Page 33 of So Far Gone

tattoos who smelled like he slept in a drainage ditch. And now, apparently, Sluggish Doug was playing in an acid electronica

outfit called... The Boofs.

“You do know what that is, right?” the gas station attendant who gave the directions had asked Kinnick. “Boofing?”

“No,” Kinnick said, warily. “What is it?”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna say.”

“It’s a drug thing, isn’t it?” Kinnick had asked the gas station kid.

“Oh, yeah,” the kid said.

He explained that the Paititi Festival was as much about the drugs as it was the music, that it was held in a clearing abutting provincial forest land, and that if Brian and Rhys just drove twenty-five or thirty miles back up the road they came in on—indicating with the dipped bill of his ball cap—they would pass a little finger lake, then, maybe a mile later, they’d see a sign pointing into the woods, and if they turned up that road “you practically can’t miss it.

” He leaned forward to confide. “It’s a cold, muddy, stinky mess up there this time of year, though, yeah?

Way too early for this kind of thing..

. they say it’s something about planting versus harvesting, I don’t know, it’s beyond me. ”

Sure enough, past the paititi sign, two dirt tracks curled into the forest, and it wasn’t long before Kinnick and Brian began seeing vehicles parked alongside

this makeshift road: vans and microbuses in turnouts and switchbacks, all manner of dented car and old motorcycle, anywhere

you could wedge a vehicle, there was one, until, finally, they came to a clearing with more orderly rows of vehicles and a huge banner hung between two trees

that read: PAITITI! And another sign: vibes ahead.

The clearing beyond the parking lot was surrounded by a high fence and filled with tents and makeshift structures, banners

and flags. Everywhere, there were young people, some dirty and feral-looking, like survivors of a natural disaster, others

in elaborate makeshift costumes—furry onesies, tall hats and feather boas, rainbows, headdresses. Lots of lank, greasy hair.

“God, I hate hippies,” Brian said.

“I know you do.” Kinnick patted his friend’s arm. Growing up on the reservation, Brian had put up with all manner of pale,

communal, new age, moccasin-wearing Geronimo-come-lately weirdos moving into the woods, asking for strong medicine and advice

on building sweat lodges and digging camas roots, seeking corny tribal brotherhood from people who actually belonged to tribes.

But worse than that, Kinnick knew, Brian’s second wife had been a hippie who had left him for her Vinyasa yoga instructor.

“This isn’t going to be easy for you,” Kinnick said. “I can find her by myself, you know. You can just wait in the car.”

“No,” Brian said, “I’ve come this far. I need to face the patchouli.” He parked the Bronco at the edge of the fence surrounding the festival, alongside an old army tent with a hand-painted rainbow sign that read: RUSHROOM RIDES and other awesome guided trips . He and Kinnick climbed out.

A bearded white guy, probably thirty, came out of the tent holding a long-stemmed pipe. “I’m afraid you can’t park here.”

He wore a homburg hat whose brim was trimmed with ball fringe, an open yellow shirt with at least ten necklaces and beads

layered on his chest, jodhpurs tucked into high boots, fingerless gloves, and an intricately beaded fanny pack that announced

him as JEFE.

“What are you the chief of?” Brian asked. “Police?”

“Sorry. Didn’t catch that reference, I’m afraid.” He spoke with a slight affectation, as if he’d spent a week at a British

boarding school.

“Your fanny pack. It says you’re the JEFE .”

He looked down and the affectation disappeared briefly. “Oh. No, I’m Jeff.” He brushed some stems off the fanny pack and sure

enough, the JEFE became simply JEFF. “But truly, you can’t park here.” He pointed down the road, the way they’d come. “Parking

is limited to the full lot you see before you”—he nodded with his head, the fringe balls on his hat shaking—“and back yonder,

along incoming road.”

“We won’t be here long,” Kinnick said. “I just need to find my daughter. It’s kind of an emergency. It’s her kids.”

He felt bad making it sound like Bethany’s children were hurt, or in immediate danger. They were safe and sound with Joanie

in the trailer back in Ford, filling up on maple cookies and hot chocolate, Asher no doubt grilling Joanie about Native Americans

while the increasingly quiet Leah kept her own adolescent counsel, seeming more and more like the teenaged Bethany of his

memory.

Jefe Jeff was still staring at Brian’s Bronco, parked in front of his RUSHROOM RIDES sign. “I’m really not trying to be difficult, but you absolutely need tribal approval to park here.”

“And what tribe is that?” Brian asked. He was already getting agitated.

“Right,” Jeff said, “the Paititi Tribal Council.” He pointed. “Thataway.”

“I have a cousin on the Spokane Tribal Council,” said Brian. “Does that count?”

Looking to keep Brian from getting too worked up, Kinnick cleared his throat. “Do you happen to know where the bands might

be staying?”

“There is another campground, near the stages, up the hill.” Jeff pointed through the festival grounds. “Some of the musicians

stay up there.”

“What are ‘rushrooms,’ anyway?” Brian asked.

Jeff leaned in and confided, his faint accent disappearing again. “Oh, it’s just regular psilocybin, man,” he said. “I got

the name from Legend of Zelda . I thought it sounded cool. I’m a guide. You know? For trips? Acid. Shrooms. Whatever you want.”

“Do you happen to know where I might find The Boofs?” Kinnick asked.

Jeff scrunched up one eye. “Yeah, I would not do that if I were you. Not at your age.”

“Do what?”

“Boof. But if you do, there are a couple of things you really need to remember.” He looked from Kinnick to Brian and back.

“First, do not share straws. And second, whatever you do, do not reverse the straw. That thing only goes in one way.”

“No,” Kinnick said. “The Boofs is the name of the band I’m looking for. It’s my daughter’s old boyfriend’s band.”

“Oh, oh! I see,” Jeff said. “Clever.”

Kinnick didn’t want to ask the next question, but he knew he had to. “But you might as well tell me, so I stop making an ass

of myself—what is it?”

“Boofing? Ah, yes.” Jeff laughed. “Ass of yourself, indeed. Well, it’s having someone blow drugs, usually ketamine or molly

water, straight up your butthole.”

“Of course it is.” Brian had to turn away, every preconception confirmed.

“The kids are quite into it,” Jeff said, as if he and Kinnick and Brian were suddenly a group of wizened old peers. “Supposedly

it gives you a faster, more direct high.” Again, with the confiding, nonaffected voice. “But between you and me... the

day I resort to blowing drugs up my shitter to get off? Well—” He put his hands out, as if—enough said. “But as I am unfamiliar

with the particular band of which you speak, perhaps you could go ask the Inkarri. I’m sure he can tell you where to find

these Boofs of yours.”

“The—” Kinnick wasn’t sure what he’d just heard.

“Inkarri? He’s like the unofficial mayor of the festival. He’s named for the last leader of the Incas. The real Inkarri’s

body was cut up by the Spaniards and spread out for miles, but legend has it that his body will reform itself one day and

lead the people to a new paradise.”

“Which is...” Kinnick screwed up his face. “An electronica festival?”

Jeff laughed. “I guess. Here at Paititi, we choose an honorary Inkarri on the first day, and he’s in charge of the Pachamama , the grounds, and he runs the Runakuna , the tribal council, in Cusco . Paititi being the last paradise of the Incas.”

“You do know you’re in Canada, right?” Brian said. “Not Peru.”

“Hey.” Jeff held his hands up. “I’m just a humble shroom salesman at the beginning of festival season. I don’t make up the

bullshit, I just ride it.”

Brian seemed to be warming to Jefe Jeff. He nodded at Jeff’s Rushroom tent. “Don’t suppose you sell beer in there, too?”

“Regrettably, this is an alcohol-free festival.”

“Wait. So, you can blow hard drugs up your ass, but you can’t buy a Bud Light?”

This may have been the funniest thing Jefe Jeff had ever heard. “Ha! Right? I never thought of it that way.” He held out a

fist, Brian shrugging to Kinnick before bumping it.

“Hold on a minute,” Jeff said. He went inside his tent and returned wearing reading glasses, staring at a concert bill and carrying two lanyards. “You don’t mean The Buffs, do you?” He pointed to one of the smaller names on the bill.

“Maybe?”

“I haven’t heard them play, but”—Jeff glanced at his tent—“the guide business is a little slow right now, and since The Buffs

are playing on the Tonatiuh Stage in about”—he checked an expensive-looking silver watch—“forty minutes, come on, I’ll take

you up there.”

***

Bethany sat up in her sleeping bag, breathless and cold. The awful prickly feeling was back, along with the shakes, the tightness

in her chest, the twitching, and the sensation that she might, at any moment, rattle right out of her skin. What had she been

thinking? Leaving the kids and running off to a music festival in the woods with her ex-boyfriend? Did she really think this would solve anything? Make her feel less anxious? Less depressed? It was like treating a burn by setting fire to it. She’d

been having these panic attacks on and off since her mother died, more than a month ago. She’d lost her therapist when she’d

quit her teaching job and her insurance went away, and now she wasn’t sure what to do. When the attacks came on, the anxiety

was like this wall she couldn’t see around. And, as it turned out, panic attacks were not something you could just run away

from by going off into the woods.

She put her head between her knees and tried to breathe. In deeply—hold. Out slowly. Hold. (Breathe in a square, Peggy used