I move back to the path and find a long feather. My fingers brush the fine barbs lining the right side which are nearly completely matted with mud. Some separate into new clumps, while others remain sticking out at flawed angles from the weight of the rain and dirt. It never ceases to amaze me how beautiful such a tiny detail is.

This feather is now useless and undoubtedly flawed, but the quill is sharp, ending in a fine point that I run across the ground, which is soft from all of the rain we’ve been having. It leaves a vague line that I appreciate. I like that I’m making such a slight indent, one you have to search for. I lean closer, my knees growing damp with the residual wetness that moss always seems to hold, and I draw.

I NOTICE the cast of the bright yellow lights before I register the rumble of the truck’s engine. My fingers slowly release the tight pressure around the feather and I straighten, brushing my free hand that has become stiff from being cold and supporting my weight, and take a step back.

The passenger door opens first, followed by the driver’s side. Parker and King head over to me, their profiles darkened by the light of the cab.

“Were you writing an SOS in the dirt?” Parker’s tone is light, teasing. I feel that uncomfortable energy creeping through me, filling me with doubt. I never question that art is a profession, a necessity, a legitimately respected craft. I do, however, doubt that I’m deserving of those things. Even with the awards and recognition I’ve earned over the years, these familiar insecurities still crawl through me. I know I’m good. I just don’t know that I’m good enough.

His comment has my nerves and thoughts stumbling, delaying me from taking the few steps to distort the image with a couple of carefully placed prints of my ballet flats.

“Wh … How … Shit, you’re good!” Parker rattles. His shoulder brushes against mine as he stares down at the image. “She drew Mercedes, dude. Check this out.”

King carefully steps up to the image, coming to the top of her head where her hair is blowing in an invisible breeze. His gaze remains down as he steps around the drawing to my other side. Without saying anything, he pulls out his phone and holds it forward, taking a series of photographs.

“It doesn’t capture it. I need Summer,” he says, frustration deepening his voice.

“It’s too faint. She wouldn’t be able to get anything much better,” I assure him. He looks over at me, his eyes intense with focus. “I thought you didn’t know anything about photography?”

“Just random bits from a high school elective, which believe me, isn’t saying much.”

“You’re like the musicians that play all instruments,” Parker says, pulling out his phone and capturing a few images as well.

“Hardly.” My eyebrows jog up and down a single time with the thought. “There are so many different types of art; it would blow your mind to see them all. Just the different kinds of painting and drawing techniques can fill several books.”

“Feathers are covered in parasites and bacteria. I thought being a farm kid, you’d know that.” My attention flickers to King; his is on my hands.

“Parasites?”

“Viruses too.”

Talk about the tempting fruit. It slips from my fingers before I consciously think of releasing it. It falls gracelessly to my feet where the already muddied barbs become covered with a new coat.

“It’s the lice and mites you really have to worry about.” King tilts his head, giving me a clearer view of his raised eyebrows that are assuming I’ve already contracted one or both and is telling me it was my own fault.

“It’s obviously been out here a while. Bugs like that have to feed off of something,” I counter.

“Parasites you mean.” His eyes follow me.

“Whatever.”

His eyebrows go up even higher, bemused by my disgust that I’m trying to mask with ambivalence.

“You go to school for art though, right?” Parker’s question punctuates the silent exchange of threats and dares that King and I are locked in. I wonder if he just knows King well enough to ignore his behavior. I give King one last hard look and nod absently while voicing a confirmation to Parker, and then turn to the abandoned bikes. My footfalls echo in the silence of their thoughts and undoubted revenge King is masterminding.

“How’s Mercedes?” I lift the bike I had been using and wheel it toward where the guys are standing, Parker with his phone still out and King staring at the picture I drew. I’m tempted to cross over it. Though I received the accolades I had been searching for, I now question the sincerity.

“I sent this shit to Kash. He’s going to freak out,” Parker says, still staring at his phone.

“He’s already seen her work. He knows how good she is.” King’s statement makes it impossible for me to look over at him.

“Yeah, but this is in the dirt! Who can make a freaking picture with dirt and a feather!”

“We should probably go check to see how Mercedes is doing,” I say, wheeling the bike so close to the picture, the tire creates a ridge around the top of her head.

If I look back, I’m fairly certain King would be staring at me, but I don’t. I push the bike to the tailgate and lean it against my waist as I open the latch.

“Here, muscles, I’ve got it,” Parker says with a teasing grin. He takes the bike and hoists it into the bed of the truck before hopping inside. I don’t watch as he readjusts it, but rather I go in search of another bike.

King meets me by the hood of the truck, guiding a bike with each hand. I step closer, my hands extended to receive one of them. We do a strange dance, him reluctant for me to help, me refusing to stand here and do nothing. The pedal from Mercedes’ bike bites low into my shin as I make a move to take it, ultimately stalling me, and making the entire process even more awkward.

“How’s Mercedes?” I ask once more as Parker cinches a rope around the bikes.

“She’s fine. Just that gash on her jaw. She’ll likely have some bruising tomorrow, but nothing serious.” I blink several times in an attempt to pull my stare from King. When he talks, his lips go slightly higher on one side, just like when he smiles. Most of the time, it’s hardly noticeable, and at others, impossible. I find it entrancing.

“I’m glad. That fall looked painful.”

“It’s the nature of the beast,” King replies, pulling on the knot Parker just secured.

“Is that where you got all of your scars from?”

King shifts his gaze to me, tilting his head. “What scars?” He can hardly keep the smirk off his face.

I should consider my next words, but I’m so concerned his smirk is to disguise offense from my loosely posed question that I don’t. “The ones on your hands and arm.”

“Oh, I thought you were talking about the ones on my chest and back, or the one on my thigh.”

My face heats, and my jaw drops open slightly.

“You walking around the house in your skivvies?” Parker asks, hopping out of the truck.

“Just on the days he runs out of flannel.” My tone is dry, attempting to create a warning.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve seen all of my—”

“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t remember what you wore yesterday considering how well-acquainted you and Kash are with the washing machine.”

“Says the twenty-two-year-old that doesn’t know how to cook anything besides boxed dinners,” King says pointedly.

“Seriously. I can’t believe you were able to finish all of that laundry! Where did it all go?” Once again, Parker’s question leaves my mind reeling.

I can tell by the brightness shining in King’s eyes that he’s finding Parker’s addition to be intrusive. He wants to make a dig back at me, but Parker’s already talking about something else, his voice loud but his words inaudible. My thoughts are in a darkened bedroom, tracing over a map of both faint and distinct scars. They aren’t ugly, not in the slightest. In fact, they’re beautiful. A network showcasing dedication, endurance, commitment, and perseverance. “Where do you think it went, shithead?”