Noodlin’
“You’re a bleedin’ liar, aren’t you?” Chip said in a pained hiss. “On three.” He shook his head and coughed, the sound bordering a sob, but not quite there. His eyes still stung from held-back tears. He willed himself not to break down. He’d won Bone’s challenge, earned the firecracker. If he lost it now, he’d never forgive himself.
A grin crossed his face at the praise. It faded at the nickname. He gave Dex an annoyed look. “Your uncle’s soft, he is. It wasn’t that awful.” A lie. He took a shaky breath and accepted Dex’s help in standing, wincing as he put weight on his injured foot. “Reckon most folks get stung, yeah? Bone jus’... I mean, he... he was jus’ lucky, y’know?” Bone stifled a laugh, but nodded when Chip glared his way.
With how much the sting burned, Chip couldn’t imagine not wrapping it somehow. But he wouldn’t argue. Dex knew his way around catfish stings, that much was clear. Didn’t stop Chip from grumbling a complaint beneath his breath, though.
Bone and Chip — along with Mouse, who stood nearby, his presence small and silent — wondered about Dex’s experience with catfish, how long it’d taken him to master the skill and avoid a sting. Bone had never gotten stung, but he’d also never dealt with catfish before. Dex’s dare was his first time. He had experience catching fish, but luck did play a role in this challenge. After seeing how much it hurt Chip, he didn’t intend on risking a sting anytime soon. He’d be more cautious if he tried noodling again.
Bone looked up at the clouded sky as well and gave a thoughtful hum. “It’ll be proper rainin’ soon.” There was a smell that went with it, cold and earthy and strong; a shift in the air, a quietness where birdsong came before. Signs his own father had taught him at an early age. Fishermen skills. Familiar to most who lived alongside the docks. His scars tended to ache before rain as well, and he rubbed his face absently. Of course, he was Finn back then, when he lived near the docks. Bone kept those skills, but he was stronger now. A better fighter, a better liar.
In this case, he was telling the truth. The sky had turned ashen grey; the rain started not long after they began walking back towards their home — slow at first, then harder. Proper rain. Not quite a storm, but enough to run along the gutters and cobblestones and splash underfoot, enough to quicken one’s steps. Which Chip didn’t enjoy in the slightest. His foot hurt more as he limped faster, but he refused to accept more help.
Mouse liked the rain. He ran ahead of the others, sliding and splashing in the puddles as they formed, nearly slipping once or twice along the way. Mouse didn’t act his age often; this clear enthusiasm was rare for him. His silence lingered from a demeanor rewritten by neglect. Unnoticed meant forgotten, but safe. A difficult mindset to overcome. Slowly, though, among the Bandits, he was relaxing a bit. Learning he wasn’t a bother. Dex’s friendliness had helped Mouse warm up to him quickly.
Bone kept pace with Dex, hands in his pockets. He glanced at the boy. “Question. Have you got rain like this in Texas? Or just sun?” Clouds and rain were typical in London. Fortunately the Bandits’ home — an abandoned house in the Burrow, in the lower reaches of East End — was stable enough to keep warm and dry inside, though the roof still leaked in some spots. They’d set up metal tins to catch the drops.
Chip rubbed some water from his eyes and scowled at Bone. “You thick? Course it doesn’t rain in Texas. It’s Texas.” A falter. Reluctant to admit his uncertainty, he looked to Dex for support. “Right?” Chip didn’t know much about Texas besides its rough shape, a faded memory from a map he once saw. He believed it was hot and there was sand and cowboys and horses. And those were still assumptions. Now he knew about noodling as well. But just because they had water didn’t mean it rained.
