If Only It Were Pickles
“Does this smell OK to you?” Jack asked.
Sam recoiled. “I dunno what it’s supposed to smell like. It looks…OK. I guess.”
Jack gave the jar a lazy shake and watched the contents quiver. He shrugged. Sam held out the backpack and Jack dropped the jar inside. Sam staggered under the extra weight and winced. He balanced the bag on his thigh and tried to zip it shut.
“My mom says it’s four miles away,” Sam gasped, hopping a bit on one leg. “How long do you think it’ll take to get there?”
On the other side of the garage, Jack started picking through a stack of boxes and opened one marked “TOOLS”. He didn’t answer.
Sam took a breath and carefully shifted the backpack over one shoulder. “How long d’you think?” He eyed Jack and frowned. “What’re you looking for? That’s my dad’s.”
Jack pulled a long screwdriver out of the box, feeling its balance. “Something sharp. Or heavy. I’m not taking that thing anywhere without something I can depend on.”
Sam heard the jar gurgle. He was starting to have second thoughts.