Chapter Text
Oh god, Stepford thought, staring down at the buzzing flies emanating from the horrid lump before him, placed with such artful care atop the windshield like the worst surprise imaginable, oh god is that a-
His stomach lurched, and pulled to the side, covering his mouth and trying not to wretch.
He took a few slow breaths, pushing through the nausea, but the flies suddenly sounded so loud, like they were coming out of his ears or something, and it sucked - god this sucked it sucked it -
You deserve this, Stepford.
He straightened up, exhaling, and tested the claw of his litter picker before turning and, trying extremely hard not to actually register what it was he was picking up, closed the grip around the lump and grabbed it.
He threw it into the bag in his other hand as quickly as he darn well could and then grimaced, looking at the smear left behind in the glass.
Gross.
Behind him, he heard a chuckle.
Stepford glanced back over his shoulder, catching another pair of eyes, dark grey, underneath a mop of dark hair and shaded by the brim of a white hat, just for a second.
Stepford felt his chest tighten, a flush of humiliation reaching his neck that he wished he could stop but couldn't, and looked away.
He kept going, picking up a few more of the bits that had been spilled across the car hood and windshield. Rotten apple cores, coffee cups, paper wrappings with half eaten fries - empty cans - a spill of sticky beer across the red metal. Evidently, someone had some feelings about this old corvette, or its owner.
Stepford wondered for a moment how his own hood had looked in the moments after - smoking, with the metal crumpled up just like one of these wads of wet paper.
The smell was probably the worst bit.
It was boiling hot, day four of this relentless heatwave and the sun at its highest point baking him alive; the concrete was emanating so much heat he could feel it through his sneakers and the stained, thick high-vis jacket felt like wearing a tent.
His skin felt like it was burning, too, a rawness starting to build - the suncream wasn't gonna save him for long - all it had done was make his skin feel oily and greasy - and mingled with the beads of sweat that were starting to dampen his hair.
I probably look terrible, Stepford thought, at least nobody is around to see this.
Not quite true.
Behind him, his companion, for lack of a better word, in this ordeal was crouched by the side of the road, picker slung over his shoulder like a baseball bat or something, poking his fingers into the mouth of a glass beer bottle crudely shoved through the small gaps of the chain link fence.
Stepford watched him out of the corner of his eye as he carried on, noticing how he sifted through the pile of junk clustered by the fence, a little smirk appearing on his face as he found something he evidently found amusing, which he plucked from the heap and pocketed.
Cameron, Stepford thought, watching him push up to his feet, and idly kick about the heap into an even messier pile. I don't even know his last name.
He'd encountered Cameron a total of two times before this morning, when the probation officer had handed them their jackets and equipment and sent them out without much of an explanation.
Stepford had tried to ask questions; nervous, as the man had pressed a pair of thick gloves and a roll of trash bags into his hands, but his overseer seemed to have very little interest in overseeing anything at all.
Something as simple as ‘where do we go’ was too much to ask, apparently, and the officer - a sturdy severe sort of guy with brown hair and a British accent - had just nodded his head in Cameron's direction beside him with a smirk.
“He knows,” the officer had said, “don't you, Cameron? I can trust you to take our little trust fund tragedy on the usual, can't I?”
Cameron hadn't even looked up at him, or really acknowledged Stepford beyond a jutting nod of his chin as he'd passed, leading the way with a quick, “yeah.”
That was all he'd said at all so far, having been silent as they'd trailed down the road, and Stepford had just sort of hoped he did know what they were doing and wasn't just leading him to nowhere for his own amusement.
Yeah, Stepford didn't really know Cameron, beyond his reputation.
Cameron had dropped out of his business class after the first day, before he seemingly dropped out of classes altogether, or at least stopped being around campus. Since then he'd run into him one time at a party after graduation that he shouldn't have been at - one of those sleazy house parties he’d been dragged along to with the team, over in the Vents.
He remembered that second encounter, though. Cameron had walked right into him as he'd been carrying a cup of vodka and code red into the kitchen and Stepford had accidentally dumped the whole thing all over both of them.
He had apologised immediately but Cameron had just stared at him with his shirt steadily staining electric red, watching the sticky soda dripping from Stepford's hair, and then smirked, like he sort of approved of it, before shoving past him.
His friends had told him not to worry about it, because Cameron was a loser and a jerk and probably the weirdest guy in Sweet Home, even weirder than that one guy who thought he was a sink.
It took ages to wash that drink out of his hair. It had been a little pink for a week.
He and Cameron didn't exactly travel in the same circles, Stepford supposed, and had he not, you know -
-the sound deafened him and he couldn't hear anything - just the high pitched ringing whine in his skull like a siren - the smoke in the headlights all he could see, the impact barely registering in his body or mind - only the thought of the girls face and did I hit her, did I hit - I can't see -
Stepford closed his eyes and wished he didn't exist for a minute.
But wishing didn't make it so.
“Gas canister?” Cameron asked over his shoulder, leaning past him to reach across the hood and grab a blue canister from amongst the waste, which he held in his hand a moment, turning it round in the air and inspecting it. The label proudly declared it as Butane. Cam smiled.
“Nice,” he said, and then shoved that into his satchel, before haphazardly wiping his fingers across his pants, leaving behind a smear of whatever seeping liquid the canister had been coated in.
“I don't think you're supposed to put those in the trash,” Stepford said, and Cameron looked at him, brow raised.
He was standing right behind him now, having stepped right in and invaded his space a bit, and Stepford got a chance to look at him up close.
He was about as he remembered - a mop of shaggy brown hair to just above his shoulders, a broad nose and bowed lips. Grey eyes emphasised by pronounced dark circles.
He reminded Stepford a little of the kinds of boys he’d torn out of magazines when he was a little younger; the boys with pretty scowls in bands that he couldn't listen to, pressed between the pages of the diary he hid under the mattress.
Stepford cleared his throat because Cameron was still staring at him.
“Yeah,” Cam said, “you ever seen a garbage truck go up in flames?”
“These things fucking explode,” he added, a little relish in his voice.
“Right,” Stepford offered a little smile, not really knowing how else to react to those statements, “they're dangerous. Shouldn't we like…”
He had absolutely no idea what they were supposed to do about stuff that wasn't supposed to be trash. The thing-he-wasn't-going-to-think-about sitting in his own bag probably needed disposing of properly, too, but…
See - he'd had a lot of questions.
“We're taking it to the dump,” Cameron said, shrugging, “end of the line.”
“Oh,” Stepford felt relieved - answers - “is that where we finish up?”
Cameron looked at him, his expression flat, and he laughed.
“You really have no idea what you're doing huh?”
Stepford winced.
This is my first time throwing my life away, yes, what gave it away?
It's not like you could train and study for something like this.
“No,” he said.
But, at least Cameron was talking to him now - which felt like something.
“I'm Stepford,” he said, and offered a hand.
Cameron looked at the hand, raising a brow.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “your name was on all the trophies.”
Stepford flushed, embarrassed.
He had a hard time imagining someone like Cam lingering by the Sweet Home High trophy cabinet, let alone paying attention to the names there and remembering his - had he even realised that Cameron had gone to his high school, too?
“You're Cameron,” Stepford said, pulling back his hand awkwardly, and smiling again, “right?”
Cameron pulled a face, sour.
“Cam,” he corrected, “yeah.”
“Sorry,” Stepford apologised, “Cam. Right. Hi - Cam.”
“Hey,” Cam replied flatly, looking at him with an unimpressed expression.
“Can you tell me how long we're doing this for?” Stepford asked.
Cam smirked.
“Wow, two hours in and you're already trying to squeeze out? Guess mommy couldn't pull enough strings to get you off with just a fine, huh?”
Stepford flinched.
So, Cam doesn't like me much, he thought. I don't know why I would expect anything different.
“I just meant today,” he said,“I have a hundred and twenty hours to complete in total, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do of that today.”
“Hundred and twenty?” Cam looked surprised, “what, you vandalise a car or something?”
“Crashed one,” Stepford said, frowning “... you didn't…”
You haven't heard about it?
His mother had only just started talking to him again this morning, sort of; well, she’d stood there in the doorway without her makeup, lamenting with exhaustion just how worn down she’d been by the shame and questions and phone calls, she couldn’t even go to the store.
“Into a church or something?” Cam said, brow raising higher, “guys like you usually get a lot less than that for DUI.”
“Guys like me?” Stepford asked.
“Yeah. Don't you have too many track meets or whatever to be wasting precious time picking up trash?”
Cam really didn't like him, huh.
No, Stepford thought, you don't get to compete when you put someone in the hospital.
“I'm not doing that anymore,” Stepford said.
Cam was quiet for a moment, watching him, almost looking curious. Then he shrugged.
“Six hours,” Cam said, “it's Tuesday, so Dorian just leaves the time sheet on the office door by the refuse center at four. Long as you're there by then you can put what you want. He doesn't care.”
Cam turned, stepping past him to carry on down the road.
“Wait,” Stepford followed after him, “and the refuse center is…?”
“On the way to the dump,” Cam said, “shuts at four, so does Dorian.”
“Are we going there now?”
“Just follow me, trophy boy,” Cam said, with a tired done-with-you-already sigh, “and stop asking me stuff.”
–
Stepford had dutifully followed, trailing after Cam and picking up more and more junk in silence until his bag was heaving. As they'd gone Cam seemed to collect more things, shoved into his satchel, electronics and bits - stuff that needed more care, Stepford had guessed.
He'd picked up something himself; a whole CRT television, old sort, with a built in vhs player, dumped in a flowerbed by a playground.
Carrying it under his arm was awkward, and it was heavy, but … he wasn't just gonna leave it there. The screen was cracked, and it was a playground.
He paused for a moment, leaving it on the floor. He was parched, and Cam had disappeared somewhere, so he crouched down and pulled his water bottle from his backpack to take a drink.
The water had gone a bit unpleasantly warm in the heat, but it was better than nothing.
He was wiping a little that had dribbled down his chin when he heard rattling over tarmac, metal shaking, and turned to see Cam wheeling a shopping cart over to him.
It had a microwave in it, along with Cam's trash bag.
“C’mon,” he gestured, “throw it in here.”
Stepford looked down at the TV.
“This?”
“Yeah,” Cam said, with an eye roll, “what, you wanna carry it all the way to the dump?”
Stepford shook his head.
“N-no,” he quickly tucked his bottle away, and then picked up the TV.
It was definitely heavier than it looked, and Cam watched him lift and hoist it into the trolley, brow raising just a little as his eyes fitted across Stepford's arms.
“Is it far?” Stepford asked, and then added, “...are we allowed to use this?”
It looked like a Walmart cart, but actually Stepford didn't know where the Walmart was from here. Or the dump.
Or really where he was at all - he felt a bit disorientated.
For all the parts of Sweet Home he knew like the back of his hand, every turn and corner, every path that cut through and where the ground was smooth and where it was uneven so you had to brace your steps - he'd never really been to this side of the river before.
“No,” Cam said, and got pushing, and Stepford didn't know which question he was answering, or if it was both.
The cart had a wonky wheel, Stepford noticed as he followed, which meant it kept straying to the right.
This was obviously annoying Cam, who made a little noise of irritation the third or fourth time he had to wrangle it back in place. It was a bit too full and heavy to manoeuvre easily.
Stepford hurried up, clearing a few steps to catch up to Cam, swinging his own bag into the trolley and quickly stepping in alongside Cam to brace the right side of the cart with his hand, guiding it back.
Cam looked at him, bemused, but said nothing - just kept going.
The cart wobbled, threatening to turn, and Stepford guided it back before it could, keeping it on course with a firm push.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cam’s lips curled into a smile.
-
Cam had been right; the door to the refuse office was closed, a sheet hanging from a clipboard with a loose plastic cover, and a pen swaying on a bit of tattered string.
Stepford looked over the timesheet, seeing a series of records already there bearing the initials CA, alongside a little rotation of others who had come and gone, logging their six hours at a time.
Twenty days, by Stepford's calculation. Twenty days and $1,500; the price of a ruined car, a ruined wall, a ruined life and a ruined reputation.
Stepford sighed, miserable, and felt his shoulders start to sag.
Cam shifted beside him.
“You can really feel how much they care about our ongoing rehabilitation,” Cam said dryly.
Despite himself, Stepford laughed.
Cam reached forward, grabbing the pen and quickly adding another block with another CA.
As he held the pen up for Stepford, he looked down at his hand and the corner of his lip curled. The pen had leaked all over his finger, covering it in blue ink.
Stepford would take the pen from him because he didn't have a lot of choice, and there was no other pen, and also Cam was offering it to him and he didn't want to be rude.
As he took it from his hand, Cam lifted his finger to his lips, sucking the ink off with a small, creeping smile, and Stepford's eye darted inadvertently to his mouth, watching, and feeling a gentle tug in his stomach.
Stepford quickly filled in his own box, attempting to neatly sign his name as best he could, and then stared at the ink left behind on his own fingertips.
God it was hot; it was a little hard to think in all this sunshine, he needed some shade soon.
After a moment, he lifted his finger to his own lips, and did exactly the same - tasking the ink in his mouth, tangy and metallic.
I have no idea why I did that, Stepford thought, noticing that Cam's eyes were on him now, interested.
“So … we just leave… everything here?” Stepford looked around, seeing a plastic crate beside the door with a few discarded high vis jackets in it just like theirs.
“Unless you want to take it home to show off to your family,” Cam said.
Just the thought of that made Stepford's stomach turn, more than anything they’d encountered today.
Stepford shook his head, quickly slipping off his backpack to remove his jacket and dropping it into the crate, grateful immediately for the relief from the heat. He threw the gloves and picker in too.
Ugh, he was so sweaty; all too aware of the heat and smell of his own skin, desperately wishing there was a cold shower somewhere in his future.
He peeled off his t-shirt, whilst he was at it, stripping down to his vest and rolling up the damp t-shirt to shove into his bag.
Cam watched him do so, and then shucked off his own jacket.
He wasn't wearing a lot under it - Stepford realised, just a scrappy, threadbare grey tank top - and a dark hoodie tied around his waist. Between that and the hat to hide from the sun, Cam was probably doing way better than him.
Stepford looked away, focusing on the timesheet again for a moment.
“I haven't done six hours yet,” Stepford said, unsure.
“Told you, they don't care,” Cam said, stepping past him and, grabbing their bags from the cart and throwing them into the trash bins beside the building.
He turned, giving a dismissive shrug, “most people already left by now.”
He looked at Stepford for a moment, a difficult to read expression on his face.
“You can go if you want,” Cam added, “I won't tell him.”
Then he turned back to the cart, and went to start pushing.
“Wait,” Stepford followed, “don't we still need to go to the dump?”
“Final destination,” Cam said, getting moving, “best part.”
Stepford stepped in alongside quickly, guiding the cart before it wobbled again.
“You're coming?” Cam asked, looking at him sidelong.
“Well if it's the best part…” Stepford said, which made Cam smirk, “I'll finish my six.”
Cam chuckled darkly.
“Heh,” he looked at Stepford as they pushed, “you either did something real bad, or you're real bad at being bad, huh?”
Both, Stepford thought.
“Just … finishing my six,” Stepford repeated, and pushed with him.
–
Styled a bit nostalgically and complete with chipped pastel paint, the sign for the ‘Sweet Home Dump’ looked more like it was advertising itself as a picnic spot, not a final resting place for the town’s appliances, broken down cars and last season's kitchen sets.
Sweet Home did so like things to be sweet, Stepford thought.
Cam left the cart by the entrance, climbing the step of the little square trailer that called itself a ‘Main Office’, sticking his head in the open door, pulling a face, then turning back to Stepford.
“Nobody’s home,” he said.
“Oh,” Stepford leant against the cart, his head feeling even dizzier now - the heat was really starting to get to him, “is that … should someone be?”
Cam shrugged.
“Nah, he’s never home,” he said, and then hopped off the step and walked over to Stepford, taking back his position on the cart.
He nodded his head towards the cleared path that led round a series of big metal skips and curved round into the back end of the dump.
“That way,” he said, and Stepford nodded.
Together they pushed the cart round the curve, and Cam paused for a moment to deposit a few things from his satchel into a few of the skips.
He didn’t even check the signs - which told Stepford he didn’t need to. As he made his way back to Stepford he had that odd look on his face again that Stepford couldn’t place; his gaze a little furtive as his eyes caught Stepford’s.
Stepford straightened up a bit, and offered a smile.
“Everything ok?”
Cam tilted his head just a little to one side, contemplating.
Whatever it was, he wasn’t sure about saying it.
“Cam?”
Cam shifted, looking at his shoes.
“Wanna know why this is the best bit?” He asked.
His eyes flicked up to Stepford’s, a spark in his gaze.
Stepford couldn’t see anything particularly exciting about this place, but … well, what else was he going to do for his last hour?
… and it felt a bit like…
It was hard to explain. Like a challenge, almost?
Stepford nodded.
Cam shifted again, stepping over to the cart and scooping the microwave out of it, gesturing for Stepford to do the same with the TV, which Stepford guessed meant it was time to leave the cart behind. Stepford did so - and followed Cam as he led the way in the direction of the piles of rusted cars and fridges.
He ducked under a hanging series of cables, to a gap - just about wide enough to fit them through, amongst the junk, and looked back over his shoulder, nodding for Stepford to follow him.
Stepford briefly wondered if this is how he got murdered, but followed him anyway, ducking just like he had and squeezing through.
On the other side of the gap was a little clearing amongst the junk filled with more junk - but not just piled - gathered, almost.
Like someone had turned this hidden little corner of the dump into a sort of hideout, or something.
Or maybe a bit like a facade - the set of a television programme but made out of garbage - Stepford thought - trying to find the right word to describe it.
In one corner, a threadbare chaise lounge and a toilet beside a lopsided Tiffany lamp - propped up against half of a naked shop mannequin, arranged in front of an overturned steel bathtub - a sort of table that came together into some bizarre imitation of a living room.
A lawnchair sitting in front of an an enclosure made up of two broken parasols and some old curtains draped over what looked like walls made of stacks of tires - with loose hanging cables and wires hanging over to make a little more privacy and shade - and what sort of looked a bit like a bed underneath.
Cam carried his microwave to one corner where there was a stack of them - and he added it to the tower - turning it slightly - purposefully, before standing back and looking it over with a little smile.
Then he looked at Stepford and pointed to the middle of the space.
“Put it over there,” he said.
Stepford followed where his finger had pointed, where there was a collection of … slightly baffling things, in the middle of clearing as a central display.
He walked over, looking over these assorted things and trying to work out where exactly he’d meant he should put it - on the overturned dryer that was open, spilling out with shoes and toys?
The birdbath loaded up with oil cans and batteries, filled with dried black liquid and the palpable smell of chemicals that stung Stepford’s nostrils?
The rusted dishwasher with the big, horrifying face painted on the front?
Amongst these things Stepford’s mind was trying to make sense of, there was a statue.
One of those fake stone ancient rome style recreations made out of plaster that his mother would have called tasteless - missing its head and covered in dents.
Its arms were outstretched, almost like a prayer.
In Stepford’s dizzy little mind that looked a bit like an answer to his question, so he stepped over and deposited the television in those open arms.
He stepped back, brushing some of the dirt off his arms left behind by the television, his ears ringing gently.
Cam was next to him - head tilted, a little smile on his face that crept a bit wider as he looked at what Stepford had done.
“Nice,” he said.
Stepford turned, his head swirling a bit as he looked at him. Another dizzy thought invading, that Cam had a good smile, when he was really smiling about something.
A moment later, he felt a hand on his arm.
He stared down at dirty fingernails pressed into his skin, the ground lurching forward a bit.
His head felt light and loose, the sun even brighter than before - the air a bit too loud - and …
He was moving backwards, and it wasn’t until he was sitting on soft ground, finally in some shade and feeling relief from the baking heat of the sun at last that he realised Cam had guided him over to the floor.
Cam crouched in front of him, eyes darting over him a moment, frowning.
“You got water?” He asked.
Stepford nodded.
A little numbly he pulled his backpack off his shoulders, finding his water bottle and taking a sip.
It helped.
Cam was still watching him, crouched beside him but leaning back against the side of a lawnchair, at arms length.
His eyes went to the water bottle in his hand, lips pursing for just a second, and Stepford held it out automatically, offering.
Cam took it with a nod, and threw his head back - taking a hefty swig.
Stepford watched the bobbing swallow of his throat as he drank - following the line of a drop of sweat that made its way down Cam’s neck before he got a hold of his mind - and pulled himself back.
“Thanks,” Stepford said as Cam’s head snapped back - wiping at the edge of his lips with the back of his hand.
Cam handed the bottle back.
“You good, trophy boy?” He asked, eyeing him now, a bit dubious, “you went grey.”
Stepford nodded.
“Fine,” he said, needing some explanation for the weakness, “I must have skipped breakfast.”
Cam let out a little laugh, sharp.
“That’s dumb,” he said.
He’s right. Jesus, I nearly fainted, Stepford thought, and then properly took stock of where he’d landed.
It was a mattress, on a rug on the ground, with some throws across it - the little enclosure.
“Good start,” he said to himself, quietly.
“Hey, you're nearly at six,” Cam said, shifting.
Stepford hadn't meant to speak out loud, really, but at least Cam wasn't being mean about this.
He still felt a bit dizzy, but the pounding in his head was starting to ease, and the shade was helping. He looked up at the hanging cables and wires over their heads, swaying in the air, catching the sunlight.
Pretty.
“This is why it's the best bit,” he said, understanding.
Cam nodded, sitting next to him for a moment, arm hooked around his knee in a casual slouch.
“It’s pretty cool,” Stepford said, “this place.”
He could imagine kids from the town sitting here on the chairs getting drunk, playing music, maybe, away from prying eyes.
A good place to hide, he thought, and filled with stuff that was definitely odd, but … interesting.
His eyes settled on the dishwasher again, staring at its broad, painted rictus smile, “... except that,” he said, “that’s terrifying.”
Cam let out a little laugh.
“Good,” he said, smirking.
Stepford glanced at him sidelong.
What would you think of me right now, mother? He thought, realising that somehow he’d ended up sitting on a mattress in a secret hidden junk den, next to a pretty guy with grease and whatever else smeared over the thigh of his pants, on god knows what round of community service.
A little bit of him, a shard of glass buried deep in his gut that felt raw and guilty and sharp and a little bit furious, felt glad about that.
I’ve already fallen from the podium, might as well keep going.
“Did you do all this?” He asked.
Cam shifted a little.
“Most of it,” he said, “not like anyone's using this stuff. People just leave it sitting around rotting, but … doesn’t mean it’s pointless.”
Stepford considered him. Cam wasn’t looking at him, eyes fixed ahead, body shifting a little - tense.
Why had he invited him to see this?
Cam hadn’t exactly been a forthcoming sort of person. Their entire conversation for the prior five hours could probably have been condensed to about five minutes. That last sentence was one of the longest he’d said all day that wasn’t sarcasm.
“So you do something with it,” Stepford said, well, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, as they say, and Cam certainly seemed to appreciate this stuff more than most would.
“I think I get it.”
Well, he sort of got it, anyway. He was starting to get why he’d been picking up little things all day at least. They were for this place, probably.
“Can I look?” Stepford asked.
Cam looked at him, a little shrug.
“If you’re not gonna faint again,” he said, “I’m not carrying you out of here.”
Stepford smiled.
“I just needed a breather,” he said. He took another sip of his water, and got to his feet.
With a slightly clearer mind, he wandered back to the middle of the clearing, purposefully avoiding looking at the creepy dishwasher.
An air conditioning unit, rusted through on one side, giving way to a space inside that housed a little cat bed and a water bowl - a spot for an animal?
Cam had stood, too, and was following him - trailing at a careful distance whilst Stepford observed for a moment, before drifting elsewhere, pulling a few things out of his satchel and depositing them in various spots about the clearing.
Stepford stepped around - foot landing on something that cracked underfoot- a little hand mirror, which he picked up, placing carefully atop a few cardboard boxes of records.
There was a record player beside, but it was missing its needle, so its turntable was housing all sorts of jars of things instead - coins and plastic figurines, markers and little bottles of paint, needles, and globs of gum amongst them, which Stepford couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at.
He decided not to linger on that, and found himself crossing paths with Cam again as he rounded the corner; Cam was straightening a plastic christmas tree, missing half its limbs and most of its plastic needles.
Hanging from what limbs were left, a few jackets, and a few hats that looked a little like …
Stepford had another thought.
“Do you live here?”
Cam’s eyes snapped to him, a sudden scowl on his face, a mottle of blood rushing to his cheeks, and Stepford sensed immediately that he shouldn’t have said that.
Cam was stony silent for a moment, then spoke.
“You think I live in the fucking dump, Stepford?” He asked, his voice coming out sharp and hard.
“I-” Stepford started, immediately feeling the snap in his words - and knowing now he definitely shouldn’t have, “I didn’t mean…”
Cam looked away, and Stepford felt his gut fall.
“Yeah, I heard you,” he said, “you should go.”
Stepford swallowed, Cam’s tentative invitation had been abruptly rescinded, and Stepford knew why.
Why did I say that?
“I’m sorry, Cam,” he said, hoping he knew he really was.
Cam didn’t say anything, just walked in the direction of the gap they’d squeezed in through, and Stepford followed quickly.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cam said.
Stepford felt a bit sick.
“I’ll… see you tomorrow?” He said, instead, making it clear he was leaving.
Cam wasn’t meeting his eyes, but he shifted a little as Stepford lingered.
“Here,” he said, reaching into his pocket and holding something out for him, “thought you’d want this.”
Stepford frowned, looking at Cam’s outstretched hand - there, held between his ink stained fingers - a little medal on a mucky red ribbon - grimey and tarnished and familiar.
It was his name there on the metal.
First Place. 400 meters. Stepford Eberhart York.
Stepford swallowed as he took it from him, the sinking pit in his stomach getting deeper and deeper and deeper.
Cam said nothing, just turned, stalking away across the dump.
Stepford numbly pressed the medal into his pocket, and left.