Thirty Two Faces - 12. Grit

The air is unusually dense and humid, as if Cheyenne had been awash in a shower that soaked up the arid lands. With dusk hardly an hour away, the lampposts along the highway glisten through dense halos, while the occasional truck stops and motels seem doused in glimmering colors to entice the weary travelers.

Moisture hangs on our cheeks and foreheads. The car’s air conditioning is spoiled. I want to run my hands over his stubbly jaws. I can’t wait to get to our uncle’s ranch and shower and throw myself on the bed, knowing all the while that our room has no air conditioning, and I’d be no better off after the shower. But I also love the lethargy that sits upon the country side and Samuel’s tired, unsteady arm resting on my shoulders.

I love how he holds me with his free hand while he drives. His face is happy; I can see it even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes. One hand hanging on the steering wheel, a smile comes easily to his face whenever our gazes meet – and for no apparent reason. Out in nowhere, along the long quiet road, we just feel like looking at each other’s faces. He smiles, I’ll smile, and then he rubs my hands lazily with his thumbs. Sometimes, his hand is on my hand or my thigh, or our little fingers curl and hook.

There are so many ways to make love.

It’s hard to break apart during these moments. Just like how we were reluctant to be the first to end the phone call during the first few months after he left for college. This is so much more than a road-trip adventure or an interlude before schools and circumstances send us on our separate ways.

“It feels like we’re eloping, Babe.”

Those words, spoken from the height of bliss, never mind that it is only a mirage, melt my heart completely.

“Yes, it does.”

Only that we are eloping with a return ticket to different destinations. But I don’t care. Imagination has been an ill-afforded luxury, but right now it is a blissful blinder to shroud the future scene of our impending farewell. Our journey will be an extended party where we’ll toast the remaining seconds and get drunk on the present moment. Both of us agree not to squander borrowed time on anticipating a future that will run us over soon enough. There is too little time left and too many memories to make.

We can do anything, say anything, and be anyone. We’ll probably never come back to these parts of the world again.

At times, we behave like lovers. In between stops, gas or pee breaks, we kiss with our tongues, and his covetous hands will be around my waist, roving down to my hips. No one cares, not even the redneck truckers who are pumping gas or the Mary-Janes manning the pay kiosks; some even cheer us on with a wolf whistle. The occasional men who glare at our free show will have their courtesies returned with a middle finger from Samuel and a cocky response.

You’re welcome.

Other times, we seem to be buddies on an adventure. Laying out maps, sprawling over the car engine, we chart our journey to nowhere with the attention span of preschoolers, digressions with silly banter, interruptions with spontaneous roughhousing, like two punctured balloons that have gone amok. Once we’re out of steam, we share a quiet drink and sandwich sitting on top of the car trunk, legs swinging freely back and forth. Occasionally, we spot young travelers like us, and Samuel shows me how to chat up college girls smooth and easy. Then, just as quickly, we go back to public snogging.

Some of the apathetic ones start to stare when Samuel gets all brotherly over me. Mussing up my hair, bossing me around, throwing a protective hand over my shoulders – these are not gestures easily mistaken for lovers. Some will cringe when they come closer and see the resemblance in our faces and mannerisms. Despite our differences in size and hirsute endowments, there is no mistake that I am a miniature, younger version of him.

Once rested and recharged, and when it’s clear we’ve outstayed our welcome, we continue with our journey, unfettered and uninterrupted. Right now, nothing matters but our connected hands and easy smiles.

The timbered country house sits in the middle of the eight-hundred-acres of hilly fields. Rolls of hay are stacked like giant wheels across the huge ranch, partitioned by stout wooden fences and carpeted by dark green pastures. Herds of horses gallop past as we drive down the dirt road, as if to race with the car. To our left, cattle and sheep graze lazily, a few bother to look up at us with mild interest.

My head pokes outside the window, like a dog feeling the wind on a joyride, taking in the aroma of fresh hay and the crisp, cutting scent of meadow. I scream out to the large fields in wild abandon. Samuel, while driving the car, joins me in a resounding cheer.

We had arrived at Uncle Rob’s ranch in the outskirts of Cheyenne.

We spend the first evening of our remaining days having dinner with Uncle Rob and his family. Besides Aunt Gretchen, our two younger cousins, a sprightly pair of twelve- and fourteen-year-old girls join us for the meal. They adore Samuel as much as I do, clinging on to his every limb the moment he arrives. They give us a warm welcome; it is the first time we’ve visited without our parents. Aunt Gretchen whips up the usual feast even when it’s only the two of us. Samuel ends up having to eat the lion’s share so that we won’t appear to be snubbing their hospitality.

Our uncle is a stern looking man with a thick, iron-bar moustache. I used to be scared of him because he has a big gun that makes a very loud bang when he shoots bottles. Samuel loves it, but it makes me want to hide. Last time we were here, I hid in a cupboard for days. My family couldn’t get me to come out, but Uncle Rob managed to coax me out with some puppies to play with. He looks a lot friendlier when he smiles, and he likes to hug.

My aunt, who’s just like my mom, seems to be on a perennial mission to fatten me up.

“God forbid! You are still as skinny as last year!”

I smile, because her mock outrage makes her face looks like a grumpy Persian cat.

Unlike the dinners at home, meals at our uncle’s house are boisterous, jolly affairs. Food gets scooped to your plates before you’ve taken many bites. There are protests and then more scooping again. The trick is to eat slowly so there’ll be no reason for them to add another pile of mashed potatoes or serve another chicken wing.

Somehow, the rustic wood, the lickingfire place, the loud chatter and louder laughs make our home feel like a dollhouse. Samuel thinks that our varnished wood, manicured plants and polite dinner conversations are merely neutered affectations of a real home. One day, when he finds the guts, he’ll throw away the cookie cutter mold Dad slapped on him. He’d rather be like Uncle Rob, living close to the earth, being available and living close to the people who matter, and he’ll want to go on a trip that never ends.

“Shed the plastic and ride the world.” He toasts to Samuel’s aspiration like one says God bless America.

“Like a cowboy.” Samuel returns the toast with echoes around the table.

“Talking about cowboys, here’s your pass for the bronco-riding competition.” Aunt Gretchen shows us the pass and the flyer.

Our uncle registered Samuel for the competition the week before we arrived. Normally, the saddled bronco-riding event is eligible only at semi-professional rodeos, but Uncle Rob happens to be one of the organizers. Since there aren’t many taking part in the event this year, he managed to grease the way and convinced the panel to accept Samuel’s application.

The prize is a thousand bucks and an exquisite rodeo buckle with a unique design. It is a twin buckle that attaches to both ends of a belt, each end a horse head that faces the other. One is slightly bigger than the other, and when clasped, it looks like two horses necking affectionately.

“Why’s the interest to ride this year?”

Samuel points his thumb to me and says, “This little brat wants the winner’s buckle.”

“Is that it? I can get you a replica.”

Samuel looks at me and smiles; he says, “Nah. He wants the real thing.”

It isn’t about the rodeo belt, and he knows it. The true gift lies in the thoughts and efforts he puts into it. Just like how handmade cards are always sweeter than the Hallmarks you can buy off the shelf. Then I think of the graffiti under the railroad bridge near Eden, and I think of this gesture being his testament of devotion, and in time to come, I can hold the buckle and look back, knowing that all of this summer actually happened, and that none of my sentiments about him are manufactured by my fractured dreams.

Uncle Rob put us up in the small shed near the barn where both of us always sleep when we visit. That’s where we can bring the dogs in to sleep with us and whip up a ruckus without prying parents and curfews. It was converted into a guesthouse for my sake because they used to find me sneaking out at night to sleep among the dogs in the doghouse. We can also use the privacy, since it is far away from the country house.

Along the cobbled path, we hold hands, swinging them to and fro like little boys marching to their first day of school, and our backpacks weighing down on our shoulders like schoolbags. But instead of heading straight to the shed, we make a detour to visit our old friends instead.

The puppies are all grown up. I still remember their names; Alistair, Max and Amber. And I also remember their faces, silvery-black fur and icy-blue eyes like ours. My bedside companions have grown from the tiny fur balls that climbed all over my limbs into three hulking Siberian huskies. I am glad that they still remember me, too, and are obviously happy to see us. We spend the evening battling against wagging tails and slobbering tongues and pouncing paws determined to pin us down so that they can get to lick our faces.

These siblings get to sleep with each other, licking each other’s privates without judging eyes or shame. I envy them.

“They’re dogs, Babe. No one cares what they do.”

“Is this one of those double standards you told me about?”

“No,” He bends down to pet one of them, “Dogs just happen to be born free.”

“I want to be a dog.”

“Who doesn’t?”

The dogs follow our whistling – a pied piper’s tune – as we head back to the shed, joining the melody with their howls and barks. Despite our buoyant spirits, our tired bodies are lagging behind. The evening air hangs densely on us like a sodden sponge, adding weight to our heavy dinner and our heavy feet. We just want to snuggle up and rest.

The guest room used to be a storehouse to keep the ranch tools and it’s about half the size of our bedrooms. Despite the refurbishment, the planked walls still smell of sawdust and rusty metal. The old, stained mattresses look habitable after we change the bed sheets. I snigger when Samuel points at some of the old stains, asking if it was my handiwork. The dust or the creaking floorboards don’t bother us. We’re free to be ourselves, we’re warm and sheltered from the elements, we couldn’t have asked for better hospitality than this.

Nothing changes from our usual visits except for the sleeping arrangements. This time, we stack the two single mattresses into the bed. Neither of us needs to sleep on the floor. The single bed can hardly fit both of us, much less to pack in three grown huskies. But we are determined. Not even the muggy heat deters us. He says imagining our aunt’s face, when she washes our sweat-soaked bed sheets, cum-stained and littered with dog fur, would be worth the while.

The two of us deliberate as if we’re discussing packing strategies. We always joke how Mom can manage to fit in the whole Wyoming into her luggage with careful planning.

“You’ll have to curl up; your legs are too long,” I say.

“Push it against the wall and sleep inside. You won’t fall off that way.”

“We can cuddle up, Max can sleep at the end, Amber and Alistair can fit in near the wall.”

But the dogs sleep wherever they want. We just need to take care of ourselves and let them find their own way to fit in. In the end, we give up and simply collapse on to the bed, taking a short nap together, holding each other’s warm, damp bodies.

The room is dark except for the patio lights shining in through the tiny slits in the drawn curtains. He is gone when I wake up. Only my furry companions are in the bed with me. The night seems to be cooler, but I still want to have a shower. While unpacking my bag to get out the toiletries, I find a white envelope, tucked shoddily beneath my towel. It didn’t look like any of the documents Mom packed in my bag for my Boston school. Yet, there is something familiar. I cock my head while I pull it out, using the patio lights outside to illuminate the contents. The familiar font and words on the envelope front reads:

City Hunter Quest #262 – Babe’s secret mission

I hold my breath that very instant.

Why would Dad give me a mission all of a sudden?

It seems out of context. He barely felt comfortable about us travelling alone together. What is he trying to achieve? More importantly, what reward would he offer that I would possibly want.

My fingers linger around the slit of the opening, tempted to peek inside. As long as I don’t open it, it will always be a Schrödinger's cat; the possibility of a coveted reward will remain there. I hardly dare to think it out to myself.

What if the reward is to let me stay with Samuel?

My clockwork brain churns out infinite possibilities of Dad’s motivations. What makes him think we’ll be in the mood to play this game when our remaining seconds are carefully rationed?

Dad never offers rewards like phones, toys and gadgets. These things never entice us the way they do for other attention-starved children. My brother and I don’t need these electronic nannies when we have each other. Dad would have to do better than that; it must be something that we want badly and is of emotional significance to motivate us, like access to our birthday presents, extending our playing hours and curfews, permissions to go on a trip. The reward has always been about our freedom.

What if?

Could this a bad joke to taunt me with hope, to punish us for being bad children?

The dogs perk up their ears and wag their tails when they sense my trepidation. Clutching the sealed envelope in my hands, I run out to look for my brother.

Outside in the dark, I find him leaning against the wall behind the shed. One hand presses the phone against his head and the other takes a drag from a cigarette; he is shrouded in shadows except for the bright-amber cigarette tip and the smoke circling his hand. I can’t make out his expression, but his voice is hoarse and edgy.

I pause in my track, wondering if I should interrupt his phone call to let him know about the quest.

Going closer, I see his distraught face more clearly. He seems to be in a heated argument, stabbing the glowing Marlboro into the air every time he makes a point. It’s as if he’s jabbing his finger against someone in front of him. From a distance, I can hear his gruff tone and angry words are directed at his girlfriend.

For FUCK SAKE, Beth. You said we are on a break.

I am just being honest to you.

No, Sarah and Mindy don’t mean-

OH, PLEASE. I have enough of your lies.

You expect me to believe you went to Europe with Tristan and nothing happened?

You know I love you, too.

What do you mean, who told me? I saw the photos on Facebook for five minutes before you deleted them.

Oh God, please don’t start this again.

I take a step into the lights to subtly announce my presence. I don’t want to snoop, but he seems to be in distress. My hands are ready to reach out in case he needs a hug. Samuel holds out his hand, asking me to wait instead. He wants some privacy.

I move back to the front of the shed and sit on the steps of the patio. Now and then, I hear his loud voice cut through the silence of the night. No hooting night owls, not even crickets or cicadas, the silence is deafening like an intense pressure on your ears, as if invisible hands are pressing down on the sides of your head.

It takes a while before he appears around the corner, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. Something else shows up on his face when he looks at me. I’m not sure what it is with all the shadows cloaking his face. He approaches me with his arms reaching out, pulling me in for a long, tight hug, exhaling loudly, burying his face in my neck, leaning his weight heavily on my body.

I ask him if he’s okay.

He says no. But he’ll be fine soon.

He says doesn’t like dishonest people, because Dad was dishonest to Mom, and it hurt everyone. But Beth accuses him of being dishonest, so he feels very hurt. And he keeps saying,

I’m not like Dad…

“You’re not like Dad at all. He’s nice, and you’re bossy.”

That brings a weak smile to his face.

“And you’re the most brutally honest person I know.” I say, and I add in a clever joke, “I’m still pulling out the barbs from my ass.”

He likes clever jokes.

“How I wish you could hang around,” he tightens his embrace and kisses my ears.

I wish so, too.

I wouldn’t mind if he let me crawl up to his bed once in a while, even if it’s just to snuggle. If Mom and Dad don’t mind me crashing on their bed occasionally, we can work out an arrangement with Beth. If they can let me know their schedule, when they need privacy to make love, I’ll know when to stay away.

I won’t even mind if I have to be separated from him by a wall. It will be nice if it’s in the next room, like our adjacent rooms at home. At least he can pop over once in a while, and we can watch some flicks together – zombies, aliens or some slapstick comedies, it doesn’t matter. Just let me see him every day, hear his voice, and all I ask for is nothing more than a respectable hug once in a while.

But it must be long and tight and at least last for five minutes.

By the time I am done talking, I realize his eyes are glistening. Is he sad? Or is it the starlight? Did I make him feel worse? No, not at all, he says.

I run out of tricks to cheer him up, so I settle for a chaste kiss on the lips. Who knows, the quest might cheer him up.

“Dad gave us a quest.” I hold up the white envelope to show him. The same questions and confusion flashes over his face. Why now? Why here? And why should we care?

So I say it plainly, “What if the reward is that I can stay with you?”

He seems surprised but unconvinced, “I doubt it, Babe. Dad paid a fortune for your Boston program. Why would they pull you out?”

Before my mind can churn out a plausible explanation, he snuffs the thought with worried eyes and a dousing warning, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

But my hopes are already up. Kept buoyant like the silly Pixar cartoon where an entire house is lifted up the air by a bouquet of balloons. Not even my brother is allowed to puncture them.

I drag him back into the house, determined to rouse him with my vision of freedom. By some rare spark of eloquence, he seems inspired and infected by my rattling excitement.

We can find a two-bedroom apartment.

You and Beth can take the bigger room.

She’ll like me because I can help with the cooking and laundry.

I won’t be a nuisance because I’m very quiet.

And so on and so forth, I shamelessly list the benefits of having me around with the same enthusiasm as a car salesman. If he still sees doom and gloom, I amp up the pitch a few notches, until his lips curve high enough to lift his slouching spirits.

“If you had a tail, it would wag just like them.” He finally breaks into a proper smile.

“Even the dogs looked more excited than you.”

He responds with a playful smack on my head, “Shut up and open the envelope.”

Both of us leaned closer as I pull out the contents.

There is only a single sheet of paper inside. A web address with a question attached:

What holds US together?

Nothing else.

No datelines, no rewards, no preambles to engage us other than our curiosities. The mystery deepens.

In a way, I’m thrilled that it didn’t kill off my hopes with a lame reward that I don’t care about. If Dad thinks we’ll play his game based solely on our curiosity, despite the circumstances he puts us through, he must be pretty confident that the reward is worth our time. He wouldn’t be so callous to send us off a wild goose chase knowing full well that would crush me utterly. Again.

Should we call Dad and confront him?

Asking anything about the mission disqualifies us automatically.

But Samuel still thinks it will be a wild goose chase. Dad may not be callous. But he is a shrink before he is a father, and he thinks with his heart and feels with his mind. It’s probably his misguided, clinical way of trying to ‘fix us’. That’s what Samuel believes.

I take out the iPad and key in the web address, anyway. I’d rather get stung by a false hope than to be smothered by the regrets that it could’ve happen otherwise.

The page loads.

And there is nothing about rewards, either.

It is a plain website with his question at the top, and below, there is a thirteen-digit field to key in the answer. On the right side of the field, there are seven icons: three cartoon brick walls, three skulls and a question-mark sign with a red ribbon tied around it.

There is a reward, and it is a mystery reward.

“What do you think it is?” It is much less of a question than a veiled plea to validate my wishful hopes. But as I say to him, my brother is brutally honest.

“I don’t know. Maybe the answer is the prize?”

His nonchalance bleeds me, not because he doesn’t agree with me, but because I’d think he wants to live with me as much as I do with him.

“Look, Babe, it’s not that I didn’t care. I just hate to see you disappointed.”

But not a single word gets into me.

In my mind, I cling on to this miniscule possibility like a life buoy in the open seas. Every other thought and sentiment gets eclipsed by this glimmer of hope.

“Very well, there is nothing to lose. Just enjoy this as a game, okay?” He puts both arms on my shoulders and looks at me.

Reward or not, the mission provides some respite from the vacant moments where there is nothing else to distract us from the ticking clock. It fills up the time and numbs those aching seconds, like morphine. Maybe that’s our father’s true intent?

We stay up late to debate the cryptic question. He thinks it’s a riddle; I think it’s a puzzle. He says it wouldn’t make sense to be an open riddle, something to crack our heads rather than work our muscles, because he couldn’t have planted to clues at the locations beforehand. I tell him he could get Uncle Rob to do it instead. Dad knows our itinerary, and we know they’ve been in cahoots before.

We argue back and forth like Socratic scholars, digressing with frivolous jokes, and then go back at it again. I don’t know what time we fall asleep. Two boys, three dogs squeezed into a tiny bed, yakking the night away. There is no need for duvet and blankets when the night and our hearts are warm enough. And they it aren’t, I am sandwiched between fur and throbbing warm bodies.

As the night deepens, our pinball chatter slows down to a slumbering pace. I vaguely recall his slurred voice responding slower each time we speak. Just like how we didn’t want to be the first to put down the phone or the first to break up our hands, we don’t want this conversation to end by being the first to fall asleep. Soon, the languid heaving of his chest, rising up and down slowly, cradles my head and lulls me to sleep. The last words I recall, his voice distant and dreamy, sounds something like I love you.

We wake up earlier than we need to, planning to enjoy the countryside morning before the riding practice with our uncle starts. It is one of those rare days where he gets up earlier than I do. My eyes open to see him above me, greeting me with a warm smile and a gentle kiss on my lips, a morning wood poking at me below. He wants us to shower together. When I see him pull down his shorts, I straightaway take off my clothes as well.

“Just for a second,” I say as our bodies connect, for I love feeling the moist skin on his chest and back.

“Don’t wash it away so soon.”

I imagine he would smell like Eden, he exudes that brine of raw sweat with crisp undertones of morning dew and the thick woody scent of a virgin forest. I kiss the salt on his shoulder blades, his collarbones, along the ridges of his spine. Soon enough, I won’t be able to taste them anymore.

“At this rate, there’ll be no riding,” he says.

On this warm morning, both of us lean out, with the arms of our naked bodies resting on the window sill, overlooking an unusually warm August, and our head rests on each other’s in full view of ranch hands in the distant fields.

Leaning out into the morning air, I know I may not have a second chance again, and yet I can’t bring myself to accept it. The same sentiment shows in his face as we survey the vast undulating plains, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches, side by side, both wanting to etch this moment, and that’s why, acting on a whim, I find my hands over his crotch and then start fondling him,

“You keep doing this, and I’ll end up riding you instead.”

I don’t know what I am doing and sex isn’t really on my mind, but once he is fully hard, it becomes clear to me: we’ll make love, but we won’t cum. Then we’ll shower and spend the day like two wound-up toy soldiers bouncing about. Find a tree, and we’ll piss on it, look at each other and want to hug, risk a smil,e and we’ll start undressing each other in our heads. Our bodies will be electric because we’ve charged up the currents in a perpetual looping circuit, every touch between us will send off sparks like two exposed live wires.

We shower with him inside me.

“Don’t cum.”

It is hard to bathe with something sticking up in you, and we laugh as we try like fumbling acrobats to keep me plugged.

My heels tucked, soles standing on the top of his feet, I am like a pilot steering a giant robot. It’s an old childhood game we play, but with a twist. He walks around me to get the soap, to bring the shampoo, to lather my back by rubbing with his front, and to wash my front with his hands. All this while, he must stay inside me, I must remain standing on his feet and neither of us must come.

We exchange clothes. We wear each other’s underwear. It is a dumb idea. Mine are too small for him, and his are too large for me.

“Not fair, you get to breathe,” he complains about my underwear being too tight for him.

“Rules are rules.” I smile.

And then we exchange sunglasses and laugh at each other. Walk around in each other’s shoes.

In the end, we laugh and go back to just wearing each other’s underwear. This way, we can make love the whole day long and no one knows except for us.

To him, it may be a second wind of silliness, of childhood.

Maybe he has done it with others, and I’m the only one drunk on the craziness.

Perhaps he’s humoring my oddity.

Or he can be feeling the same as I do, as he seals this moment with a kiss, grateful to be cured of our sanity in the nick of time before the sands run out in the hourglass.

He wears his Stetson hat and puts on the chaps as we shut the door to our tiny shed. Out in the fields it’s like two walking dynamos, broad smiles for everyone: to the elderly farm hand, to the ranch hand in the stables, to the cow grazing on the fields.

The world smiles back.

“Thank you, Samuel. I’m very happy.” I say.

He grins and flicks my nose, “You’re just horny.”

“No, I’m really happy.”

Uncle Rob is waiting for us when we arrived at the large sandy arena next to the stables. We apologize to him for being late while secretly sniggering at each other, still reveling in the morning’s levity. He tips his wide-brim hat to greet us.

The mid-morning sun is still warm and gentle, but the reflected heat from the sand makes it hotter than it supposed to be. The occasional breeze provides little respite. But the heat is the least of the concerns for the practice.

Bronco riding is a dangerous sport because you can get thrown and hurt your spine or even get trampled by the horse. Samuel tries it once without the saddle, and he almost breaks his arm when he got thrown off by the horse. That’s why he got an earful from Mom for participating this year. And Mom probably nagged our uncle into coaching Samuel, which is why we are here now.

He trained Samuel personally ever since he was twelve, during our annual visits over summer. He said Samuel is a natural bronco rider because he has very strong core muscles to keep him balanced. My brother can do sit-ups with his legs hanging down on a bar. When I was younger and lighter, he could even lift me up at the same time.

We sit on the fence, hats shading our faces from the morning sun, listening to our uncle briefing us on the safety precautions. Then we follow him to the stable as he leads a bucking horse out of a stall. We walk through the hay-filled shed smelling of manure and horses snickering at us like grumpy housewives.

Unlike a riding horse, a bucking bronco is bred for their ability to throw their hind legs high up in the air. They are mainly horses that can’t be tamed. But unlike wild horses, these horses will only buck when they are given a signal, usually a slight kick on their flanks. And I guess maybe that’s why they’re more irritable than other horses.

“Are you ready?” Uncle Rob leads the black-Arabian gelding outside as we prepare it for mounting.

He saddles up the horse, using a specialized saddle with free swinging stirrups, different from the ones used for riding because they give your legs wider range of movement. That makes it harder for Samuel to stay mounted but easier to balance when the horse kicks. Once he’s up, he grips a braided rein that is attached to a leather halter worn by the horse. His face is already glistening from the sun above and the reflected heat from the sand below.

He takes a deep breath, blowing air through his mouth. He looks at Uncle Rob and gives him a nod to indicate that he’s ready.

“Go easy on the spurs, son.” Uncle Rob pats the horse one last time and gets behind the fence beside me.

Samuel starts the bucking with a boisterous Yee Haw and a kick with his spurs that’s a little harder than he’s prepared for.

The agitated horse springs into furious motion, throwing up his hind legs repeatedly to throw Samuel. One kick from that horse would shatter a lion’s skull immediately. Samuel pulls on the reins, trying to match the rhythm of the bucking horse by moving his feet forwards and backwards in a sweeping motion from shoulder to flank. It’s been a while since he’s ridden, so his riding seems to be a little stiff.

Meanwhile, Uncle Rob shouts out instructions to him, “Relax your core muscles and let the legs do the balancing!”

He might not have heard the instructions in time because, within a few seconds, he gets thrown off and tumbles down to the sand right below the horse’s hooves.

My heart stops.

I find myself blindly jumping over the fence and dashing towards him to drag him away.

The hooves miss.

But the horse continues to buck away, and Samuel is dangerously close, still lying on the ground. I shield him with my body when the horse raises its hooves again.

Uncle Rob finds the reins in time to lead the horse away from us.

“Are you hurt?”

He sits up and sweeps off the sand off his clothes, “I’m fine, just a few scratches.”

Uncle Rob calms down the horse and ties it to the fence before he comes over to check on Samuel.

“Good, nothing is broken. I’ll go get the first-aid kit,” he says and goes inside the house.

“Are you crazy? You could’ve been hurt.” My brother touches my head, his face ashen. I look at a gash of angry red across his forearms and say, “Forget about the belt, Samuel. It’s not worth it.”

“Don’t worry, Babe. I’ve had worse falls.”

“Are you sure?”

“A promise is a promise,” he says with a tired grin, “And I want to see the happiest kid-brother face on you.”

“There’s no such face.”

“There will be one soon.”

Uncle Rob comes back with some disinfectant for the abrasions. After applying it, he asks as if nothing has happened, “Ready to go again?”

“Hell, yeah!”

In between practice rides, we let the horse rest for a couple of minutes before we try again. I cringe every time he falls down, but Uncle Rob assures me that it’s common for bronco riders to be thrown. The riders are pretty safe as long as they don’t get thrown off the wrong way. The soft sand in the training arena absorbs some of the impact. He takes out his long-sleeve denim jacket and gets Samuel to wear it. It’ll protect his arms from the abrasive sands.

The subsequent tries are better, but not good enough to win the competition. He gets thrown off again after staying on for eight seconds, which is the minimum amount of time he needs to stay mounted to win. He needs to get the horse to kick higher and more evenly to get extra points, but that means greater risk and danger of being thrown. It’s just like driving, the faster you go, the harder the crash.

“Leg action is a large part of the score,” Uncle Rob shows us his collection of spurs, “so you’ll need a pair of good spurs to win.”

Spurs with blunt rowels protect the horse’s skin and get them excited rather than agitated. They also help Samuel to spur the horse to action quickly and safely. After he puts them on his boots, he gets up to mount the horse again.

The full heat of the sweltering afternoon bears down on him, sweat trickling down his face. Even the wide-brimmed hat can’t shade the searing brightness enough to keep his eyes from squinting. He tries again and again. The new spurs seem to work, as my brother gets a lot better; both the horse and he are bucking in sync gracefully. We cheer him on loudly and soon, my cousins hear us and join in to watch as well.

“You ride like a true-blue Wyoming cowboy, son.” Uncle Rob beams.

Samuel, who is lying on the ground catching his breath, smiling through the glistening sweat, pulls down his Stetson hat to shade his eyes from the sun.

The cowboy hat and the sun-kissed smile, the button-down, tartan shirt wide open at the neck, drenched to the skin, the rugged jeans under the leathery chaps, spurs on his dirty boots – I can spend the whole day swooning at him. He must have caught me gaping because he raises the brim of his hat and sends me a smile and a wink.

After a grueling afternoon, Uncle Rob leaves to prepare for the Rodeo Fair. He and his team of ranch hands will be busy vaccinating, de-worming and loading the horses into the trailer to be transported to the venue. Can we do anything to help? He says we can take the gelding for a walk as a reward for his hard work.

I bend down over Samuel, who is still resting on the ground, pick up his hat and kiss him on his forehead. I look at him eye to eye and say, “Thank you brother, you’re amazing.”

“Amazing because I go through all that shit for you? Or just amazing?”

“Both, you big oaf.”

A stream lies at the edge of the ranch, down the slope along the dirt path. Beyond the hilly plains, is an immense field of corn and wheat; the entire landscape casts a golden hue under the setting sun. We liked to come here when we were younger. Samuel would make a makeshift sleigh using a large piece of cardboard, and we’d slide down the sandy slope.

We lead the horse to the stream to drink and cool itself down. The dogs tag along with us, happily wagging their tails and barking. Finding a shaded grass patch near the trees, we sit down and watch the large fields of crops swaying in the wind, like waves moving through a shimmering golden sea. Whenever a strong gust comes, the leaves on the nearby trees rustle like the darting staccato of a torrential rain. The sound temporarily mutes the gentle trickling stream next to us. Feeling free and unfettered, I lean my head on Samuel’s shoulders while the orange sky darkens.

The sweat-soaked, red tartan shirt clings to his skin as he unbuttons it to let the evening breeze cool his torso. Sand and abrasions cover his body like battle scars. I want to kiss every scratch and cut, showing on his skin like war medals. Sweat gleams on his face and body, rolling down his abdominals like meandering streams. Adoration and shame overwhelm me at that moment, because I marked his day with a silly tease but he has marked mine with blood and sweat.

“Don’t say that,” he looks at me and says, “You came for me.”

It’s a nice switch to let me be the shining knight for once. He laughs and says no way that’s going to happen. I’m not going to take his job away.

“But thanks, Babe. No one has ever done something like that for me.”

His soft gaze and soft words make me blush more than his impish tease. If I stare another moment, my heart will jump out from my chest. Looking away, I take off my dry shirt and wipe off the sweat on his face, and I say, “You will catch a cold.”

Still looking at me, he takes the shirt out of my hand while he wipes off the rest of his body.

“What?” I ask.

He flashes a smile and throws it back to my face. “For you.”

It doesn’t disgust me, no matter how much it stinks. Somewhere in that scent lingers his familiar musk and the toils of love. I smile back at him and say thank you. It was a treat.

His face and body are still warm from the blazing afternoon sun. I pull out a large bottle of mineral water and trickle some over his head, gently bathing him with my hands over his face, his neck and under his open shirt. I watch the grime and sweat wash off as he tilts back his head and closes his eyes.

He grabs my hand, leaving it there for a moment. Then he opens his eyes and pulls me in slowly for a kiss.

“We have unfinished business.” He smiles.

Before his face comes too close, I hold out a hand to stop him, “What if someone catches us?”

“The country house is at least mile away.”

“Let’s go back to our room,” I say.

“Scaredy cat.”

His cheeky smile warns me in time to dodge his pounce, and I scramble away laughing. He gets up immediately to chase me across the fields, arms wide open and screaming,

“Come on Babe! Give me some love!”

I shout my protests, appeal for decorum on deaf ears, the dogs running alongside me, barking in agreement. We run in circles around trees, climbing up and down the slope, dodging his relentless pursuit until he finally wears me out. Tumbling down the hill, as he wrestles me to the ground, our cries and laughter echo across the plains. Once I’m trapped under him, he rubs his dirty face and body against me so that I become as filthy as he is.

Our bodies have no secrets from each other.

Nothing feels more intimate than sharing each other’s dirt and grime, the unwanted parts of ourselves. It makes people feel that they are loveable because someone else can embrace their filth when they themselves can’t.

The dogs understand that; which is why they join in and lick us.

He laughs, I whine, and the dogs bark and wag their tails. All of us express bliss in our own way.

In the end, he lies on top me, and I still let him kiss me anyway. The sky has already turned dark blue by then, and we are safe under the night’s embrace. When our faces part, he says softly, “Being with you feels so surreal,”

He rubs his nose gently against mine and says, “One moment we’ll be playing like kids,” then he’ll lean down for another kiss, “and share a tender kiss in the next.”

We lie on the grass with knees bent and hands folded behind our heads under the tree. The horse is tied close to us, neighing for attention. Even the dogs are tired and huddle their furry bodies against ours. I can feel their softness and breathing against the bare skin on my legs.

Samuel reaches out his hands for mine and entwines our fingers. It feels as if all our bodies are connected like a wire circuit, sending warmth to each other: Human to human, human to dog, dog to dog and to human again.

Perhaps only our canine friends, born free and being siblings themselves, can ever understand the bond between us.

“Are we lovers, Samuel?” I ask, wondering what constitutes the intricate structure of a relationship. Rachel often says relationships are the family you choose, while kinships are the family you’re born with. That’s why relationships will one day outpace kinships as your new family, because they are the choices you make.

But where do I stand in our case?

I have to ask, even when this vain attempt to know my place in his constellation of hearts will offer me little solace, when this ambiguity is finally resolved with the expected conclusion.

But his reply is unexpected. “I don’t know? Should we ask them instead?” He nudges his chin at Max, who appears to be sniffing Amber’s vagina.

“I don’t think the same rules apply to them.”

He turns to me and says, “Maybe it doesn’t need to apply to us as well? Who gets to decide what box to fit us in?”

I’m glad that he’s reluctant to see this ambiguity resolved. It makes me think that he, too, doesn’t want to re-erect the walls that we have so impetuously torn down. Perhaps, he likes sentiments as they are, nebulous and honest. He is never one to live by someone else’s rules. So I say softly to echo what’s already in his heart, “I guess we do.”

He tightens his grasp on my hand and says, “Then I say, fuck the boxes, let’s make our own rules for ourselves.”

“Okay, but what rules would we need?”

How do you plan a voyage on uncharted waters, not knowing where it will lead us?

“Whatever keeps us together.”

“What holds us together–”

I think about the mission clue and repeat it softly to myself, and then I look at us holding hands. I smile at the irony, “Could this be the answer to the riddle?”

I raise our entwined fingers to make the point that it’s our hands that hold us together.

“Well it did seem to work for us,” he says with a grin and a shrug.

After putting the gelding back in the stable, we head back to the shed and take a quick shower together. While we’re all soaped up and scrubbing each other, I tell him why I think Dad might let us live together. After all, he did say that he won’t stop us after I’ve proven that I can be independent, which is the whole point of the program. If the mission requires me to prove that independence, wouldn’t the same purpose be achieved? Besides, pulling out from the Boston program now will only lose him the deposit. He’ll still save a fortune from the tuition and boarding fees.

The more I think about it, the more optimistic I feel. But my brother frowns. “Don’t get your hopes so high up, Babe. I don’t want you to come down crashing.”

Normal people think differently, Samuel tells me. Because the rent you pay for living in the world is to accept the cage it puts around you.

I don’t pay the rent because I live in my own world, and what we have between us rattles everybody else’s cages: especially, our parents’ cage. Imagine the shame Dad would face if everyone knows. He’d send me to Sweden if he could afford it.

“Just have fun and take it as a game,” Samuel says.

But none of this gets through my skull.

After we settle down, both of us huddle close as we take out our iPads and log on to the page.

There are thirteen-digit fields to key in the answer and so I type in,

H-O-L-D-I-N-G---H-A-N-D-S

A loud booing beep sounds, and one of the skulls disappears.

“Shit, I think we got that one wrong,” Samuel says.

It seems like we only have limited attempts to get the answer right.

And there are only two skulls left.

I slap my forehead and groan, “Oh no! We should’ve googled it before we wasted the attempt. I’m so stupid!”

Usually, the harder the mission, the better the rewards are. I’m starting to dread that I might blow away our last chance of staying together.

Opening a new tab, I google the term ‘what holds us together’. A whole array of results pops out, ranging from astrophysics, gravitation, laminas, electrons, religion to song lyrics. It could be anything.

How the hell are we supposed to narrow down the possibilities? We only have two more attempts.

“What should we do Samuel? It could be anything…”

The more I look at the results, the more daunting they feel to me. None of the websites offer any coherent links to the quest. There isn’t even a clue, much less any hints of possible leads. I’m starting to panic, opening multiple tabs and clicking on each link to get a panoramic perspective of the options available.

“Hey, Babe, relax. The mission is supposed to be fun. Don’t get all worked up.”

How can I not get worked up? What if Dad is offering me one last hope?

“Babe, get real. There’s no way Dad will let us be together. Don’t let it screw your head.”

What if Dad is offering me one last hope?

I pace around the room.

One last hope.

I pull my hair.

One last hope.

I groan.

One last hope

And groan.

“Babe, Babe, listen to me. Calm down, all right.” Samuel’s hands stop me from moving, I feel trapped.

What if it’s our last hope?

I struggle against his hands.

“Hush, Babe… hush…”

Samuel holds me that night till I sleep, brushing my hair and cooing at me gently. In my head, I repeat the puzzle countless times, making bold assumptions to narrow down the probability of the clue being an astrophysics question or a philosophical question.

I would bet on it being an astrophysics question, since Dad wouldn’t test me on metaphysics or philosophy.

Beyond the grinding computations in my head, I vaguely hear my brother’s voice.

Don’t think about it, Babe. Just feel my chest and listen to my heartbeat.

I feel his warm chest and its bristling hair against my cheeks. His slow, steady heart drums away with a quiet, nodding rhythm.

In the darkness, I feel three warm furry bodies climb up on our beds and settle around my body. One of them squeezes into the tiny space between me and the wall. Samuel’s hand wraps around my waist from behind. I turn over and feel a wet muzzle sniffing at my chin. It made a soft whimpering sound as I put my hand over its furry body, hugging it to sleep.

For a brief moment, I forget about the quest. The only remaining thought that’s left is that it is nice to have so many friends.

In the middle of the night, I wake up coughing and spitting out a mouthful of dog hair. I must have been burying my face into the dogs while hugging them to sleep. Alistair lifts his head up and looks at me, all perky ears and dangling tongue.

“Sorry to wake you up.” I apologize to the dog.

“You okay, Babe?”

My coughing must have wakened him. He sits up and smacks my back a couple of times to help cough out the hair.

“I’ll get you some water.”

I feel the dogs jumping off the bed to make way for him. Suddenly, the room lights up, blinding me for a moment. Only the shuffling dogs, the sound of pouring water and my intermittent coughs punctuate the quiet twilight hours. I scrape the remaining hair off my tongue, picking up a few curly blond ones among the mix.

“Drink it.” Samuel returns with a glass of water.

“These are probably-” I’m interrupted by another cough, before I choke out the words, “yours.”

This is the third time I’ve had to spit out his hair since I got used to burying my face into his chest while he holds me in my sleep.

He grins and smacks the side of my head gently. “I’m not shaving my chest for you.”

I smile back at him.

My throat still feels a tickling from the stray hairs I’ve swallowed, and gulping down the water seems to irritates it further. I cough again, this time, wetting the envelope and some papers scattered on the night stand as well.

“Sorry…”

I dab away the water droplets with the hem of my tee shirt, careful not to smudge the ink on the papers.

Samuel takes the printed flyer and dries it carefully with cloth from the table. His eyes narrow as he looks closer at the brochure. Suddenly, he looks at me and says, “Babe, look at this,” as he hands me the paper.

He points to the rodeo buckle and its twin horsehead design. On each of them, there is a small embossed letter, U & S.

What holds US together?

I looked up at him in astonishment. “The clue is in the rodeo buckle.”

Samuel smiles and nods, “Seems like another reason to win the competition. No pressure.”

We have a few more hours of sleep before we have to wake up at six in the morning. Samuel looks fresh and well-rested, even with his face full of heavy stubble. I tell him not to shave, because I think it looks suave with the cowboy outfit. It might just score him some points with the female judges. Every single advantage counts. Scientifically, heavy stubble is generally attractive to women.

“And some boys as well,” he adds with a grin at me.

We spend no more than fifteen minutes washing up and getting ready. Taking in a whiff of the fresh morning dew on the grassy fields, we stride along the cobbled pathway towards the country house to meet Uncle Rob.

The entire ranch is up and ready even before the first light is cast down on the fields. Most of the family and ranch hands will be heading down to the fair in their best country clothes. Men, women, and animals are livening with the dawn, with quick steps and chirping chatter everywhere. Samuel stops and chats with some of the younger ranch hands who will be participating in the rodeo events. They have way more experience than Samuel and will be competing against him. They part ways with a handshake and a good luck.

Aunt Gretchen has prepared a sumptuous breakfast of bacon and eggs with toast, but I think Samuel might just throw it all up later. I feel dizzy just looking at him sitting on the bucking horse. The fair is about an hour’s drive away, but Uncle Rob thinks we should head there early to beat the traffic. There will be a huge bottleneck as people from all over Wyoming come down for the marquee events.

Before we leave, Samuel and I visit the dog house one last time and bid farewell to my friends. We part with whimpering licks and lingering hugs. Hopefully, I’ll get to visit them next year and that they’ll still be around to welcome us.

We follow Uncle Rob’s truck as our rented blue sedan speeds along the highway, music playing on the radio. I sing along with my brother even though we don’t know the song, making up lyrics as we go. We wind down the window to feel the wind sweeping our hair. The trip is smooth until we get to the turnoff leading straight to the rodeo venue; there, rows of trucks and cars line up to wait for parking. Swarms of kids wearing cowboy hats stick their heads out of car windows, looking and pointing ahead, greedy hands grabbing bouquets of balloons of different shapes and colors.

Our uncle signals for us to park at a nearby open field before we get trapped in the funnel of traffic leading to the parking lot. After getting out of our vehicles, we walk the remaining distance towards the huge tent, squeezing our way through honking cars and impatient kids. Samuel puts the large headset over me to mute the din of screaming toddlers and cranky vehicles. But I take them off me and clutch his arm, letting him lead me through the dizzying hubbub on the road.

When we arrive, we are greeted by a huge banner hung high across the crowded roads that reads Wyoming Stampede 2013. Ranchers from all over from the state here to showcase their horses and products. Uncle Rob offers some insider perspectives discreetly with a hand over his mouth, “Don’t tell anyone, but these competitions are more like advertising gimmicks to generate hype and interest. They’re all about the showmanship.”

He thinks Samuel stands a chance to win if only amateurs and semi-professionals are competing against him. The pros know how to engage the crowd and make it look easy.

“Put on a good show, son. If the crowd loves you, so will the judges,” Uncle Rob says.

Outside the arena tent, rows of stores sell souvenirs, competition photos, cotton candy, hot dogs and popcorn. Armed with an organizer pass, Uncle Rob opens the way for us to squeeze past the long line of indignant earlybirds. After jostling aside the crowd of impatient spectators, we find ourselves a good seat right in the front row, close the judges.

Saddle-bronco riding is one the main staples of rodeo events. We settle down and survey the large sandy arena. My cousin offers me a bite of her large cotton candy, which I shyly refuse and immediately regret. Samuel catches my covetous look and grins, “I’ll get you one after the event.”

Even before the first public announcement is made, the spectator bench is almost filled to capacity.

I sit beside Uncle Rob until he heads off to the competitors’ waiting area. When he returns, he tells me the history behind the sport. Bronco riding started off as an old-time practice used to tame feisty horses on a ranch, he says. Brave cowboys would hop on the horses until their will is broken and they submit to the riders. That’s how horses were tamed in the past. Nowadays, it’s become a sport to test the cowboys’ strength and skill. They need to stay mounted for a full eight fiery seconds.

I quietly chuckle as I remember the first time Samuel broke me in; it lasted about eight seconds before he had to pull out. Then I thought about him saying that Beth always tries to tame him. In my head, I picture a hilarious image of Beth riding him and him riding me. Uncle Rob looks at me with a funny face, and I realize I’m laughing out loud to myself.

Samuel and a bunch of men crowd around the horses while they are being led up the loading chute. Uncle Rob tells me that they are drawing lots to see who gets which mount.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

“Of course, the horse’s ability to buck is part of the scoring, as well.”

Once the event starts, all eyes falls on the arena as the announcer introduces each competing bronco rider. Some of them don’t even manage to last the full eight seconds. One particular young man appears to be a very impressive competitor which the announcer introduces as a previous state champion.

“This boy is a professional rider. I’ve seen his name around before,” Uncle Rob says.

His movements are very graceful and he makes it look easy compared to how Samuel struggled to stay mounted in practices at Uncle Rob’s ranch.

Soon the judges announced his score:

8.1

8.5

9.2

9.1

8.9

It’s an average of 8.76. He has the highest score so far and is clearly in the lead. Most of the amateurs and semi-professionals hardly scratch an 8.

The event goes on all the way till mid-morning. My brother is the final contestant for this event. An American Cream Draft gelding is loaded into the chute when Samuel’s name is called.

“He looks sturdy and feisty.” Uncle Rob winks and smiles.

It seems he got assigned a good bucking horse, based on my uncle’s observations. He says you can see that from the small, lightweight saddle and the short, thin stirrups they put on it. They picked a highly mobile saddle for this horse probably, because it is a strong kicker.

He then points to the horse’s powerful hind muscles. The horse’s kicks account for half of the overall score, and judges look for a horse with a powerful, even, bucking style. So all Samuel has to do, is to stay on it and look graceful. He won’t need to do much else to stir up the horse. If he had gotten a crappy horse or if it happened to be moody that day, then Sam would have to work harder to goad it with his spurs.

Even from afar, Samuel appears nervous, blowing breaths through his mouth while the announcer introduces the contestants. His eyes scan across the audience looking for us, and I wave frantically when he sees me. He returns my wave with a smile and a small salute with his fingers.

He climbs on the sides of the chute above the horse like he’s squatting on the top of two parallel fences. It seems like a very uncomfortable position, and it shows in his tense neck and shoulders.

“What is Samuel doing, uncle?”

“He is mapping out the jump. Look at how his feet are above the point of the horse’s shoulder. If he goes below, he’ll be forfeited.

I lean forward to get a closer look. It will be like jumping on a moving vehicle. Samuel’s timing must be immaculate when he lands on the horse, because the horse will already running the moment they open the gate. If Samuel misses the jump, he’ll have a bad fall and might even get trampled.

All eyes fall on Samuel as the announcer finishes introducing him.

As soon as he signals the gate man, he jumps on the dashing horse bursting out from the chute, bucking its hind legs high up in the air. Samuel grabs on to the rope in time to steady himself as the horse bucks, and he raises his free hand up high. He’s only allowed to balance with one hand; he’ll be disqualified if his free hand touches any part of the horse. The heavy leather glove he wore is to keep him from having rope burns.

Using the rowels, he goads the horse to buck even higher and faster. My brother times his movements to coincide with the horse’s bucks. Just like the way we practiced at the ranch. As long as he gets the rhythm right, he won’t be dismounted by surprise.

I clutch the hem of my shirt tightly as I watch him.

He gives the horse another kick with his spurs.

Suddenly, the horse bucks way higher than expected. The announcer and the audience gasp as everyone thinks he will be thrown off. However, Samuel leans back in time to balance himself. He moves his feet in an arc from the horse’s shoulders back to the saddle skirt.

Despite the unexpected buck, his movements are graceful, even and accurate. Rather than backing off, the horse picks up the kicking momentum toward a crescendo.

Everyone in the crowd cheers.

“That’ll score him some extra points.” Uncle Rob smiles broadly. Over at the judges’ table, I notice a few approving nods.

The event lasted only eight seconds, but it feels like forever.

When the buzzer sounds, several pickup men ride in to scoop Samuel off the bucking horse. They deposit him on the ground as he celebrates his successful ride, throwing his hat and blowing a kiss in our direction like a flashy matador. That sends the crowds wild. We cheer at the top of our voices.

Win or lose, I feel immensely proud of my brother.

Over at the judges’ table, I see several creased foreheads and big hand gestures. They seem to be arguing, possibly debating whether to penalize Samuel for his reaction to the unexpected high kick or give credit for the graceful recovery. It takes them longer than usual to announce the result.

7.9…

The first score is already lower than the top scorer.

I tightened my grip on the railings.

8.0

8.9

Oh no, even the second and third judges scored him lower as well.

From afar, I see Samuel bite his lower lip. He glances over at us for a moment, his face is frowning.

9.1

The fourth judge only gives him the same score as the top rider. There is the female judge left. I take a deep breath when she holds up the score for the audience to see.

10.0

I can’t believe my eyes. The announcer and the audience go wild: a perfect score.

The loudspeaker announces his average score of 8.78, making him the winner of the bronco competition!

The moment the event ends, we dash out to find him at the back of the tent. Samuel and I can’t resist running and pouncing on each other like hyped-up dogs. He lifts me up off my feet and twirls me around until I get dizzy. We almost forget our decorum until we are an inch from knocking down Uncle Rob.

“Congratulations, son.” Uncle Rob pats his back as soon as he puts me down.

“Thanks for everything, uncle,” Samuel says.

“I think they’re calling your name. Better go back there and collect your prize.”

And the winner of the…

My brother looks at me with an impish grin; he whispers to me, “Imagine the mischief we can cook up with that money.”

We stack together a few benches and tables to fit in about a dozen of us for a late, late morning brunch outside the tent. The ranch hands bring in plates stacked high with criss-cross fries doused with ketchup, pepperoni pizzas and hot dogs for everyone to share. We are loud and we are laughing, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder as we devour whatever food that’s in front of us. I even forget to be shy, for these country boys, barely older than we are, smile and hug more easily than big-city kids. They don’t seem to mind me getting the jokes one or two minutes later than everyone else, either.

I feel surrounded by friends even though I didn’t even know their names.

By noon, Samuel and I bid farewell to our uncle and his family. Before we leave, Samuel takes out the Rodeo Belt Buckle that he won for me.

“Your wish Number 1.” He smiles as he hands the golden buckle in my hands.

“That is beautiful.” My cousin cups her mouth with her hands.

I clasp the two horses’ heads together, looking at them necking each other affectionately. I pass the belt buckle back to Samuel and ask him to wear it for our remaining days. Wear it so that I can see it and be reminded how happy we are today.

“They look like brothers,” my cousin says.

What holds us together?

Immediately, I turn over the belt buckle. Behind each horse head, there is a word inscribed on it. The larger horse one has a capitalized COR on it, while the smaller horse has an italicized Cordium.

“What’s the matter, Babe?” my brother asks.

“I think I found the clue to Dad’s puzzle.”