They took him to the Farm after that.

He'd heard of it, of course. From guys who didn't want to get better. Guys who were scared. Some part of him had found them funny then.

That part was missing now.

They let him off the bus without even cuffing him. For miles all that existed were fields of ripe wheat. There was a rock-pitted dirt lane here--fenced in by sturdy but weathered old boards--a sign that could no longer distinctly be read, and a truck.

It was a pickup--pun not quite intended, but still welcome--rusty red where the paint persisted and just rusty elsewhere. It waited at the mouth of the lane and idled loudly, frame shuddering like a massage chair. A jolly swing tune floated through the open windows.

The farmer himself leaned against the driver's-side door, clad in work boots, worn overalls, a faded green shirt, and a straw hat. A stalk of wheat dangled from his lips. At his side, tail wagging, sat a Pomeranian.

There was a strong sense of comedy here, but Paz couldn't seem to find the punchline.

The bus rumbled away. Paz picked up the meager suitcase he'd been given and approached the truck.

Will looked up and smiled. He must've done so a lot, if the crinkles around his eyes--blue as a lake--were to be trusted.

"Top o' the morning," he said, and his dog barked as if in agreement. "You must be the extra set of hands I been looking for."

Will shook his hand without qualms. It was a firm and energetic handshake, no tremors or spasms. His palm was calloused and scarred.

"Thanks for having me."

"Ah, thank you. Never got enough hands during harvest." He took Paz's suitcase and plunked it down on the bed of the truck, amid sacks of various contents, then popped open his door. The dog hopped in, and he climbed up after it. "Well, come aboard, my fine fellow."

Paz climbed in.

Wheat fields slid past outside the window while swing music played on the radio and Will carried on about the farm and harvest season.

"You'll be helping out with the peas and the green beans, if you please," Will said as they rounded a curve. Ahead a sprawling shamble of buildings became visible. "Good for folks without experience."

"Sure."

Will thumped the wheel suddenly. "Damn near forgot. Here--" He leaned over to fish around in the glovebox, then emerged with a black paracord bracelet. "Wear that, will ya?"

Paz put it on.

The truck jerked to a halt. At a glance, Paz spotted half a dozen people here, all wearing wristbands. He counted three yellow, three green.

"What do the colors mean?"

Will glanced up from his battle with the gearshift. "Ah. You heard the theory that a person's true character only comes out when they're angry?"

"Yeah. Dr. Hoffman, right?"

"Yeahup. Total bullshit--" he at last wrestled the truck into park-- "but the bit about anger types was more-or-less accurate. Everyone needs different care depending on how they handle their anger, so I use the bracelets to keep track. Plus--" He climbed out of the truck, and Duff (the dog) followed closely. "--Paracord's mighty handy.

Paz got out. "But there's no black type."

Will beat him to his suitcase and joined him on the passenger side. "Oh, there's a black type. We're just so rare Dr. Hoffman doesn't know we exist."

There. A flicker--something. It died before Paz could touch a finger to it. "You're a black type too?"

Will rested a friendly hand on his shoulder. "A long time ago. C'mon, buddy, let's get you settled."

~~~

THE ANGER TYPES

Simplified from Dr. Norbert Hoffman's papers.

Red: Perhaps the most common. Individuals with this type are given to sudden, explosive and often violent outbursts.

Yellow: Not uncommon. Individuals with this type confuse anger for joy and tend to develop violent or sadistic tendencies.

Blue: Less common. Often called 'quiet' or 'cold' anger. Individuals with this type are usually nonviolent unless pushed.

Purple: Also not uncommon. Individuals with this type exhibit explosive verbal outbursts, but usually shy away from violence. They tend to be manipulative.

Black: The rarest type, and not recorded in Hoffman's papers. Individuals with this type have lost their sense of emotion--which makes them the most dangerous type. Not even they can predict how they'll react to provocation, nor what 'provocation' entails.

Paz's room was in the farmhouse.

There were dorms, but Will led him into the house and into one of the spare rooms. You couldn't quite call it a guest room--guest rooms were cold and impersonal, and that description was about as close to this room as a fish was to a flea. There was a colorful knit blanket tucked around the bed, and an assortment of crocheted pillows of perfect hugging size. There was a bookshelf half-filled with fairytales, the sort Paz, as a child, used to stare at with envy through the warmly-lit windows of bookstores. Beside the bookshelf was a big window and next to that was a rocking chair with quilted cushions and a little heart-shaped walnut table. In a corner there was a low shelf filled with vinyls, upon which a faintly worn turntable sat idle.

There was a lot of personality in this room, and Paz was not at all certain any of it applied to its new occupant.

He wasn't even certain he counted as a person in the first place.

Will sat his suitcase by the foot of the bed, which was larger than any he'd ever slept on (which is to say, full-sized). "You'll need some better clothes, so we'll hit the town tomorrow."

"These are fine. I don't have money anyway."

"Not a word was said about money." Will frowned. "Look, not only are those rags from the prison uncomfortable, they're also crap for working in. They'd fall apart after one good day's work."

"Oh."

The room fell silent. Outside a bobwhite sang a duet with a mourning dove. The air seemed to hum with some strange tension, like a tuning fork struck just lightly by a hammer. Paz unconsciously held his breath.

Then Will sighed. "Paz. You might be here a while. A long while. I can't promise that I know how to help you heal." He rubbed the back of his head, which Paz recognized as an embarrassed tic. "But, well, I'd be damned if I didn't try, so bear with me. Anyhow, I know that having something to put my soul into helped me, so maybe you could find something like that for yourself. There's some things in here you can try out, but let me know if you think of anything you want to do, won't you?"

Paz nodded. The tension hadn't gone from the air. If anything, it settled in like it belonged there. He was still holding that breath.

"Alright." Will clapped a palm to the doorjamb. "Well then, you just get settled, and I'll come and get you for dinner."

Paz nodded again, and Will left.

The tension hung around.

Paz put his things away. There was a dresser with six deep, wide drawers; his clothes took up a single lonely corner of the topmost one on the left. Underneath this laughably small pile lay his only other possession--an empty, scuffed mints tin. He had a vague inkling that there'd been something in there once--other than mints, of course. Something maybe important, or maybe not. That tin seemed to sit in a pit in his memory where the light no longer touched. There'd been a time when he would turn the tin over and trace the rough patches with his fingers and try to remember what it used to hold. These days he just left it to sit. Some might have thrown it away. Paz figured it might be worth holding onto. Perhaps he'd stumble across something to put in there, to fill it up with.

He wondered if that was how Will thought of him.