s still there, you can have it.
I smile. Sick. Thanks, Ethan.
Up and down. Tap tap tap.
Does he have OCD?
That purple aura glowing around his head morphs into something that feels… prickly. Almost… like pins and needles. Uncomfortable. Like I would do anything to get away from it. An itch I can’t scratch.
I want to scratch it.
“Hey, um,” says Steph, setting the phone in her lap and looking up at him. “Why’d you think Ethan might not be okay?”
He sighs, almost in defeat.
“Yeah, uh,” he starts, but then he shakes his head: no. “I know he’s okay. I keep up on MyBlock and sometimes he texts. But his mom, she hasn’t been herself for a couple of weeks now. Just completely shut down after she lost Gabe. Barely speaks anymore. Turned into a total zombie. Ethan shouldn’t have to deal with that.”
Oh.
I try not to squirm in my seat, but I feel like I might be sick.
“Has she tried therapy, or—” I cut myself off at the look he’s giving me, like, You think we haven’t tried that?
And then he goes back to tapping on the table and staring at nothing.
The purple aura remains.
“Mr. Lambert,” I venture, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table.
“N—” he starts, his hand flying out like the table is going to burn me. I flinch back. “I mean… I’m sorry. I, uh…”
“Clearly something else is bothering you. What is it?”
Steph looks first at me and then at Owen.
“Yeah, we’re here to listen,” she says, putting her phone away. “We’ve got all night while we figure out how to get to Fort Collins.”
Owen lets out a huge sigh, and then glances over at the TV, which has been aimlessly broadcasting whatever’s been on. He picks up the remote and shuffles through the channels until we land on a woman standing behind a podium.
Short, dark hair, dark eyes, faint pink lipstick, with a sign in front of her.
Maisie Dorsey.
“That woman is bothering me.”
“Maisie Dorsey?” asks Steph. “Why?”
The hell is up with this town hanging their lives on a national election?
“It’s about the dam, isn’t it?” I ask.
That gets Owen’s attention. He turns from the TV to me, and narrows his eyes.
“Who told you about the dam?” he asks, his voice darker than I expected.
“Uh… Elias? At his shop?”
“Oh right, Elias,” he sighs with an eye roll. “He probably told you all of Jonah’s business, tried to dissuade you from voting for him, huh?”
Of course, that’s not how it went down at all, but Steph and I look at each other and exchange the same idea: No need to tell him exactly how it happened, lest we feed this fire.
That purple fireball above his head has warmed into red.
“Owen, we don’t know anything about either candidate,” I assure him, trying to calm him down. “We’re just trying to get to Fort Collins.”
He looks from me to Steph and seems to decide we’re still trustworthy.
“I’ll make it real easy for you, then,” he says, leaning back in his chair and pulling out a cigarette. The red inferno cools down and dissipates into nothing as he clicks the lighter a few times and inhales, deeply.
“Lazy Maisie Dorsey wants to hold back even more water with that dam. At least Jonah would open the levels a little more so we could have enough water to live. Lesser of two evils if you ask me.”
There’s that dam again.
“Why?” asks Steph.
“Why?” laughs Owen, heaving back into a huge guffaw. “Don’t you know what the hell dams do?”
“Uh…” begins Steph.
Now that I think about it, I don’t really know either. Besides, you know, hydropower? “Don’t they generate sustainable power?”
“Some of ’em,” he spits. “Not ours. It’s just your regular run-of-the-mill, water-limitin’, ecosystem-disregulatin’ corporate erection. Maisie’s in the pockets of all the big-wigs on Capitol Hill. She wants the dam because they want the dam, and not because she cares if Barbazal needs water.”
Steph and I exchange a glance, and I hope she’s not as confused as I am.
Turns out, she is.
“Mr. Lambert,” she starts, “no offense, but… why does Maisie Dorsey care about this particular dam, if she’s after a Senate seat?”
“Because the Colorado River feeds right into the Barbazal River. If they divert the water back into the Colorado River, there’s more water for other parts of the state—more ‘important’ parts. Parts with lawns, and sprawling estates.”
I let him talk, but I’m not so sure that’s how dams work.
He hisses those last two words and takes another drag of his cigarette.
“I don’t want to come across bitter, but… she’s so easy to hate, you know? We’ve been doing what they ask—conserving water, doing our part. We’re a farming community, goddammit. How are we supposed to conserve any more than we have without it affecting our livelihood? This is what Barbazal does!”
I see.
But then I realize there’s a piece missing—a connector in this network of cause-and-effect.
“Why is Maisie campaigning here though? In Barbazal? With so few voters? No offense, but why isn’t she campaigning in Denver if she wants to win the whole state?”
“Because her biggest competition, Jonah Macon, is campaigning to come up with some kind of agreement on both sides, on the basis of protecting the environment. In a blue state? She’d better have her ass down here campaigning on his home turf.”
I glance at Steph again.
“You mark my words,” says Owen, huffing out another plume of smoke. “Much as I hate politicians, Jonah Macon is our only way out of this.”
* * *
The extra bedroom—the guest room Ethan promised us—is small, but cozy. In fact, it looks too cozy. My eyes find a picture of Ethan on the dresser, dressed in head-to-toe LARPing gear as the noble knight Thaynor. The only evidence of Ethan in the room. He must not spend much time here. I wonder how often he visits his uncle.
A huge Nordic patterned blanket covers the queen-size bed, which takes up most of the room. The space between it and the dresser is barely squeeze-through-able, but I manage. While Steph explores the room and unzips her duffel, I plop down on the bed, find my pocket journal, and do what most of the therapists I’ve ever known have told me to do: I write down my thoughts. As disjointed and shattered as they are, it feels better to get them out. They don’t have to be well-written or even coherent. They just have to be out of my brain.
Poor Elias, I write. Something’s weighing heavy on him. He seems to feel so strongly about so many things. Jonah Macon. Cars. His shop. Silas. The dam. His sadness felt deep, like the sting of frostbite, something he can’t get rid of, craving warmth to melt it away. I have a feeling that this situation with the dam goes a lot deeper than Jonah Macon. I sigh, clutching the pen tighter—How the hell am I supposed to untangle this in two days?—press it down again. I have to do something. I can’t just leave this place to burn itself…
Steph finds her way around the other side, and without hesitation, she climbs on beside me and sighs.
…alive.
I look up at the ceiling, at the little green stars speckled all over it, and some even trickling down the walls, and I remember lying in the woods with Ryan that day we found a sliver of joy after Gabe’s passing. It was… so weird.
So surreal.
It felt strange to laugh after having been through so much pain and shock, but we found a way.
Gabe, I think quietly, I’m doing it. I’m on my way to Fort Collins, the first stop on our tour of the world.
If we ever get there.
If only we had Harson’s number. I guess we could DM him, but he’s got over a million followers. His DMs are probably…
I pull out my phone to check.
Yup, closed.
Thunder cracks outside, rumbling across the sky like a hungry stomach, and I shut my eyes, thankful that Barbazal is about to get some rain. Who the hell would divert the Colorado River away from a farming community? Do rich people not understand that their locally grown organic produce requires water? Would they rather have a lush green lawn than food?
Why is the world so twisted and backwards?
Ugh, and why am I back to thinking so hard about other people’s problems? This isn’t even my issue. There’s not much I can do but talk to Jonah Macon, if I can even get close enough to him, and even that’s a long shot.
I should just bury the Barbazal water problem in my brain, file it away somewhere in its deep recesses, and focus on getting to Fort Collins.
But I can’t.
What if Jonah doesn’t listen and Barbazal dries up, and all these people who have spent their whole lives here—Ethan’s dad, and Silas, and Elias—have to pack up everything and leave the only home they’ve ever known?
As far as I know, nobody else here has the kind of power that would let them tap into what makes someone tick, what makes someone really afraid, and use it to remind them what’s really important.
So the fate of Barbazal might rest in my hands.
I sigh.
Our car breaks down in the middle of nowhere and suddenly I’m responsible for thousands of livelihoods.
I roll to my side and look at Steph, who I’m startled to find is lying on her side staring at me.
Those piercing brown eyes…
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
I sigh.
“Just thinking,” I say, which isn’t a lie but isn’t the truth either.
“Thinking or spiraling?” she asks.
I smirk. She continues.
“We’re going to make it to Fort Collins, I can feel it. And Barbazal is going to be fine. Out here in the wilderness, I’m sure they’ve had droughts before, right?”
I shake my head.
“I get the feeling they haven’t,” I say. “Not like this. Maybe a natural one, but not a manmade one.”
Steph sighs, conceding that I’m right.
“I wish I had telekinetic powers,” she says, “so I could just divert the river myself. Let the politicians sort it out later.”
“You’d really do that?” I ask, teasing.
“Hell yeah! If Owen is right and they’re really rerouting the Colorado River to serve a bunch of rich-asses with lawns? They can choke.”
I snort. This girl is too much.
I stare into her eyes, dark and deep, and find her hands under the blanket.
“I told you,” she says, “I’m here for you. Whatever happens. I know you care about people. Like, a lot. So, if you need to talk to Jonah Macon, we’ll talk to Jonah Macon.”
