He's 17, and he's driving Killer's truck out to one of the pastures on a warm June morning. Him, Killer, Heat and Wire are baling hay for the Basils. Their son Hawkins drives the family's swather wheel rake out to the field and shows them the flat trailer he wants the bales loaded onto but otherwise refuses to contribute to the family business, leaving his father to hire out when it's hay season. Old man Basil had a team cut the field already, and had called them in to bail it up once he's satisfied it's ready.
The four of them have been baling all over the county together for a few several summers now, moving like a well oiled machine. Killer worked the field first, at as home with Hawkin's machine as he was with his truck, circle blades spinning away, back and forth all morning. He seemed in his element, blue and white striped neck gaiter over his mouth to deal with the dust, hair pulled back on a ponytail under a battered cowboy hat for once to keep it from collecting loose hay stalks, perfect tidy lines of cut green wild field grasses laid out behind him as he went.
Kidd drove over it next with the baler, the shoot dropping them on the flat bed Heat and Wire rode on, stacking them as they went. It made for a long hot day, but getting to get out there with the machines was a thrill Kidd never really got over. He was almost sad when they bound up the last few bits of grass into a sad little half bale, tossing it on the top of Basil's full flat bed. The trailer of hay and the swather were parked back at the gates, and Wire's family tractor and baler loaded onto his own flatbed, hitched up to Heat's old Nissan. Instead of going home though, Heat drove them out Basil's back gate into the national forest. Killer let Kidd take the wheel, carefully trekking along behind Wire and Heat as they cut through the back roads home. Kidd marveled at Heat's ability to thread the trailer down the path with such confidence, leading them to a secluded pull off by the river.
Kidd backed Killer's truck over so they could chill in the bed of old Victoria, named for the last owner. Killer had bought the Datsun from her a lifetime ago. Victoria'd been the prettiest girl Kidd had ever seen, the meanest one he'd ever met, and she'd turned and walked away from the rural life when he was 12. He never heard where she ended up, but Killer honoured her time with them by naming the lil'huster after her - the one who got away. Maybe they'd get away too one day.
They jumped in the river to wash away the mornings sweat and grime, swam lazily in the summer currents, set up cans to shoot down with Heat's rifle, smoke joints that Wire had rolled for them, and took the early evening off to goof around and dare each other to increasingly stupid stunts. Kidd finally felt like he wasn't the baby of the group, but just one of the guys. Besides, Kidd likes working with Heat and Wire - they all might be rednecks from bumfuck, but Heat's got great taste in music, and much better speakers then Killer's truck, and they rocked out to his cassette tape collection of punk and metal. By the time the sun started to set on the horizon, their clothes were mostly dry and Wire and Heat said their good nights, still needing to unload the baler once they got back.
Killer and Kidd watched their taillights disappear into the twilight, until the cherry of Killer's smoke the brightest thing around. It gets cold fast once the sun's down, and they move inside the truck. Killer takes shotgun, rolling the window down so he doesn't hotbox them, much to Kidd's amusement. They can't stay out much later - Kidd still has class in the morning, but for now they giggle and joke and sit pressed against each other, and Kidd feels more alive than he has in years.
"Good job out there today," Killer grins around his smoke, the tip bobbing as he talks, "You're doing great with the baler. Knew you had it in ya."
