After they escort us out, we are told to wait here. The here being a square of sidewalk. 

If you could see the two of us on this sidewalk square. Trying to maintain appearances. It’s a delicate operation. A heavy quiet.

Some convenience store employees switch off who gets to peer out the window at us. They take turns and they take their time having a look.

Ben is carrying around his old fourth grade science project. He refuses to set it down. It’s a standard volcano, but he never quite finished the eruption part. The magma reservoir’s empty. It won’t be petrifying any ancient civilizations anytime soon. When he showed it to me, I told him my school had an arts and science fair (not exclusive to science), and that my project had been a short story about a giant blob overtaking a city, and he said that was just typical. The course of history changed on that fateful day of the Heritage Elementary Arts and Science Fair— probably! I think I got third place in my category. I don’t think there were more than three people in my category.

Now I sit here on the concrete and I see it all coming. I know how things will turn out for us. But not Ben. He appears caught unawares at all times. His face looks like a damp sandwich. There’s no other way to explain it. I guess his face is stuck like that. He’s forever cornered. 

You wouldn’t say his volcano is dismantled per se. More like lethargic. Painted rivulets of what must be molten lava punctuate its sides.

We exchange information about the comings and goings of passersby on the street while we wait. I scootch away, tapping the sidewalk. 

“Hang on a sec. Maybe there’s a trapdoor under here,” I say.

Ben shrugs, in all likelihood too busy pondering his next move to respond. 

“Call the embassy. They’ll sort the whole thing out. Write this down!” I start shouting.

No one knows what to say. And by no one, I mean me.

So that’s the situation.

He can’t let go of his science project, yet he insists on continuing his errands. Turning the whole day into an expedition of sorts. A sad one. Can there be sad expeditions? They seem part of our destiny. Which adds up. Because otherwise, we’d be unstoppable. 

We sit and blink like everyone else. When really, we are untamed animals.

They let us go. This teenager wearing a polyester vest walks out and says, “You can go.”

The whole escapade is very anticlimactic. There’s nothing they can do. No charges they can press for carrying around your childhood science project. There they go, attempting to press charges like you can press a button. I imagine a big red button with the word CHARGES on it, and there’s some old white guy in a suit sitting at a large desk swiveling around in his chair, caressing the button and laughing. That can’t be how it works. Or can it?

Admittedly, he looked vaguely threatening in there, hauling the volcano in a nearly somnambulant state. But come on. Who isn’t a threat? 

We leave. Ben drives his car like a movie prop. His steering is all over the place. Somehow, I’m noticing this for the first time. I check behind me for a projector screen with a phony background playing on it just in case. 

He gets panicky about yellow lights. You never know if he’s going to accelerate really hard or hit the brakes or sort of waffle around and make these timid little mewling noises while going the exact same medium amount of speed.

Earlier, in the store, I asked him why he was doing this, why he felt the need to carry this thing around, and he said, “To get the blue ribbon.”

He seemed a bit mysterious to me after that. I liked the feeling and wanted to leave it there. Knowing what he meant would ruin it in a sense, and so I didn’t ask any follow-up questions.

“And now it’s time for Amelia’s piano recital,” he finally says, tapping on the steering wheel with the volcano nestled in his lap.

“That won’t do,” I say.

“What do you mean? I can’t go alone.”

“Yes, but I can. She’s my niece.”

“What are you saying?”

I think about reaching over him to open his door handle, then ejecting him and his failed project out of the vehicle and onto the pavement. Somehow making it look like an accident. Corralling the car into a parking spot without moving from the passenger seat.

To get the blue ribbon. The blue ribbon of murder. An art and a science.

I stay buckled. I stare at my seatbelt and say nothing— but one of the many rewarding tasks of camaraderie with my fellow humans.

“This is really important. I don’t know when I’ll see anyone again. I’ve booked a trip and I’m not sure when I’ll return,” Ben says.

“Oh yeah?”

I feign interest to throw off suspicion. To have him at my disposal. I’m not used to it though. I’m always interested. Even when I shouldn’t be.

“Yeah, I’m going to visit the real Bigfoot. Prove his existence and all that. Develop a pact with him. Maybe even a secret language, who knows.”

“A commemorative plaque,” I say.

“Huh?”

“You should get him a commemorative plaque for the occasion. That’d be a nice gesture,” I say.

I can tell he’s waiting for more from me. So I cup his kneecap in my palm. Nice and snug.

“These things happen,” I say, not really knowing what I’m saying.

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you first,” he says, glancing down at his knee and back up at the road a few times.

My hand is still cupping his kneecap and I squeeze it firmly. With my grip strength, I could pop that cap right off. 

I release my hand. That was close. Too close.

I open his sunroof and lift his project up through it, showcasing his handiwork for the whole town to see. This paper volcano is part of my life now. That’s the main thing.

I examine Ben’s damp sandwich of a face, awaiting a signal.