Chapter 2: The Quiet Out There

Saturday, June 16,2001

The truck vanished down O’Doyle Lane, taking Walt’s entire digital infrastructure-still zipped inside the duffel Garry hadn’t bothered to unload. Dust hung suspended in the morning heat, a taunting particulate haze refusing to settle, as if the universe paused to underline his abandonment.

Judy O’Doyle was the first to move. She stepped off the porch with the cautious grace of a sparrow landing on a swaying power line, her smile warm but not smothering. “Well,” she said, her voice softer than the morning air, “you made it.” The lines around her eyes deepened-not wrinkles so much as topographic markers of a lifetime of earnest kindness.

Darwin O’Doyle followed at a slower, heavier cadence. His boots announced each step with a hollow thud, like nails driven into the porch’s spine. He was broader than Walt remembered, shoulders squared like a man half his age, skin leathery as a well-worn tool. His eyes-pale, sharp, and as forgiving as a checksum error-scanned Walt with clinical detachment.

“He forget somethin’?” Darwin asked dryly, jerking his chin toward the dissipating dust cloud.

“Yeah,” Walt said, throat tight. The word came out flatter than intended. “Everything.” Including my shoes that aren’t sneakers, his mind screamed silently.

Darwin’s grunt was noncommittal. “Hmph. Figures.”

No hugs. No awkward pats. Just the three of them standing in the gravel drive, the silence stretching like the surrounding fields.

Judy reached out-not for Walt, but for the screen door, holding it open with a creak. “C’mon inside,” she said. “We’ll find you somethin’ to eat ... and wear. Can’t have you cleanin’ stalls in city clothes.”

The farmhouse interior was dim and cooler than expected, air thick with aged pine, lemon oil polish, and the faint, sugary ghost of pies baked decades ago. The walls were a patchwork of hand-sewn doilies, faded family portraits, and a single cuckoo clock whose ticking sounded like it had been counting down since the Eisenhower administration.

Environmental scan: Analog. No visible network ports. No surge protectors.
Outlets: Two-pronged (pre-1980s).
Bookshelf contents: Reader’s Digests (mid-70s), one King James Bible (dusty).
Decorative elements: Excessive. Threat level: Minimal but suffocating.

Judy led him upstairs to a narrow room with a low ceiling, slanted walls, and a twin bed dressed in a quilt so aggressively floral it felt like a visual assault. A tiny window overlooked the O’Doyle cornfields.

“This used to be your mom’s room,” Judy said, smoothing the quilt unnecessarily.

Walt nodded, but his focus snagged on the warped, uneven-legged desk. It wouldn’t support a monitor, let alone my laptop ... if I ever see it again.

Workspace assessment: Insufficient. Stability: Poor. Ergonomics: Nonexistent. Alternative solutions: None. Adaptation required.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” Judy added. “We get up early. Coffee’s at five. Darwin’ll probably knock around six.”

“That early?” Walt blurted.

Judy chuckled, warm but final. “That late, you mean. Wait here.”

She returned moments later, arms laden with faded denim and thick flannel. “These were Dar’s, back when,” she said, laying them on the bed. The denim overalls looked stiff as cured leather, the blue work shirt large enough to double as a tent. They smelled faintly of mothballs and earth. “Boots’ll be downstairs.”

He spent the afternoon trying not to sulk-possible in theory, but eventually his body revolted. Changing into Darwin’s old clothes was an exercise in humiliation. The overalls bunched grotesquely at his waist and crotch, cinched tight with straps that still left the legs pooling around his ankles. The shirt sleeves swallowed his hands past the knuckles. He felt like a child playing dress-up in a giant’s castoffs.

Darwin was waiting downstairs. He handed Walt a pair of scuffed, cracked work boots-half a size too big, soles worn smooth as river stones. A dented aluminum bucket followed, its sides pocked with decades of dings. No instructions. Darwin simply turned and began walking toward the barn, leaving Walt to stumble after him like an unplugged peripheral, the oversized boots slapping against his heels with every step.

First Task: The O’Doyle Barn

The smell hit before he crossed the threshold-a biological ERROR message, raw and unfiltered. Rotting hay. Ammonia. Something organic and long dead. Walt gagged, his stomach lurching. Darwin didn’t react. Just pointed at the stalls, then at a pitchfork leaning against the wall like a weapon.

“Muck them out.”

Walt hesitated, fingers tightening on the splintered handle. The stalls were a nightmare of matted straw and dung, buzzing with flies that lifted in a black cloud when he stepped closer.

Biological hazard detected. Respiratory protection: None. Gloves: None. Exit strategy: None. Proceeding under duress.

He stabbed at the straw, tines catching on clumps. A beetle scuttled over the oversized boot. He shuddered.

Darwin watched from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Second Task: The O’Doyle Chickens

The O’Doyle coop was a riot of noise and motion. Feathers floated in the air like corrupted pixels. Darwin scooped feed from a rusted tin bin marked with three generations of O’Doyle handprints, scattering it into troughs with practiced flicks of his wrist. The chickens descended in a flurry of clucks and wingbeats, their beaks darting like erratic cursor blinks.

Then he handed Walt the scoop.

The moment Walt stepped forward, the O’Doyle flock turned on him-pecking at his laces, fluttering up in bursts of feathers and noise. He flinched, nearly dropping the scoop as a hen launched itself at his shin like a feathered missile.

Avian threat matrix: Unpredictable. Pecking frequency: 2.3 Hz. Wingbeat amplitude: 30-40 cm. Defensive measures: None. Survival tactic: Endure.

Darwin didn’t laugh. Didn’t intervene. Just waited until the last grain was scattered, then turned toward the O’Doyle woodpile.

Third Task: The O’Doyle Woodpile

Stack it high. Stack it neat. No gaps. No wobble.

Darwin moved with the precision of a machine-log selected, log placed, log adjusted with millimeter accuracy. His O’Doyle hands, gnarled and scarred, didn’t hesitate.

Walt’s did.

The O’Doyle logs were heavier than they looked, their bark rough as sandpaper. His palms burned within minutes, the skin turning an angry red. He dropped one. It hit the dirt with a thud.