Now instead of feeling dragged out by Charlie to deal with scary authorities, Suatre was going on an adventure with Sorrel, who he felt on slightly more even ground with. However now the silence was awkward. Sorrel always seemed to be just observing and waiting for Suatre to say something. Suatre drummed his knees with his fingers and watched the city go by. With a jolt he realized they were passing the city center, the building where he’d been. He didn’t see Charlie anywhere.

The rain fell as they raced through town. There was more traffic now which made sense as the rain fell heavier than before. Lights passed from tall buildings, neon signs over businesses. People on the streets. How was this really the future? It seemed so normal at first, but if you looked at anything for more than three seconds you realized nothing was the same. Like the self driving car he was in, sitting next to an alien.

He found himself looking at Sorrel, his weird ears and his short compact frame. The way he dressed so anonymously, like he was just getting off work at a mattress store or something. The way he seemed so fucking bored but still just dropped whatever he’d been doing to go on a random trip to find - what?

With Charlie he’d wanted to feel the man’s big warm arm around him, to press against his wide chest and close his eyes and just be safe. With Sorrel...he felt something too but under his weird feelings and adrenaline and being stoned, he wasn’t sure. He kind of wanted to touch Sorrel’s ears. He wondered what Sorrel would do then.

Sorrel seemed to ignore him as he looked. Then everything sort of drained out of him and he fell asleep, his head leaned back. As he drifted off, Suatre hoped he wouldn’t snore.

He did, and the sound woke him up.

“Almost there,” Sorrel said.

They were out in the country somewhere. The grasslands were flat for miles, but to either side of them the horizon was interrupted by mountains. The sun had come out.

The little blue car pulled up to a little white house at the end of a long dirt driveway.

Something was familiar about the place but Suatre couldn’t put his finger on it.

They walked up the porch stairs. The door was locked and Suatre opened it with the key.

Inside it was a homey kind of place. A living room opened up from the front door and to the right side was a kitchen and dining room. Everything was earth toned, browns and greens and reds and yellows on the furniture, carpet, curtains. Everywhere were little chicken paintings, chicken figures, chickens on the towels in the kitchen, stuffed chickens on the couch.

Sorrel and Suatre looked at each other.

“Hello?” Suatre called as they walked in further. Silence echoed back. Their steps creaked in the floor, as if it hadn’t been trod on for some time. Countertops were dusty, as were the plastic ferns in the corners near the kitchen table.

“So...do you know this place?” Sorrel asked, gingerly picking up the stuffed chicken, pinching its wing between his thumb and forfinger. He peered at it closely, then dropped it back down, where it bounced against the cusions and fell to the floor.

“Aw,” Suatre said as he knelt to retrieve the chicken. He whanged his knee against something. “Ow! No, I-”

Under the coffee table was a box. On it's side, written in sloppy letters was his name, SUATRE.

He slid it out. A normal cardboard box, dusty and banged around and taped up.

They looked at each other again. Suatre looked back down at the box, made no move to open it. Outside somewhere a chicken cackled.

“Suatre,” Sorrel said. “Open it.”

He took a deep breath, took out the key and used it to tear through the packing tape across the top.

Inside were cassette tapes and cds. A whole bunch, not stacked neatly but all jumbled as if they’d been thrown into the box in a hurry. Suatre felt a gasp of air blow through his lungs.

“What are those?” Sorrel asked, his voice mildly disgusted. Maybe he’d been hoping for treasure or something.

Suatre’s hands shook as he lifted a tape from the box. On it was written, in that childish handwriting “The morning sad”. With another small gasp he dropped it back in. He scanned the rest. Tori. Ani. Diamanda. Manson. Blind Melon. Bjork. Sinead. SOAD. These were his.

He whipped his head around, as if to find someone waiting to jump out from behind the door and yell SURPRISE. GOT YOU. You thought you were lost forever in the winds of time and space. You thought you’d never get home. You thought you’d never hear these songs again.

Sorrel looked around too, confusion leaking through his bored expression. He repeated his question.

“They’re...they’re my music collection,” Suatre said softly. “I don’t know how they got here.”

“That’s music?”

“They’re recorded...you know...cds? Um…”

Sorrel shrugged. “Sounds like some retro human stuff.”

“Yeah, retro…” Suatre dug through the box. So many good albums. Did this world never have System of a Down? Or Sublime? Or Veruca Salt or Garbage or Hole or Ciba Matto or-

“What do you even play those in?”

“Like...a boombox?" Suatre felt dizzy. How had this gotten here? What about the key? Whose house was this? He stood and looked around again.

Sorrel leaned back in the comfy seat he’d taken. He didn’t ask. The silence blanketed them, save for a chicken clucking outside. It sounded like only one. It sounded hungry.

Suatre walked to the back door and looked out. A vast empty yard. No fence between the grass and the boundless flat farm fields surrounding them. A white and orange chicken clucking by the back door. There was a bag of feed. He took a handful and threw it into the grass, and the chicken followed, her clucking momentarily silenced as she hunted for grains.

Back inside he checked the fridge. Bread and jam, some peanut butter and pickles. In the cupboard, some plates and mugs, the same orange and green colors as the muted room’s decorations were.

Sorrel’s eyes followed him everywhere.

Suatre went into the hallway. There was a bathroom and suddenly he had to piss. The modest bathroom only had a toilet, shower, sink, and single towel with a chicken on it. He pissed, washed and dried his hands, and continued his exploration.

The bedroom had a small dresser and a queen bed with a patchwork quilt in chicken colors, but not actual images of chickens. Suatre felt like he was about to start yelling at whoever set this place up, that chickens are not an all purpose decorating motif, but as soon as he thought that he knew he was wrong. They were the most all purpose motif he could think of, besides flowers. He didn’t see any flowers here.

In the closet were some shirts of his, hanging in a row. They scared him, he almost didn’t touch them, but then he took them down slowly and piled them as neatly as he could in his arms. So many old shirts. He didn’t even want these shirts. He took them and noticed another cardboard box. In this one was a cd and cassette player.

He stuffed all the shirts in around the player and took the box downstairs, where Sorrel was poking through the tapes.

“Let’s go,” Suatre said. They walked out, and Suatre locked the door and put the key under the welcome mat.

He felt numb as they loaded the two boxes into the tear shaped car, get in and drove off. The little house faded into the distance.

This time when he woke up from his car ride nap, his head was on Sorrel’s shoulder. Sorrel’s head leaned against his, as he slept quietly. Suatre didn’t move until the car coming to a stop jostled Sorrel awake, who sat up unembarassed and yawned and stretched.

It was dark out, but it was winter and the night had been beginning at around 4pm nowadays, so it’d been dark for a while. The rain had stopped but it was still cold and soggy out. Suatre hoped the chicken at the house had somewhere dry to roost. 

They went into Sorrel’s apartment.

Still the awkwardness. Suatre didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what was going on, and for good or bad Sorrel wasn’t prying. He wanted to ramble but what could he say? He set the boxes by the door, followed Sorrel’s lead in kicking his shoes off, and went in to sit on the stylish grey couch again.

Sorrel went into the kitchen and Suatre heard him cooking something. He smelled onions and garlic.

He picked up the joint from the ashtray on the coffee table and lit it, waited as the green feeling washed the weirdness from him.

“Can I stay over?” He asked loudly, so Sorrel would hear him over the cooking noises.

“Go ahead,” Sorrel said.

Sorrel had made some garlic chicken and vegetables. Carrots and onions and rice. It was warm and bland and perfect. Suatre started feeling emotional again after his hunger, both real and the munchies, had been satisfied. He rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t ask people about their shit,” Sorrel said, “but are you in trouble? Did you do something bad? I need to know if someone’s going to kick down my door.”

“No, no. I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Sorrel shrugged. “Okay.”

“How are you so chill, man? Why did you help me today? If you thought I was like a murderer or something.”

“I did not think you were a murderer. With those scrawny arms?” Sorrel said, lightly teasing.

“Fine, but. You don’t know what’s going on either.”

“True. However...I don’t like the empire. You know that. If they’re after you, then I’m going to protect you from them.”

Suatre blinked, rubbed his eyes again. Tired and emotional, that was his life lately, it seemed.

“Thanks man...that means a lot.”

“Where do you want to sleep?” Sorrel asked.

“”The couch,” Suatre said as Sorrel was still speaking, saying, “We can share-” and stopped. Suatre cocked his head and Sorrel shook his.

“Nevermind. The couch is fine.”

He whipped up some sheets and blankets and pillows with his printer. Grey, either default or to match his couch, or both. Default settings for Sorrel, it seemed.

Suatre slept fine on the couch, once he stopped thinking about the boxes of his old shit by the front door, waiting to get going back to his home.