The Movers | ONC 2022

I

There's movers, and then there's Movers, one and the same nowadays, so it doesn't matter too much which one you mean. Amelia and Charlotte work through a moving van with "Movement Inc: Antique Specialty" on the side, a catchphrase of "We move valuables like they're people!" below in swirly font, which is sometimes truer than most civilians would care to know. Ghosts are a doozy, as any Mover for the southern country district could tell you.

"So, I'm holding this fugly statue, right?" Harlow is sitting across from them at their campsite. He leans forward and the firelight flashes across his chunky glasses. He raises an empty can for beans to demonstrate his prowess. "And I whack at the dude, and it goes right through him! How was I supposed to know it was an overgrown Chia Pet?"

Amelia refrains from rolling her eyes away from the end of her marshmallow stick. She feels bad for whoever has to read through his official report of events, although he is entertaining, if inaccurate, in his storytelling. Other pairs of Movers have been hardened during their time, her and her partner included. To see a younger, more enthusiastic member is a breath of fresh air sweeter than the one scuttling clouds along the sky above them.

She sacrifices her marshmallow for a greater cause when she sees Charlotte's frown open to object to the ridiculousness of the story.

"Mmph," Charlotte says. Her dark eyebrows are competing in a race to her honker of a nose. The squishiness of her confused face is cute, as always.

Harlow continues his harrowing tale: "Simon's like, 'Oh crap, what happened?' and of course he's got nothing either, and the neighbor's banging on the door, wondering why we look like we're wrecking the place..."

Charlotte swallows the marshmallow whole and narrows her eyes. "We saved their asses, let me rip him a new one," her expression says. Amelia shakes her head. They should be allowed to learn from their mistakes without being shamed.

Her partner pouts. Then she goes for Amelia's fingers, licking them clean of any leftover stickiness. Her tongue is slimy and strong as it wraps around each digit, worshiping the skin until it's coated in saliva. Her eyebrows are wiggling in amusement and hope that this'll get her way. It doesn't, but it does get a laugh to burst out of Amelia.

"Please?" Charlotte whispers.

"Be nice," Amelia says into her ear. She drags her hand down her partner's sleeve to wipe off the mouth fluids. Charlotte pouts again and wrinkles her nose. Adorable.

"Ew." Behind Harlow's glasses, his eyes have gone soft.

Charlotte raises her gaze. "Okay, you threw something dubiously effective at him, but that doesn't explain why the soil didn't do damage."

"Is that your issue? What's His Name nearly killed me!"

"The soil should have hit him. That wasn't a Chia Pet, or a statue."

Harlow crosses his green-paisley-covered arms. "Maybe it was a dense patch of hedge clippings. Semantics." He leans back against his log with the sureness of an idiot. Amelia wants to pet him on the head and assure him he was a good boy, maybe just don't pee on the carpet next time.

Charlotte is less than impressed by his story. "Basic training one-oh-one. Clippings are alive. Alive goes through ghosts."

"They looked very dead, alright?"

Amelia sighs and pushes another marshmallow on her stick. She lowers it over the flames. Their van, her and Charlotte's, protects their backs and blocks the entrance to the clearing, and Harlow's view of the gravel road. Behind him are two tall tents, ready for sleeping. She's falling into the lull of the trees around her, having to bite back a yawn. It's easy to take the forest, growing dense around the clearing like a protective blanket, for granted. Charlotte's arm over her shoulders is the second, warmer blanket that adds the most comfort. City folk would kill for the silence and the view. An owl hoots nearby. The fire crackles. She absorbs all of this in case they're assigned closer to the conurbation's pollution.