Текст книги "Poisoned Soil"

Автор книги: Tim Young

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Chapter 6

Ozzie sprinted straight up the slope and away from the only home he had ever known with nothing more than raw fear guiding him. There was no time to think and develop a plan as he sprinted, his breathing already becoming labored. Had he had time to think of a plan it would have been simply to get ahead of the men and circle back to his mother. How did I get out in the first place?

By now he had learned the sights, sounds, and smells of this forest almost as well as any of the wild animals that inhabited it, but only from inside the fence that had imprisoned (or had it protected?) him. As he ran, he thought about how often he had wanted to break free of those wires and pursue his own freedom, the same liberties enjoyed by his captors and even the wild animals that often approached the other side of the fence. He even saw black bears lumber close to his fence more than once during broad daylight, examining Ozzie as if he were a zoo exhibit, but they hadn’t frightened him. The only thing in the forest that had done that, other than the farm truck, was the occasional cries he heard. Horrific cries of anguish and pain that seemed to come from within the mountain itself, something between a woman’s most frightened scream and a tortured baby’s cry. Always they ascended from the depths of a ravine, and only on the darkest of nights. They never failed to send chills down his spine. He even saw his father cringe when he heard the cry late at night.

Why had he wanted to get out of the fence in the first place? Now, he wanted only to be behind the blanket of the fence’s protection. Just keep running, he told himself, lose these stalkers and go back to mom.

But still the men came as they pursued him through a dense thicket along a featureless hillside in the midst of the massive wilderness. “We’re gaining on you,” Jesse shouted as he pulled off his light blue jacket in the early afternoon heat, tossing it on the ground. “You’re done for!”

“Yee haw,” Shane screamed.

Ozzie didn’t understand a word the English-speaking mountain men said, but he understood the threatening tone. He ran on the wet leaves for at least half mile along a ridge, both the hunters and the hunted slowing to a pace they could sustain.

Jesse judged Ozzie’s pace and realized the chase wouldn’t end as quickly as he had hoped, but he had no choice. If he didn’t catch Ozzie and return him, Blake would have his head, putting an end to the $5,000 bonus Blake had promised him that he’d earn the next month. $5,000 cash, all at once. Jesse became intoxicated by the number, vaguely aware of his surroundings as he saw only Ozzie running before him with a $5,000 caption suspended over his head. Jesse narrowed his eyes on Ozzie like an archer zeroing in on his target. He thrust himself ahead.

Ozzie sprinted alongside a thick line of mountain laurel and, once past it, turned sharply left. This forced Jesse and Shane to run the whole way around it, too, so they couldn’t cut him off. Gravity and fear pushed Ozzie faster than he had ever run before as the ground descended steeply. The expansive forest looked the same in all directions, like trying to discern one wave from another from a raft in the middle of the ocean. There were no landmarks, trails, or singularly distinguishing features. Just ancient trees that towered above and required Ozzie to fend for himself in a life or death race over very steep terrain.

There was no need to look back. The sound of snapping twigs and heavy footfalls constantly reminded Ozzie that they were coming for him. Yet, the sounds weren’t getting closer. Ozzie hadn’t stopped moving for over half an hour, but he had greatly slowed his pace. It was pure torture running those hills, and now that he had left the ridge the underbrush had thickened. Privet, buckeyes and brambles popped up and Ozzie had to run through all of them. Jesse and Shane had fallen behind and were even more exhausted than the younger Ozzie, but still they came. Jesse in particular was motivated, as the $5,000 price still hovered over Ozzie’s head, albeit in a smaller font.

Ozzie felt a sharp pain in his ribs from running so far, so fast. His leg muscles tightened and burned from the inside out, as if his blood were a sea of boiling magma spreading through his veins, in search of a vent. His mouth was so dry that he wondered if his body would reject water the way a thunderstorm washes off a drought-stricken hardpan. Breathing heavily, he crested a hilltop that flattened out as oaks gave way to a narrow stand of towering pines. He sprinted through a broad thicket of brambles, hearing only his labored breathing as soft pine needles muffled his own steps.

In the distance, Ozzie found a landmark that drew him in like a tractor beam. In the midst of the pine cathedral a massive granite outcropping beckoned. Ozzie had never seen anything like it, and the sight of it gave him a sudden burst of endurance. As he closed in, he focused his eyes on a protrusion overhanging what appeared to be a small cave opening. A hiding spot! Ozzie looked back, seeing that the men had still not crested the hill and were out of sight. His heart sank as he reached the boulder and saw it wasn’t a cave. There was no place to hide. But it was water, fresh mountain water, and that was almost as good as a cave. It would give him some time to catch his breath and drink. Maybe sixty seconds until they were on him, but then they would have to rest too. Wouldn’t they?

Ozzie took a long drink, almost choking because he drank so much, so fast. He burped loudly, drank some more and then plopped in the spring, cooling his whole body. He had run so long, so far, and only then did he think that he had no idea where he was. He turned his head back to the brambles, eyes closed, hoping that would erase the monsters. He opened his eyes and saw that still they came, closer now, each holding his side and running with great difficulty. Ozzie bent down quickly to take another sip, one for the road.

POW!

An incredibly loud and thunderous boom erupted and ricocheted off the boulder, causing rock dust to sprinkle into the spring just before him. Ozzie turned and saw the men only sixty yards away, almost on him. One of them pointed the black rifle at Ozzie. The sound catapulted Ozzie as if he were launched out of a cannon. He circled to the back of the boulder and ran flat out, zigging then zagging, out of the pine clearing toward the next thicket.

POW!

Bark flew off a hemlock tree just to Ozzie’s right.

“Watch it!” Jesse said to Shane. “You don’t want to hit him!”

“I wasn’t trying to, but what difference does it make at this point?” Shane asked. “We’ll never get him back without shooting him and we can’t let him get away.” Jesse wanted to disagree, but Shane was right. He stood bent over his knees, panting, and tried to catch his breath. It felt like a needle was being shoved into his left side just below the ribcage.

POW!

Another shot rang through the forest for no one to hear but the three of them. Ozzie was nearly out of sight now in a rising thicket, but he didn’t know that the men had momentarily stopped pursuit when the bullet swished over his head. The frightening sound brought forth the image of Ozzie’s father lying in the mud, eyes open and staring at him. What was the last thing his father had said to him? You’re almost grown now. Act like it! Yes, that was it. And his mother’s last words to him? Run, Ozzie, just run! Ozzie said to himself, run!

Ozzie crested a hill, terrified but relieved to be alive, a good 200 yards away from the boulder. For just a second, he stopped to glance back. Shane used the boulder to support his 30.06 rifle. He had been following Ozzie for fifty yards through his scope but couldn’t get a shot off. When Ozzie stopped and looked back it allowed Shane to zero in. Shane tried to catch his breath and control his breathing, but there was no time for the perfect shot. He squeezed the trigger, absorbed the recoil and then aimed his scope back at Ozzie. He found his target just in time to see Ozzie fall to the ground.

“Got him,” Shane panted to Jesse, who was on his knees now trying to catch his breath. Shane had run long distance track the year before as a senior at Rabun County High and he was still in decent shape, but Jesse was really hurting. “Just get your breath,” Shane said. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

Shane laid the gun on the pine needles and eyed the spring. A gift from above, Shane thought, just in the nick of time. A little piece of paradise, no bigger than a bathtub under this gigantic boulder, giving life to lush, fragrant rhododendrons on each side of the water. As he knelt before the water and prepared to drink, Shane felt almost as if he were at a Sunday church service. In the infinite blackness of the still water, he saw the reflection of the ancient, weathered rock, giving him the feeling of kneeling at an altar with God looming above as an everlasting boulder of strength. Shane knelt at God’s feet as a humble, grateful servant. He leaned forward and cupped his hands to collect His gracious gift in this Garden of Eden.

Before putting his hands in the water, Shane paused as he caught the reflection of wispy clouds streaming overhead against a deep blue sky. The moment was perfect. So quiet, so peaceful. And yet...he felt something else, something disquieting. What is it? He thought. Like...maybe I’m being watched. Is God watching me from above?

A trio of pinecones fell beside him as a raven launched from a branch and descended to perch atop the boulder. It folded its wings close to its side as it peered deep into Shane’s eyes.

“Well, I’ll be,” Shane said. “Look at that, Jesse.”

Jesse remained hunched over, catching his breath. Shane looked down at the reflection of the bird and put his hands back to the water, still feeling as if he was being watched. Is it the raven? He asked himself. No. It wasn’t the raven, he realized as he looked up into the bird’s black eyes. Nor was it something he sensed from above. It was...something closer, he felt. Something from the side. Shane shifted his eyes to his left at Jesse, who knelt with his eyes closed and sweat dripping from his face. Jesse wasn’t watching him. The hair on the back of Shane’s neck began to prickle as he felt the staring bore into him. Something from...his right side. Slithering eyes upon him.

In the dead quiet of the forest, he heard the slightest twitch of a rattle. He jerked his head quickly to his right, just in time to see a coiled timber rattlesnake that had chosen this oasis to give birth to her young. Shane’s eyes had time to open wide, but his scream couldn’t escape as the five-foot long rattler struck fast and hard, her fangs piercing the right carotid artery of Shane’s neck. Eden’s serpent hissed and recoiled to her newborn babies.

Shane stood, screaming, as he pressed his hands to his neck.

“JESUS! Rattler! I got bit!”

Jesse saw Shane jump back. Ejected from the spring as if hell had spit him out.

“What the hell happened?” Jesse shouted.

Shane hit the ground, his face already flush and feeling like someone dug into his neck with a red hot poker. Jesse pried Shane’s bloody hands off his neck just enough to see the marks on Shane’s swelling neck as if a vampire had repossessed his soul. Shane clamped down on the pain again.

“Shit!” Jesse exclaimed. “Holy shit!”

Shane was in complete agony as the toxin started its work, weakening and disorienting him. He couldn’t have been bitten in a worse spot. Jesse helped him past the rhododendron on the left side of the spring and leaned him up against the boulder.

“Shit!” Jesse was in a panic. He knew he needed to get help but—Where the hell are we? Shit! Jesse almost began hyperventilating. He tried to calm himself, tried to be the leader that Blake had told him he was of his clan. Think! he told himself. It was a timber rattler, but they’re not usually deadly if you get help.

Then another voice emerged inside his head, a voice less confident. A voice that frightened Jesse.

Ah, the voice said, but look at where the bite is. Right in the artery. D-E-A-T-H will be quick, the voice said in a raspy, haunting whisper.

“Shit!”

Jesse looked back at Shane, who no longer screamed. His neck had swollen to almost twice its normal size and was horribly bruised. Shane’s hands draped by his side. Jesse’s mind tugged him in all directions. Go get help. Stay and help. Save yourself. Comfort Shane. Kill that snake!

“Shit!” Jesse didn’t know what to do. There was no way to extract the venom, no way, not from that spot on his neck. He could carry Shane to help, but they had been on the hunt for hours. It was so far back, and even if he could carry Shane that far, even if Shane could make it that long, he wondered if he could even find the way back? Jesse grabbed the rifle and went around the bushes to look for the snake. He found the mother coiled up with three babies that had yet to squirm away. Had yet to slay their first victims. Jesse trembled as he took sight of the now defenseless creature and blew a hole right through her.

“Die, you bitch!” Jesse screamed as the rattler fell limp.

Jesse rushed back toward Shane but tripped on an embedded object at the mouth of the spring. He fell at Shane’s feet. “Goddamnit!” Jesse shouted, looking back to see the rusty metal he had dislodged. “What the hell?”

His mind briefly diverted from Shane’s suffering to the dislodged obstruction. He scraped wet pine needles away and clawed with his fingertips, using one finger to outline a smooth metal surface. Jesse darted his eyes back and forth looking for a stick, as he feared that the forest floor might be alive, slithering. The mountain soughed as the wind whistled through the pines. Jesse’s senses had never been so heightened. His trembling fingers picked up a stick. He used the tip to outline a metal shape that slowly became recognizable as he unearthed over a century’s worth of humus to free the rusty relic.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “An old double-barrel shotgun. Son of a bitch! Hey, Shane!”

There was no response, and no response would come. Shane’s chin dug into his chest as his lifeless eyes fixed on the poisoned soil between his legs. Jesse had been seduced by the moment and possessed by his archeological find at precisely the moment that Shane’s life expired.

“Shane!” Jesse shook Shane, snapping his fingers and using his inadequate skills to revive him as he leaned the rusty shotgun against the boulder. “Shane!” There was no response and no pulse. Only a corpse remained that resembled Shane, except that his grotesquely swollen throat made it appear that he had two rotting heads stacked atop his torso.

“I’ll go get help!”

Jesse knew that it was too late to help Shane, but couldn’t believe it. Refused to believe it. He needed to do something, to take action, so he had to move—had to get help. If not for Shane, then for himself. In the midst of 100,000 acres of Rabun County’s undeveloped wilderness, Jesse stood in a state of shock and tried to remember where he was, why he was there, and how he got there. He shook his head as he forced the cobwebs out and looked back through the pine thicket and back to the brambles.

“That’s right,” Jesse said, as if Shane could still hear him. “That’s the way.”

He took off toward the brambles and stopped after thirty yards to look back at the cathedral’s lone landmark. The enormous granite boulder was now adorned with a man leaning against its side, motionless, as if sleeping. Shane Samuel Dixon didn’t appear dead, only slumbering peacefully at the spot where Joshua Dixon’s brother had died so cruelly in 1898 along with his wife and children. Now, Joshua’s great-great grandson lay with them.

Jesse forged ahead. “I gotta get back...I gotta get help,” Jesse said aloud, alone. Shane was no longer there to respond, but Jesse’s inner voice was.

Sure you do, the voice said, but can you find the way?

Chapter 7

Blake stood outside The Olive Twist on Washington Street. He would have preferred a pub or sports bar, just for old times sake, but there was always the outside possibility that someone would recognize him, want to buy him a drink and tell him what a shame it was what had happened. He knew it wouldn’t be likely since he wasn’t topical in Athens anymore, but with glossy black hair and a six-foot, four-inch muscular frame, he might rekindle a memory. That’s not what he wanted. He needed to unwind, alone, and to think. The Olive Twist was a more relaxed, upscale bar, and it would do nicely.

A green canopy channeled visitors into the bar. Blake pulled open the smoked glass door and walked in. He removed his sunglasses and surveyed the room. The lights were dimmed, and the darkness contrasted starkly with the sunlight that had so brightly reflected off the sidewalk. An immense antique mirror covered the wall behind the bar, catching some of the light that filtered through the smoky windows and reflected it to the dark wood floor. An array of leather barstools surrounded a horseshoe-shaped bar. The bartender stood in the center with a TV tuned to ESPN on each side of the bar. Two men sat at the bar nursing drinks and watching neither of the screens. Blake took the last seat on the right side, next to the mirror, directly across from the other TV and several seats away from the men.

“Welcome to The Olive Twist,” the bartender said with a courtesy smile. Not an over the top smile and annoying chatter like you’d get at a chain restaurant. Just casting a line in the water to see how much, or how little, the customer wanted to talk, to open up to the therapeutic bartender.

Blake said nothing.

“What would you like?” she asked, sensing the mood as all good bartenders can. Still, she offered Blake a flirtatious smile as her blue eyes sparked in the sunlight that reflected off a glass jar on the counter. Blake glanced at the jar, which was the main feature on the bar top, a tall jar of Stoli Doli, a concoction of Stolichnaya vodka infused with fresh pineapple that had steeped for a week. He stared at the chunks of pineapple floating in the vodka and thought about the untold number of Stoli hangovers he had suffered from way back when. He turned his gaze back to the bartender.

“Belvedere up with a twist.”

She placed a cocktail napkin in front of Blake, twisting her body ever so slightly as she did. The space between the buttons on her white blouse separated just enough for Blake to catch a glimpse of her right breast. The glistening softness of the image burned into him, commingled with the thought of the Stoli Doli to reignite the passion he used to feel after games in Athens. When he would be on the hunt for soft skin, exotic eyes, and defined curves. In an instant, he caught himself and looked away, but not before the bartender had caught him breaking her horizon. She smiled and left.

“Damn it!” Blake mumbled, shaking his head. “That’s all you need, more trouble.”

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Blake noted that it was 4:40 p.m. He could make it home to Clayton in about an hour and a half and wanted to be home by 7:30 p.m. at the latest. Any later and Angelica might want to talk and ask a lot of questions. Questions that would cause him to snap. Blake began to fume silently as he thought about it. He hated that he snapped at Angelica...at life! He felt like he was losing control. Everything seemed so unfair. So fucking unfair!

The bartender returned with Blake’s martini. He looked up with a weak smile and nodded in thanks. She stood for an uncomfortable second before turning away, Blake’s half-hearted smile dissolving as he stared down into his drink. Blake stirred the martini, not knowing why, but he figured for the same reason he swirled the wine in his glass when dining at a nice restaurant. It wasn’t to release the bouquet or...whatever. It was because that’s what he had seen people do when he watched TV as a child in the housing projects, people like J.R. on the Dallas reruns or Blake and Crystal on Dynasty. People who were rich, who knew what they were doing and who were living the life of luxury that Blake wanted so badly when he was young. So when he got to UGA and was introduced to life beyond his drunken father’s alcohol of choice, Pabst Blue Ribbon, he did what J.R. and James Bond did. He swirled, stirred and mimicked the nuances of successful people.

Swirling the martini, Blake recalled the chicken he had squashed with his truck earlier in the day. He grimaced and felt utter remorse. Damn it, what the hell is wrong with you! The remorse turned to rage as Blake reflected on how quickly he now gave into anger, how truculent he had become. How out of control he felt. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

The television flashed a series of highlights from the Georgia Bulldogs game earlier in the day, a humiliating home loss to rival South Carolina that dropped the Dawgs’ record to 0-2. “Ouch,” an announcer said. “Just look at this bone-crushing hit Georgia quarterback Buck Welch suffered in the third quarter.” On the screen, a player lay motionless on the turf, surrounded by coaches and trainers. Blake mashed his teeth and was tunnel-visioned into the player’s helmet as if he had taken that hit. His shoulders cringed, and he dropped his eyes to the bar. “Sort of reminds you of that career-ending hit that Blake Savage took several years back,” the announcer said as a picture of Blake flashed on the screen.

Blake jerked his head to the screen and then looked around to see if anyone took notice. No one cared. He continued stirring his drink counterclockwise and lost himself in the eye of the swirling martini. His mind returned to his days at Rabun County High School, where he had poor grades, a penchant for beer, and one hell of a throwing arm. That throwing arm landed him a football scholarship at UGA and an unheard of starting role as the Bulldogs quarterback in only his sophomore year. Athens went crazy for Blake—“Blakemania,” the media called it, as fans body painted themselves while he led the Bulldogs to a 7-0 start. Then, on a crisp October Saturday, a safety from Vanderbilt shattered both his knee and his collegiate career on a blind-side blitz. In an instant, Blake’s future was ruined. With their hero wounded and evidently quite mortal, the legion of Blake fans faded back onto campus and awaited their next hero. Blake lay in the hospital for twenty-six days, increasingly irrelevant in Athens with each passing moment.

Blake raised his glass, took a long sip, and savored it as he drowned himself in misery.

At first he had just denied the extent of the injury. As the reality set in, he focused his anger squarely on the running back that failed to pick up the block on the safety that put an end to his shot at the NFL. Then the blame shifted to the safety, who later became a first-round draft pick and claimed his fortune with the Baltimore Ravens. Then the doctors and therapists were to blame. Surely it was someone’s fault. Somebody had to be accountable for costing Blake the only future he had planned on.

“I tell you, the Dawgs could sure use someone like Blake Savage these days,” the announcer said. “But, I believe Blake is now residing in the ‘where are they now’ category”. Blake turned his attention back to the screen. He raised his hand at the waitress.

“Hey, do you mind changing the channel?” Blake asked the bartender.

“To what?” she asked with a flirtatious smile.

“Anything,” Blake responded. “News, whatever. Not sports.”

“Not a sports fan, huh? Sure thing. Let’s try CNN.”

His face remained staunch, unchanged, but his mind relaxed and the drink instantly began working its magic. Why the hell do they say alcohol is a depressant? Damn it feels so good, Blake thought to himself. He didn’t understand such notions too well, never was interested in learning about it in school or in life. Learning wasn’t his thing. Getting to the NFL was...had been. Now, he wasn’t sure what his thing was. He just stared at a crossroad every day doing what he did the day before, all the while digging himself a little deeper into a depression.

He took another sip of the martini and peered at CNN. Most of the time, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it with all the bar chatter, but before 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday game day when most people were in sports bars, it was quiet enough, as Blake was fond of saying, “to hear a mouse pissing on cotton.” Normally Blake couldn’t care less about the news, other than ESPN, but the headline caught Blake’s attention.

The graphic below a talking head read, “Secret Supper Clubs All The Rage,” and Blake tuned in. A reporter said underground dinner clubs were the hottest ticket in major cities across the country. As she spoke, video footage played of private residences where hot and trendy chefs served up unlicensed five-star dinners complete with wine pairings. She said sometimes the dinners were held in warehouses, on farms and anywhere in between. It was all secret until it was announced a day or two before the event. There was no menu and no charge, according to the report. Had the chefs charged for the meal then it would be classified as a restaurant and would require a license, health permit, the works. Instead, the chefs suggested “donations” as well as an amount, usually one hundred dollars a person or more. No one ever dared to refuse the suggested donation.

“Can you believe that?” one man at the bar said to another, after both had turned their attention to the news.

The segment broke to a live interview with a retired, married couple, Kevin and Monica Colbert, of Sutton, Massachusetts from CNN’s Boston studio. They looked like the “after” picture shots for a Charles Schwab commercial. Fit, gray, dressed sharply and now enjoying their success, just like the fairy tale ending promised to those who invest and save.

“We go anytime we can get in,” Monica responded to the CNN reporter when asked if they attended the “secret” clubs. “Of course it’s hard to get in. We never know where it’s going to be until an email invite shows up giving the time that reservations can be made, but there’s only room for thirty per dinner,” she continued. “Most of time we can’t get in even though we click right when it opens. We even synchronize our clocks with time dot gov just to be sure we’re on time!” she added.

“Heck, we’d pay to be on the short list if there was one,” Kevin blurted before the talking head could ask the next question. Exactly, Blake thought. Don’t worry; Nick will take your money with 50-Forks if you want in.

The second man at the bar responded to the other man’s question. “I not only believe it, I’ve been to one of those secret dinners! Right here in Athens, a secret dining club...well, it isn’t really a secret. I mean they have a website and all, but you know, there’s no schedule and you just get an email the week of the event, sign up on a Friday and if you get in the dinner’s the next night inside someone’s home,” he said. “Four course dinner and everything! But that’s IF you get in.”

The CNN segment switched from the Colberts back to the talking head where the caption now read “Food Safety Questions.”

“Joining us now from The Southern Nevada Health District is inspector Tom Masterson,” the reporter said, “and from the Food Safety Inspection Service in Atlanta, Senior Compliance Investigator Clint Justice.” An image of the guests appeared on each side of the talking head as the screen split into three sections. In a live interview, the reporter asked Mr. Masterson if these impromptu dinners were safe.

“Well, we just don’t know. If it’s a private event for friends and family there’s no requirement to regulate, but the minute strangers attend or are invited we believe they should be regulated. But they’re not, and if they’re not regulated then we don’t know where they get the food, or whether it’s properly labeled, stored, inspected, or handled.”

“Who is responsible for regulating these dinners?” the talking head demanded.

The health inspector repositioned himself in his seat and went on a rampage about local health departments, the USDA and the FDA, but the talking head summed it up best.

“So, no one inspects these dinners?” she asked the inspector directly.

“No, not exactly,” he confessed.

“What about that, Clint,” the reporter began, “does the USDA or FSIS inspect these dinners?”

“Well, that’s not part of the USDA’s jurisdiction. That’s really a local health department issue. The Food Safety Inspection Service, or FSIS, ensures the safety of meat, poultry, and egg products. Our aim is to monitor inspections and require that all food items pass inspection with the resources we have.”

“Resources you have?” the reporter asked.

Clint stared at the camera and said nothing.

“Can you elaborate on that, Clint?”

Clint shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Silos. That’s what Clint called them, silos. Every entity to itself, no one working together. But he had been coached on what to say and what NOT to say so he measured his response.

“Well,” Clint began, “it’s just that we have our job at FSIS, which is ensuring meat is inspected at the federal level. Of course, each state can also oversee inspection for meats that don’t cross state lines. But FSIS doesn’t deal with the restaurants or supper clubs. The local health departments oversee that.”

“What about the FDA?” the talking head asked.

“The FDA deals with product labeling, fruit and vegetables. They don’t actually inspect dairy farms, the states do that. But, then again, the FDA must verify that they comply with regulations...does that make sense?” Clint stopped talking and held his best smile, which on camera looked like a perfectly straight line across his lips. Different people, different standards, different agencies, different objectives, no communication. Silos, Clint thought to himself as his face began to redden.

The producers switched to a split screen with the talking head on one side and the Colberts on the other. Monica was smiling at the camera as if she had been coached or had made a point to Kevin that we must be sure to smile all the time because we won’t know when the camera is on.