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A styro in each hand, creamers, sugar packets and stir sticks balanced on top, the Squamish Times wedged under his arm. Passing the Skylark, thinking of switching rides, Denny set the cups on the roof and tugged open the door. Getting behind the wheel, he set a styro on the dash, looking at Bobbi at the phone box, hoping this guy Carmen came through with the chalet, let them hide out a day or so. Denny fixed his coffee, thinking of a cozy fire, nice and warm, just the two of them counting out the cash, helping themselves to Carmen’s liquor.
If that didn’t work out, he knew this guy in Whistler, another hour north. Rubin Stevens grew some righteous weed — a friendly type of guy, the kind you could look up and drop in on — the guy who made the run to Vancouver every couple of weeks, dropping off a quarter-pound of homegrown to Wilson and his flat-mates, each of them chipping in seventy-five bucks. Kept Denny’s head on right, with a good buzz, but needing to suck on his Medihaler, dealing with his asthma. Betting if he hadn’t dodged his uncle after getting on the news, the asthma would have kept him from conscription, his uncle putting him down as 4-F, like he told that job recruiter.