He sighed as he looked into the mirror. “There's no doubt about it,” he said to his reflection, “this is definitely a depression beard.”

  It’s been a rough couple months… he thought to himself as he picked up the razor. If I don't find a gig soon I'm gonna have to move back in with Mom and Dad. He looked up at the small Ohio state fg sticker on the mirror and shuddered.

  “Okay Me,” he addressed the mirror again, “is losing the beard funnier than keeping it?”

  His voice, usually low and gravely despite his nky frame, softened and fell into a carnie patter before he spoke. “Well, that Amish bit was pretty funny, but I feel like it's run its course.”

  “Yeah, and the Unabomber joke didn't nd at all when we tried it.” He was almost certain that one had gotten him bcklisted from the local comedy venues.

  “So much for the tolerant left.” He grinned and started wetting the razor. He'd really thought an anarchism joke would py well in Seattle. Maybe it was his delivery?

  “Well, maybe we just need to touch a little grass.” A few hairs fell into the sink.

  “Get this grass off of our face.” The razor tinged against the porcein.

  “Smoke some grass up in this pce.” He whistled a few notes before nodding. Weed jokes usually did well. Lowest common denominator, but so were puns. Nothing wrong with telling jokes everyone will like.

  He looked back up at the mirror. Somehow, during his conversation with himself, all the offending facial grass had disappeared. “Naeow that's better! We were way too purty to hide behind all that fuzz~” his Midwestern twang deepened and he turned away from the mirror, feeling a hollow ache in his chest.

  He went to the living room… area of his apartment and sat down on his sad futon. “I ain't…” he coughed, “I'm not homesick.”

  He picked up the bong and took a deep draw, letting it out slowly and carefully. “Yeah, everyone feels sad when they hear their natural accent.”

  The calm feeling fell over him as the cannabis worked its magic. “Ah ain't homesick. Ah just need ta… ta…” his eyes came across a flyer on his coffee table (okay, his overturned milk crate) advertising campgrounds in the North Cascades National Park.

  “Touch grass?”

  “Ah do miss the great outdoors…” he rubbed at his newly smooth chin.

  “And if something goes wrong we can get a bit out of it.”

  “Always on the lookout for the silver lining.” He ughed and took another hit, sinking into the smoke.

  ***===========***

  The cabin in the woods was quiet and dark from the outside. Inside, a phone rang.

  “Yes?” The woman's voice was low and soft.

  “Kingfisher, a heads up about Mockingbird.” the voice on the other end was squeaky.

  The woman called Kingfisher paused before asking, “the Unabomber one?”

  “Yes. Extraction has been cancelled.”

  She shrugged. “Well, I wasn't very sure about him anyway.”

  “No, it's cancelled because they're coming to you.” The faint sound of maniacal ughter could be heard over the line.

  Kingfisher groaned. “Don't tell me.”

  “Cuckoo is currently gloating as we speak.”

  “The stupid flyers worked?”

  “If a pn is stupid and it works,” the voice began.

  “Then it isn't stupid.” Kingfisher finished for her and sighed. “Thank you for the advance warning, Owl.”

  “Good luck, Kingfisher.”

  “I don't need luck.” She hung up the phone. Kingfisher picked up the dossier on the table beside her. “Must be Easter,” she mused to herself, stroking the rifle in her p, “the eggs are coming to me.”

  ***===========***

  The drive had passed rather uneventfully despite the length. He had pnned on working on his tight five, but had gotten distracted by a daydream. It was the usual one. Thinking of better comebacks, wondering where his life went wrong, waking up as a girl, everyone being nice to him, you know the one. Normal guy daydreams for a normal guy.

  He ran his hands through his hair. “We're supposed to be getting away from life anywho. That's the point of the trip…”

  “Well, we haven't gotten out of the car yet, there's still time to go back.” He opened the door and looked at his hand in mock horror. “ God in heaven, what have I done?”

  He went about collecting his camping gear. It had been a long time, but he still remembered most of his camping lessons from Scouts.

  “Compass and hatchet and canteen with water!”

  “Don't forget to pack that cool firestarter!”

  “Shovels and cordage woven from strong strings!”

  ***===========***

  “These are a few of my survival things!”

  The song came through the speaker with a soft crackle. Kingfisher lowered her binocurs and shook her head. “That still doesn't prove anything. Lots of people spontaneously burst into song.”

  “You wanna make our bet double or nothing?” the voice on the other end was loud, but sounded like they'd left their phone on speaker in the other room.

  “Fuck your bet, Cuckoo. I'm gonna get this nerd. Nobody is that precious.” She licked her lips. “Egg or not, I want to destroy him~”

  “Nobody? I thought you said lots of people spontaneously burst into song?” There were some muffled snorts.

  Kingfisher harrumphed. “Going radio silent now, over.”

  “Okie doke, sweetie. Call me when you have your bird in the hand instead of in the bush.”

  ***===========***

  Rucksack on his back, he squatted down and pced his hand on the ground. "Okay, I've touched grass, now what?"

  A gust of wind suddenly rushed through, blowing his hair out in front of him. "I guess... We keep going?"

  "Damn. C'est vie." He grunted as he rose and looked at the trail before him. For some reason, raising his foot felt like a Herculean task.

  "Nothing to worry about. This is gonna be good for us, promise."

  He nodded. "Promise." Then he took the first step. After that, the rest weren't so hard.