Submitted for Feedback - 'Kismet'
~ October 10, 2003
Detroit, Michigan ~


Payback was a bitch, Whistler snorted, as he listened to the radio newscaster recap the afternoon's headlines. Only a man named Rush could get pantsed publicly for taking pain killers after spending most of his career screaming j'accuse at others. Served him right. It didn't help that Limbaugh was afflicted by a remnant of Moloch. The corruptor's physical form had been downloaded into a robot and eventually destroyed by a slayer, but stray segments of his influence lived on in the internet. That one found its way to talk radio and the big man wasn't the biggest leap. The man was ripe for the picking.

Whistler turned off the news as he pulled the car into the 7-11 parking lot. He shut off the engine and sighed. Since May, he'd been running ragged across the country and was having serious second thoughts about being the Powers' errand boy. Keeping the balance was one thing. Finding a few hundred called Slayers and getting them to their newly-formed destinies was above and beyond.

And how many times was he supposed to endure that look? "I have no idea what you're talking about? What prophetic dreams? Vampires? You're shitting me! So what if I'm stronger? Fuck you, creep, or I'll call the cops!" Could just one girl accept what was given and be willing to meet her Watcher so he could get a day off? Was it really too much to ask?

Splosh!

An enormous plastic cup of a 7-11 Slurpee hit his windshield. The lid popped loose. A fountain of red slush streaked down the glass, and it looked a bit like lava running into the hood. Up went a chorus of shouts and raucous laughter. High school boys, high school drop-outs. Nothing better to do than hang out in the parking lot of a convenience store and harass the guy with the out-of-town plates.

They had crowded around a broken phone booth, but now they split wide to see what the guy in the hat would do. A couple of girls were there too. They hung back and watched in the way teenage girls wearing too much make-up and skin-tight shirts could do. Impress me. And the guys with their band t-shirts and stained jeans and doc martens and stolen packs of smokes would try.

There was a moment.

He wanted to throw the car in reverse, peel out of the parking lot and head to Syracuse. When pestered, Whistler could shrug his shoulders and say the girl either left town or simply refused. It wouldn't have been the first time.

But it passed.

Whistler slowly opened his door and stepped out. The kid on the end, rough hair and too many tattoos. Hoodie tossed back, attempting to look tough in the Detroit autumn sun. The hatted man ambled over, stood nose to chest. "Nice aim," he offered.

Then turned to the brunette next to him. "Your boyfriend's a dick."

A collective exclamation out of the group. ‘Oh shit, man!’ in masculine harmony. A bunch of slaps to Nevin Robinson’s back, egging him on. What was he going to do about it? Flex his shoulders. Punch one fist into his open palm a couple of times. Laugh like it wasn’t a big deal, then square his jaw and turn serious. Step up and wipe the smirk off the old guy‘s face.

Except for the fingernails twisting into the back of his t-shirt. A sharp tug between the shoulder blades pulled Nevin back on the curb. A blunt rebuttal came out of the brunette’s mouth that would echo down the decade.

"He’s not my boyfriend."

Rhiannon chewed on the spoon-shaped end of her Slurpee straw. It still tasted like cherry. “And his aim is shit.”

"I said it was nice." Whistler pulled out a pack of Pall Malls, shook one loose and lit it. "Not accurate."

He kept a steady eye on the teenager. She was what, fifteen? No, sixteen. A bit taller than him. She held herself steady. Confident.

Yup. This was the one he was supposed to contact.

"What about you, kid?" He offered the open pack. "Think you can hit something farther than a couple of feet?"

Rhiannon shrugged. Thinking something and not saying it.

Nevin had a look back and forth. His girl with thumb holes cut in her long sleeves and all the pen ink on her hands-- star and moon shapes and vines and other shit that got smudged off. The short dude in the brown hat that kept looking at her. Why the fuck was this guy still here?

He saw the cigarettes. He saw Rhiannon reach out and take one. “You don’t smoke,” he protested.

She handed him her straw. “Maybe I do now.”

Rhiannon put the cigarette in her mouth and it wobbled there, unfamiliar. She leaned close so that the stranger would light it for her. She wondered what he’d do if he realized she threw the Slurpee.

Whistler flicked the lighter and ignited her cigarette. An act he'd repeat over the next ten years.

"We need to talk," he spoke matter-of-factly to Rhiannon. That was the problem with activating so many Slayers. Every moment wasted meant an opportunity for the darkness to swallow a potential champion for good. There were more creepy-crawlies worming out of the ground the last five months, cause-and-effect of the upset balance provided by the spell.

Whistler took a drag of his cigarette, shot a look to Nevin. "You don't mind if I steal her, yeah?"

For his part, Nevin looked incredulous. For Rhiannon’s part, she just looked down.

Well, shit. He must‘ve figured it out.

Rhiannon’s cheeks went a shade redder than normal. She puffed on her cigarette and felt it burn all the way down her windpipe into her lungs. There was an intense need to cough, but she wasn’t going to do it, even when her eyes watered. “Look, whatever.” Exhale. Lick lips. “You needed to wash it anyway.”

She peeled off the phone booth and walked around the corner. Back behind the 7-11 there was a chain link fence and it had a hole in it. She could duck through and walk all the way to her back yard that way. The weeds were up around her shins, and there were some bottles and the like, but a path had gotten flattened down and that’s what she followed.

Experimentally, she puffed on the Pall Mall another time.

The Agent hated when they did that, dusted him off like he was nothing. That what he had to say was unimportant.

He started after the teen and was stopped by Nevin and his friends. Not what Whistler needed right now. If the girl wanted, she could easily blend into the shadows of the city and never be found. "Sorry, not interested," he muttered and thrust a knee into the boy's groin.

Whistler pushed past the others as they collectively used their five brain cells to decide what to do next, and ducked around the corner. He caught sight of her bobbing head past a high fence and followed. "Hold up, kid! We really need ta talk!"

“Not a ki-id!” she sing-songed over her shoulder and kept walking. The footpath was narrow and if she didn’t watch where she was going, she’d end up in the grass with the kinds of litter that could be found behind a 7-11, and that wasn‘t always pleasant. It was cold out, so Rhiannon rubbed her arms. She forgot all about the smoke until she dropped it.

“Oh shit...” A quiet hiss, because now she had to stop. She tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned over, looking for a red spark in the grass. Starting a brush fire in her neighborhood wasn’t on her list of cool things to do. She smelled the smoke and crouched.

The darkening sky made following the slayer that much worse. Any light cast over the area came from the floodlamps aimed at the immediate area behind them. Shadows crept large.

One in particular moved at a peculiar angle towards Whistler's charge.

Great, he grumbled to himself. He didn't even get to give the speech yet, and get laughed at for it.

Rhiannon plucked the Pall Mall out of the grass and looked it over. No way in hell was she gonna smoke it now. The sixteen-year-old lifted up her foot and smudged the butt on the bottom of her shoe. Then she tossed it in the grass again and stomped the place where she found it.

She lifted her head and saw the guy in the hat coming. But he wasn’t by himself. A bigger man tracked toward her from another direction. Rhiannon’s first thought was that he set her up somehow. Then she thought about yelling for Nevin. An untried slayer might’ve known she could hit things a lot harder than most people, but it wasn’t like with vampires, who woke up knowing what they were, how to fight, or understanding who the enemy was.

Oh god. I’m gonna get raped.

Rhiannon backed up. Her shoe hit an empty bottle, a 40. She picked it up and kept backing. “You even think about it, I’m gonna break this on your forehead. Then I’m gonna cut it off.”

"You can do better than that." Whistler stopped a few feet from the brunette, kept a close eye on the vampire as it approached from the west. It was time for a crash course. Slayer 101. "Here's the thing, kid. That guy? Ain't looking for a good time as much as he is your blood. And you can cut his thing off, but you'd be better if you severed the head."

He reached into the interior lining of his coat, and retrieved a sharpened piece of wood. It helped to be prepared. "Or better yet, drive this into his heart.

"No time to argue. Monsters exist, you know it's true 'cuz you've been dreamin' about 'em for the last five months. That thing's a vampire and you're its worst nightmare."

With that, Whistler lobbed the stake to Rhiannon, planting it six inches from her feet.

The space of a skipped heartbeat.

Time enough to look down and see the wide base of a stake sticking up, asking to be ripped out of the ground.

“...What?!”

Rhiannon’s question got lost because the vampire could hear, and what Whistler’s story amounted to was one word: Slayer. He had thrown the proverbial gauntlet. Later, when she knew him better, the brunette would wonder if he‘d done it on purpose.

The vampire launched itself into the air, a diving reach that made Rhiannon duck on instinct. She cringed and covered her head. It barely cleared her. She tugged the stick out of the ground like a weed, not because she knew how to use it or trusted a word the hatted guy said, but because it was sharp.

A stake in one hand, a bottle in the other. Half destiny, half street fight. Rhiannon got up, breathing hard and getting panicked, and she looked back and forth between attackers. Then she clocked Whistler in the head with her beer bottle.

She rounded on the vampire and breathed, “Ohhh my god,” when she saw his face. Rhiannon shuffled the stake into her dominant right hand and leapt back a foot when it lurched. Waited. Kicked it in the ribs when it lurched again.

And people questioned why he always wore a hat.

The impact of the glass against his hard head shattered the bottle, rained jagged pieces in a tiny arc. The blow, a mixture of untested slayer strength and panic, sent Whistler to one knee. He carefully brushed off tiny pieces of glass from his jacket, kept an eye on his charge.

"Shove the pointy end into his chest!" he shouted.

Why was he helping her? Rhiannon cringed. “I don’t... I don’t want to!” In her mind, all she could picture was blood and maybe some tendons poking out around the stake, and how she’d be a murderer. It’s self-defense! She got so caught up thinking about it, the vampire punched her in the mouth.

It hit hard. She heard something in her neck pop and her whole mouth was full of blood. Rhiannon almost fumbled the stake when she stumbled backwards, ankle deep in the weeds. She kept thinking that’s how they got you -- when you fell on your back -- so she wobbled on her heels and tried for balance.

It was nothing but instinct to hold her ground when the vampire charged again. A little light came on in Rhiannon’s head. She held stock-still and kept that stake tucked up near her chest. When the vampire spread its arms and plowed into her, the stake went into its torso. By the grace of god, it caught the corner of the vampire’s heart. Rhiannon landed on her back. The demon was nothing but a cloud of dust falling on top of her.

As battle cries went, 'I don't want to!' kinda felt flat.

As for trials by fire. Yeah. This one stood a chance.

Whistler stood and made his way over to the girl, offered his hand. "They won't believe you," he offered. Nevin and the crew, probably detailing his car while he introduced Rhiannon into a world she never knew existed. "You can try tellin' the cops, but they'll argue the guy was on PCP and just ran away."

Somewhere in the melée he'd lost his cigarette. The Agent pulled out the pack and shook out two. "Nobody likes admitting the shadows are more substantial, that they have teeth. That's why they created people like you. To fight back."

It was hard to breathe. It was hard to breathe, and he was talking. Rhiannon took his hand to get up, because more than anything, she didn’t want to be on her back. Then she was standing and his words kept coming, but all she could think about was her mouth and how it probably looked.

She turned around and held her hair back, fingers acting as a makeshift ponytail holder. When she was sure he couldn’t see, Rhiannon bent over and opened her mouth and spit out all the saliva and blood. Thank god there weren’t any teeth. Her face felt gritty from the vampire dust.

Vampire dust.

Rhiannon thought she might throw up. Instead, she closed her eyes and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I won’t tell anybody,” she said. Tell them what? Once, she tried to tell her dad about the nightmares, and how she knew there were people were looking in the windows at night, and he told her to stop dropping acid.

Her lips were sealed. She straightened up.

He could see it sinking in. Behind her eyes, the realization of what Whistler was saying. That it all made some impossible sense, and yet.

Every town. Each new Slayer. That moment of acceptance. There was a bit of loss that usually accompanied. How they knew nothing could ever be the same. That friendships, attachments, how they dealt with their family. Everything would be tinged.

Whistler really hated that part. Like he was stealing from them. Not their innocence, necessarily. But it never made him feel good.

"You okay, kid?" he asked. "There's more you need to know. About who you are, what you can do.

"Where you need to be." Which ain't here.

She tasted her lip, touched it to make sure it wasn’t still bleeding. It was hard to look at him. She hadn’t actually met his eyes yet. Call it Slurpee guilt.

“I know who I am. I’m Rhiannon.” A curiosity, a soft girl who had gotten brittle around the edges, who seemed bound and determined to fall into the roughest group she could so maybe dad would notice and tell her not to. A good girl, despite appearances. She had a spine of steel and didn’t know it yet.

“Who are you?” The Slayer lifted her chin and met him head on, eye to eye. It startled her. He had the kindest eyes. They didn’t match his clothes. He dressed like a swindler. She was immediately sorry for the 40.

Crap. Crapcrapcrapcrap. No names. Goddamnit.

'Kid'. He was better off calling them that. Names meant familiarity. It meant knowing the person behind the Slayer. Didn't she get it?

Whistler had been doing this for months now. Rounding up girls as young, or younger, than Rhiannon. Putting them on their path, delivering them to a Watcher who could train them. He had to forget about them because chances are they could be dead within three months.

No attachments. That was the way.

He looked into her eyes. Saw through the tough act. The girl behind the Slayer. The possibility of who she could become, if Rhiannon weren't unceremoniously dumped into the hands of a stranger who only knew from books and more books.

"Whistler." Damnit. "At least that's what I go by these days. Nice to meet 'cha."

Whistler. Rhiannon’s mind gobbled up the information like candy. Already she moved a hair closer to him, this mysterious man who helped her even after she brained him with a malt liquor bottle. Plus, he knew about the nightmares. She didn’t get how, but she wanted to. “You can call me Rhi...

“Can I have another cigarette?” When she opened up her hand, Rhiannon remembered there was a stake in it before. Where’d it go? She looked down at the pile of dust around her feet, but didn’t say anything.

The Agent lit both and offered one to Rhiannon. "These things'll kill ya," he chuckled. "So don't come runnin' to me in..," not that she would live long enough, given the life expectancy of Slayers, "forty years when you get lung cancer. 'Whistler, you got me hooked on this shit'."

Who knew. Maybe he'd be mistaken. If he willed it hard enough, said it enough times. She'll outlast 'em all. Positive reinforcement. He couldn't help but look in those eyes and hope. He knew her name now. Rhiannon. Rhi. Rhi-Rhi. Make the name cute. No one would kill someone that cute.

Whoa. Dirty old man time. That wasn't a good thought. Push it down. You're what, six times her age? Pervert.

"I dunno about you but this kinda discussion ain't meant for a back alley. And I could use a drink. You'd probably like what, a root beer?"

Rhiannon’s expression went from zero to disdain in two seconds flat. “A root beer? What am I, twelve?” She took a drag from the cigarette. Seriously. Next thing you know, he’d be offering a dollop of vanilla ice cream to make it a float.

“There’s a pool hall two blocks over. It’s got a bar. I know a guy, he lets me in. Don’t even have to pay. We could go there.” She shivered and blew the smoke out. It was getting cold. Rhiannon tucked her free hand in a pocket and moved closer, let him block the wind.

"Alright." Kids today. They grew up so fast. And, Whistler supposed, a day like this a person deserved a beer. "Lead the way."

He took a step towards Rhiannon and stopped. Bent down and pushed away the dust. The Agent retrieved the stake and offered it to his new charge. "Rule number one. Never leave your weapons behind."

Another drag of the cigarette. "Rule number two. Not everything gets killed with a piece of wood. You might wanna invest in a knife or two."

“Really?” She held the stake awkwardly, not knowing where to put it. In the end, it went in the back of Rhiannon’s waistband. It made her shirt poke out weirdly, but there weren’t any deep pockets in her jeans. “I’ve got a pocket knife,” she said and cut across the grassy lot. She kept looking at his profile, checking to make sure he was coming along, too. “I mean, at home. My dad gave it to me. Or has it got to be bigger?”

The grass made soft sounds underfoot. Rhiannon hoped there weren’t any ticks in it. She kept walking until a gravel parking lot and started going across that, too. They passed a laundromat, a mechanic’s garage. “What am I stabbing with it?” She didn’t mean to fire all those questions, but she didn’t know what he was getting at, and how did he know she was strong? And why’d it happen? She wet her lips and wished she had a piece of paper to write questions on, in case she forgot any.

"I've seen people kill with a toothpick. Now that's accuracy." Hand was stuffed in his pocket, the other holding the cigarette as he took another drag. "Don't suppose you've had much practice throwing? Gonna need that. And yeah, bigger."

He suppressed a smile. Most of the girl's he'd encountered so far took the news a lot worse. And they certainly didn't ask questions. Not this kind. They were more interested in how they could give it away, auction off the power to someone who wanted it more. Rhiannon was a sponge.

She just might make it a year.

"It's not like I can teach ya everything overnight, kid-- Rhiannon," he continued. "And I'm really just the messenger. My job’s to get you started and hook you up with someone who knows how to train you properly."

Rhiannon’s eyebrows cinched when he said ‘throwing’. Truth be told, her aim left much to be desired. It was some kind of miracle her cup even hit his car, and she was aiming for his window. “Train me for what?” she wanted to know. “What am I?”

The other thing she wanted to ask was, ‘You mean you can’t do it?’ Rhiannon was grateful she didn’t. It would make her sound like some kind of clingy freak.

At the pool hall, she swung open the door and waved at Sam. He eyed her and the stranger, tried to figure out if there was a ‘cop’ vibe, and then nodded and went back to whatever he was doing.

Whistler eyed the place. He'd seen worse. There was a dive outside of Las Vegas that made this place look like a five-star palace among pool halls. Did they come to tables or did he have to provide a three-part gangsta sign at the bar to get a beer for an underage girl?

A booth in the corner was vacant and he maneuvered Rhiannon over. He was surprised to find the bartender a step behind, depositing two bottles of beer on the table. He offered a few bills and hoped the guy wasn't Chris Hansen with a hidden camera crew.

Whistler took a sip of his beer, stamped out the cigarette nub into the ashtray and lit another. "You're a Vampire Slayer. I know, ridiculous name, right? The short story is this, Rhi." He offered the girl another cigarette. Apparently he was an enabler, what with the smokes and beer.

"Back before time really existed, gods and monsters walked the earth. We were kinda fodder in their war. Slaves, food. One of those factions were vampires, only not the one you saw tonight. That's a hybrid. Like okay. Vampires aren't born, they're made. Like Stoker and Rice, they drink to survive, hate sunlight and crosses and shit. And they make others by havin' 'em drink from them too. Only when they die, the soul leaves and gets inhabited by a demon. Human host, demon filler. Only they didn't originate with a pissed-off Romanian. Nope, they were part of the before times. They used to be a lot worse, and harder to kill."

The smoke wafted underneath Whistler's hat. "So one day most of the monsters went away. Either killed off or got sucked into another dimension, no one knows for sure. But some remained, like vamps. And so some old guys decided wouldn't it be nice if they could create something that could fight back. Naturally they chose a woman, because you know, they really had no respect for the fairer sex. They infused her with..." He so didn't want to go there.

But he had to. Whistler knew Rhiannon's name, and each second spent not taking her to a Watcher meant knowing more of her.

"A demon. And sent her off to fight. And up until five months ago, it was one girl against the darkness. Now? There's hundreds if not thousands. Including you."

He talked too fast. Rhiannon tried to keep up. Normally she’d cut the person off whether it was rude or not, but if she got Whistler mad he might walk out the door and then she wouldn’t have anything. So she smoked her cigarette -- she was getting a headache from it -- and scrambled to keep her brain from getting snagged on details. For instance, how this fit in with the holy trinity.

Whenever anybody walked by or made a noise, and it threatened to pull her attention, she got irritated. Leaned a little farther over the tabletop. But one detail stuck out like a sore thumb. “Wait. What do you mean, infused?” Rhiannon picked at the label on her beer. “You mean she was possessed?”

"Technically. Kinda. It's complicated."

Whistler sucked back on the beer, wished at this moment it was scotch. Or tequila. He really hoped she wasn't a Jesus freak. He'd met one two months ago in Kansas. She ran a stake into her own palm the first night.

"It's more like it bonded with her at the DNA level. Gave her strength, speed, stamina -- which you inherited by the way -- but without the ugly after-taste. You're your own person, Rhi. Free to make your own decisions, mistakes. And allowed to tell off your Watcher when he's bein' a dick. That's rule number three."

“Is that what you are?” Rhiannon drank some of her beer and peeled the damp label away. It flopped across the back of her hand. Across the room, a pool stick cracked loudly, and then there was the noise of balls rolling across felt, going into side pockets.

She felt antsy. It was tough to be still. Rhiannon brought her legs in Indian-style and begged herself to stay alert, to not look wigged out, to work through the kinks. She chanced a look at Whistler. She had known something was wrong with her for months, since that day in the locker room during gym. Everybody else had changed into their gold shirts and green shorts and gone to play sports, but she stayed on the bench, half in her uniform, half in her street clothes. She felt sick in the middle part of her, and kind-of flushed and weird. The whole hour she waited. The teacher didn’t check on her, and she was glad for it, because when she went into the toilet stall to get some tissue, she accidentally broke the door. It came right of its wobbling hinges when she shut it. Rhiannon had to prop it and hope nobody noticed until later.

After that there were bad dreams. It was seldom that they came true, but it was often enough to be too much of a coincidence. Was it her fault to dream a person was eaten alive, not say anything, and have it happen? And there was a time when she broke her thumb punching something, and it was fine again a week later.

In a way, it was a relief that he didn’t think she was nuts. Terrifying to hear the word ‘demon’. But there was another emotion rising up. A deep-seeded ache in her chest to have a purpose in her life other than the regular ones. Wouldn’t it be amazing, having been born for a reason other than just being somebody’s kid? To find out she wasn’t really empty of the same passion other people had... that she was just waiting for her passion to find her and fill her up? Infusion, whatever it was, didn’t scare her if that‘s what it did. She already knew she wasn’t meant to stay here.

‘Is that what you are?’

Whistler chuckled loudly. "Nah, they're for the most part really stuffy and British. Oh occasionally you'll find one that isn't a huge fan of tea and being stuck up, but it's rare.

"I'm just the guy who gets you there. I'm nobody really. You'll forget me in a week."

He slid the pack of Paul Malls over to Rhiannon. "What else do you wanna know?"

She stared at his fingers. They were warm when he helped her stand up earlier. He didn’t look like a vampire. She had to know. “What are you?”

He pressed the palm of his hand against the table, fingers spread. "I work for people who wanna see the balance maintained. I know things, usually just by looking at the source. Old enough to be your great-great-great... yeah let's not go there.

"I'm not fully human." Surprise. Whistler took a breath. "I'm a friend."

Rhiannon put her palm down, too. Flat, fingertips facing his. Their middle ones touched. He didn’t look not human. His hands were regular. She should’ve been scared of him but wasn’t. Apparently she wasn‘t fully human, either. “You’re my friend or just everybody’s?”

His life wasn't built for long-term relationships.

Neither was Rhiannon's.

Apparently they had that in common as well.

"Yours."

Rhiannon looked up. She was tentative, altogether different from the girl he approached outside, but trying not to be. She wanted to grab his hand and squeeze it tight, because he was the only person who knew. Instead, she pulled back, dug her fingernails into her palm. “Okay. I’ll let you take me to him... the Watcher.”

"Right, well. I'm sure you've got things you need to take care of first. Packing clothes. Saying good-bye to the not-boyfriend. No rush, right? Take a few days to get things in order."

Usually it was the Slayer who had cold feet.

Whistler finished his beer, was tempted to order a second. Or five.

Delay the inevitable. Once he took her to Collins, Rhiannon would be out of his hair (thinning as it was). He'd be off to Syracuse to the next while she met her destiny.

That stopped the ball rolling. “Pack clothes? You mean I have to stay with him?” Rhiannon leaned back. The stake ground into her spinal column. She resisted the urge to yank it out of its hiding place.

"Kinda comes with the Calling," the Agent countered. "Don't worry, he's local. You'll have your own room, food. You're a fuck of a lot stronger than him so if he tries anything, you can break it off. Though Collins is British, so you won't have to worry about that part."

He eyed Rhiannon nervously. "What, you'd rather crash with me?"

“I--” Rhiannon’s mouth moved but there wasn’t any sound. It was like her throat closed for business. What was up with her? “I just... you know, I have a dad. I’m sixteen. He might not... I mean, it‘s not like I never moved out before, but that was to my friend’s house. We‘re supposed to be trying it out again.”

Whistler flagged the bartender and ordered another round. They were both going to need it. "You're not the only one now, Rhiannon. Others can pick up the fight sure. You can continue a normal life. Go to school, make out in the parking lot of the 7-11 with guys who think goth never went outta style.

"But you saw just a fraction of what's out there. There's vampires and assorted demons and people need to beat 'em back into the night. If you can ignore that, then I'll leave ya be. But if you can't turn back, if you wanna meet your destiny and fight, then you're gonna have to make a few sacrifices. Don't mean you won't ever see your dad, just means you gotta travel a bit further."

Rhiannon rushed to cut him off. “I’m not backing out!” That got her posture up again. It was like she never leaned away in the first place. “I don’t do that. I don’t care about school or whatever. I just have to figure out what to tell him. I can lie. You said not to tell anybody the truth, right?” She wrapped hands around her beer bottle.

"I didn't mean, not ever," he corrected. "Just most people won't understand. Some might wanna lock you up in the loony bin. And then I'd have to concoct some insane scheme to break you out. Do ya really want that, Rhi-Rhi?" He quirked an eyebrow. Whistler looked horrible in hospital scrubs too. And they'd make him take off his hat.

"You tell your father what you think he can handle. And if you need to talk with anyone." He took a swig of his second beer. "I'll drop in from time to time."

“When?” It wasn’t asked in a needy way. Rhiannon didn’t know what to expect. She mirrored his sip of beer, rubbed her lips together when she swallowed. If it came down to it, she could craft a brilliant excuse for where she was going. Or just pick another fight and get her ass kicked out. That kind of thing happened routinely, and she’d crash on Nevin’s couch or somebody else’s until they both cooled off. It wasn’t a big deal. There were four or so couches in the neighborhood with Rhiannon’s name on them. “I mean, when will you take me? I can be ready on... Friday?”

Too soon. "Sure. I can get a hotel room." He scratched absently at the back of his neck. "If you want, I'll give ya more details, let you know what to expect."

Rhiannon nodded. “Hold on a second.” She scooted out of the booth and got a pencil from the bar. When she came back, she passed him a napkin with her address and the phone number there. “Call me and let me know what hotel and I’ll come by and you can tell me more about it. Then you can pick me up Friday. Our house is bluish-gray. There’s a giant dog, but he’s mostly crippled. He’s got arthritis. So if he barks, just ignore him.”

The napkin was carefully folded and tucked into his breast pocket. He considered putting it under his hat but the joke might've been lost. Or lame. Probably both.

"Alright. I'll call in the morning. You dream anything interesting, make sure you write it down." The bottle was tipped against his lips, and Whistler drained the contents.

"You're gonna make it." Not so much a lie this time. He began to believe Rhiannon had a chance.

With the naivety of a girl who hadn’t yet a clue, Rhiannon shrugged and said, “Why wouldn’t I?”

"Yeah." Whistler smiled. "Why wouldn't you?"