Page 99 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“You’re … Shit.”
“It wasn’t intentional.” Again, I blurt it without thinking … which happens when your brain is already half asleep.
“And that is none of anyone’s business,” Anders says with a look at me. “Even if you’re just trying to be clear that you wouldn’t intentionally get pregnant when the town is so new.”
“Everyone on staff is going to need to know eventually,” I say. “About the pregnancy at least. It just hasn’t been necessary yet.”
“And you’ve been a little busy,” Yolanda says. “Well, if we’re on the topic of confessions, let’s add one to what I came here to say.” She turns to Anders. “I have Parkinson’s, and I want to be on the militia.”
“Uh…” Anders says.
“Yes, I mostly came to say I want to be on the militia, though I needed to talk about something else, too. But Casey admitting she’s pregnant made me realize I should divulge my medical status as well, if I’m applying to a position where it may be a concern. Also, I’m not really applying so much as telling you that I’m joining the militia.”
“I appreciate you letting me know,” Anders says dryly. “But as the person in charge of any as-yet-unformed militia, I do get to approve—or reject—applicants. Which will have nothing to do with your medical status.”
“You already knew, didn’t you.”
“Actually, no. I just knew you were smoking pot for a medical condition. You’re young for Parkinson’s. Also, it’s uncommon among Blacks, but your grandmother is white, so…” He shrugs. “I’d say I’m sorry to hear it, but I know you don’t want that.”
“I don’t. Parkinson’s won’t affect my performance for a while. Right now I get tremors.” She holds out a hand, which is shaking slightly. “Mostly in the evening, when I’m tired. They’re minor, but I still wouldn’t go out with a gun when I have them. I can shoot, though. Very well. With a handgun, at least. I have my own.”
“All right.”
“Also, I have mild prosopagnosia. Face blindness. Which could be a slight issue, mostly if you ask whether I’ve seen a resident who superficially resembles other residents.”
“Got it.” Anders stretches on the floor. “So, militia, huh? What made you decide on that?”
“While Max was out there, I discovered I felt a whole lot more useful patrolling than sitting on my ass. I’m also bored. I need a job here.”
“One could argue…” Anders begins.
“That my job was construction, and it’s done? Yes. If you mean because my job is done, I should leave?” She snorts. “I’ll leave when I’m ready. For now, give me work, including but not limited to the militia.”
“There’s an opening on the sanitation—” I begin.
“No.”
“Huh,” I say, “I seem to recall you claiming a willingness to do any job here.”
“Any job temporarily, to learn how it’s done or to fill in during an emergency. Not any job designed to scare me off, which won’t work anyway, so neither of us would get what we want.” She bends over the Scrabble board and says to Anders, “You’re going to want to build on that J next or Eric will.”
“Do you want to play, Yolanda?” Dalton asks. “Or just tag-team with Will?”
“She can tag-team with me,” Anders says, “and you can tag-team with your wife.”
“Right now I think Storm would be more useful,” Dalton says.
“Watch it,” I say, “or when I throw up tomorrow morning, I won’t bother aiming for the toilet.”
“Well, there goes my appetite,” Yolanda says, tossing her uneaten cheese puffs back into the bowl.
“Did you say you had something else to talk about?” Dalton says. “Or was that just an excuse to come and steal Will’s cheese puffs?”
“I don’t like this bear-man bullshit,” she says as she plunks into a chair. “I want to talk about that.”
“We all do,” Anders says. “But we’re waiting until morning.”
“Because Scrabble is more important?”
