The Ace of Spades

Chapter 19

Mea is reading about trees at six o'clock in the morning. Her body is bubbling with excitement, near to bursting at the seams. Unfortunately, at this ripe hour of the day, she appears to be the only one who worries about burning daylight.

Not that she's burning much daylight, what with the sun only just peeking above the horizon.

The sight is positively gorgeous, though. All golden rays and warmth oozing out of the crack that finely seperates the dark green treeline and the pale blue sky. The humidity still clings to every atom and every particle in the air, ever-present and sticky-suffocating. A few crickets sing their song somewhere in the grass outside, a few birds twitter their own tunes. Despite Mea's anxiousness and restlessness, it's serene and peaceful.

She's curled up in the living room, legs pretzeled in an arm chair, sun bleeding in the window, thick book open on her lap. Mea's humming to herself, a blip of a song she'd heard a few days ago whilst downtown. It's a slow song, but a cheery one, about a sunrise. Mea can't remember any actual lyrics, but the sound of it is soothing and appropriate for the time of day, she thinks.

The book open in her lap has a plethora of words in small, blank ink, probably Times New Roman or some other font that teachers insist on. The photographs are professionally done, likely by someone who makes really nice money just from snapping pictures of tree branches or old people at coffee shops. The pages are crisp and heavy, but smooth and glossy on the pads of Mea's fingers.

Mea recognises the willow trees and the maple trees, though she realises she can't differentiate specific trees like red maples from sugar maples. She recognises pine trees, but like the maples she cannot seperate the white pines from the red pines.

The tiny black ink waxes poetic about the various tree types. It romanticises the towering height of the Douglas firs (second tallest only to the coast redwoods!) and the soft, furry catkins of pussy willow trees.

Mea thinks she may, one day, be interested in pursuing forestry. Trees are interesting. There are so many species of trees and textures of leaves and needles, the colours range from French lipstick red to so-green-it's-black. Mea has always loved the way the leaves change colour in the fall, clinging to the last edge of summer before displaying its final burst of life, bearing the bitter brutality of winter, then sprouting buds again in the spring as if to say: ha! You thought you could get rid of me! The leaves are resilient. Mea admires that dedication.

***

"Our time together is limited, Ace," Victor says.

They're seated in the same office at Victor's they were in previously. This time Jojo is with them as well. Victor seems to have forgotten they have company and if Mea's being completely honest, she finds herself nearly forgetting, too.

Mea's fingers twitch by her side as she resists reaching out and touching Victor's arm.

"Our days are numbered," she agrees.

She puts her knee to his to compromise.

Victor smiles.

"That means we have very few days to find the elusive Doug Sullivan and we can't continue asking people who may or may not know something. We have to be direct."

"I still can't believe Timothy was a bust," Jojo groans.

"Not a bust! He was really cool and -"

Mea and Jojo glare at Victor.

"- such a shame. Such a bust, indeed."

Victor types Doug Sullivan into the same Yellowpages webpage as the previous day. Mea stares at the thick leaves on the trees outside, mesmorised as each tree seems to have billions upon trillions of giant, deep green leaves. Mea recognises the boxelder maple and the white oak. Jojo sits in the chair that matches Mea's plush armchair opposite Mea and Victor at the big desk.