Laura 11/27; 3

I know it's not long but it's something. I need to post it to bring myself back to the spiritual state I was in when I was writing it. Also, according to the schedule I set up for myself, it's a few days late. Stories don't come on your time. They come on theirs.

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With a felony on his record, Dana wasn’t technically allowed to carry a knife, but he had received it before the bar fight which he had started and subsequently lost to an older gentleman who had been taunting him.

A year prior to that December evening, Kevin had produced the knife from the pocket of his denim jacket with the burlap still wrapped around it and pushed it across the table to his step son. Dana had drawn one eye half closed--he always did this when he was curious, or when he needed a new perspective on things--and reached out for this strange extension of loyalty.

Oil, he thought as he retrieved the knife. And it’s heavy.

He looked up. Kevin was looking back at him. He had been watching Dana’s eyes, the way they sparkled, the way his pupils always dilated when he saw something that he could write about. They had born the same sparkle when Kevin unzipped the dusty leather bag to reveal an electric typewriter, complete with a 15-page supply of ribbon, and a postcard of Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park in Washington, which had been glued to the side.

“Why?”

Kevin smiled.

“You tell me. Last few times I opened the box you had your eyes glued to it.”

“Damn right,” Dana had said. He removed the burlap to find a black Spider VI locked-blade hunting knife with the name ‘Kevin’ burned into the wooden handle. He smiled. “You gonna fill me in on the history?”

Kevin smiled back.

“When you’re ready.”

Dana produced a mock gesture of disapproval, thanked him, wrapped the knife in the awkward smelling burlap and wiggled it into a more secure pocket of his own denim jacket, which he had picked up for five dollars and change at a local thrift shop.

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