The Bukowskis did not leave the following Tuesday, or the one after that.

After breakfast, the cult (for that, by any reasonable definition, is what they were) wasted no time in beginning the search for their new leader’s sibling. Jo watched from the comfort of the couch, which smelled freshly of cleaning supplies. The one hash brown she’d eaten churned in her stomach, and she felt sluggish and useless. She was used to the odd hangover now and then, but she couldn’t remember the last time a party had left her this sick.

“He’s about yea tall—” Jaymie held his hand at a height several inches shorter than either himself or Aaron. “He has brown hair, brown eyes, freckles…” He continued to describe himself while his followers listened intently. “Kind of a skinny face… he wears band t-shirts… he looks like something bad might happen at any moment…”

“They saw him last night. They know what he looks like,” Rex reminded him.

“He may have over-imbibed,” said Miranda reassuringly. “He’s probably still sleeping somewhere.”

“There are quite a few rooms in this house,” the would-be memoirist, Evelyn, pointed out.

“There you have it, Rex—you know how he can overdo it sometimes!” said Jaymie. “He probably felt woozy last night and he found a dark corner to curl up in. No need to be worried!”

“I’m not,” said Rex. “Yet.”

“Good! Me neither. But let’s go look in all the rooms, ok?” Jo saw a flash of uneasiness cross Jaymie's features almost too quickly to catch.

“I’ll join your search party,” Ronan told Rex, eliciting a shy grin from the bassist.

“I’ll look in the van,” Jo said. “Maybe he checked out early last night and needed someplace quiet to crash.”

She was feeling a need for quiet, too. She wasn't sure how she felt about spending the next three days with these people, especially considering her own mortifying post-show behaviour last night. She was pretty sure she'd played "Time of Your Life" multiple times for those kind, patient folk. She couldn't fathom what had come over her or how they'd managed to stay so polite. She wondered if she'd fallen asleep in that circle of people, between songs or even mid-song, for she'd woken that morning on the carpeted living room floor, still holding the guitar, covered in a blanket and with pillows tucked around her.

She didn't know it, but the band had, in fact, been poisoned. A little. Their drinks were laced with a mild sedative—enough to knock Jaymie and Aaron out in no time, although it had almost no immediate effect on Jo, whose old friends had sometimes rudely but fondly referred to her as "the tank." Fortunately for Miranda and her comrades, Jo had eventually knocked herself out.

The motive for this doping, of course, had been to ensure that the four of them wouldn't leave after the show. Rex, as a minor, had not been drugged; none of them had worried that little drunken Rex might gather up their bandmates and drive off.

Jo sighed and reached into her pocket to check her phone. The pocket was empty. She wondered if she'd left it in the van. She collected the keys from Jaymie, but when she got outside, she found it unlocked. There was no sign of the phone, and she was about to lock the vehicle behind her when, on sudden impulse, she got into the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition. The van remained silent. She tried again. It was Sunday—most garages wouldn't be open. They'd be staying, at least for today, whether she liked it or not.

She rested her aching head against the seat and let out a harsh exhalation, which formed a frosty white cloud in the frigid van. She might not have much in common with these strangers, but Rex and Jaymie wanted to stay, and with nothing waiting at home but stacks of cardboard boxes, she could think of no reason not to.

She decided some fresh air would help clear her head, and promptly rolled herself a joint on the dash of the van, imagining a quiet walk through the fields behind the house. She tucked the spliff behind her ear and crossed the backyard toward a hedge bordering on the field. Theirs was one of the last houses on the street before the road ended and the pastures began.

A hand grasped her shoulder, and she jumped. Several people had emerged from near the house to follow her without her noticing. Her skin prickled under her coat as a man’s voice spoke in her ear, “Leaving so soon?”

***

Aaron prided himself on his sense of direction, which was completely average. Yet after hours of wandering, thirsty and cellphone-less, he hadn’t managed to locate the blue house. He didn’t remember the address and had been too busy going over potential worst-case scenarios in his head before the show to take note of the turns they’d made to get there. He made a mental note to add “memorize landmarks” to his list of compulsive safety measures.

He kept his spirits up by reminding himself that walking increased blood-flow and therefore helped hangovers, and only briefly lost hope when he passed the same couple of leering purple and blue lawn flamingos for the second time, at which point he had a quick panic attack behind an austerely-shaped hedge before getting back on his way.

Eventually he came upon a corner store and stepped inside for directions. The teenager behind the counter only shrugged and blew a gum bubble at him when he described the house he was seeking, but the customer behind him made a small exclamation of recognition. He turned around gratefully. She told him “I know!”, held up a finger for him to wait, paid for her bag of Maltesers, and beckoned him out of the store. The customer had arrived in the country six months earlier and had been enthusiastically learning English one Canadian small-talk subject at a time.

“Very cold here, in winter, yes?” she asked cheerfully.

"Yeah, it's cold back where I live, too. Maybe colder," said Aaron. He cast a resentful glare at the bruise-hued flamingos as they retraced his steps. "So you know the house I'm talking about? It's big and blue and there's a group that hosts events there?"

“Oh yes,” she assured him. “Very famous.” She nodded vigorously. “You like hockey?” She offered him a Malteser, which he queasily declined.

“I don’t follow it much… Famous, you said?” he asked. “You mean a lot of people go to their parties?”

“Oh no, no parties,” she said, and thought for a moment. “It’s very excuses.”

“Do you mean exclusive?”

“Oh yes! Famous like… Marilyn Manson. Famous actress.”

“It’s funny you use that example, because my sister was just researching him,” said Aaron. “She wrote a paper.”

“You mean her?”

“I mean they were.”

“Researching her?”

“They were researching... him.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh... You meant Munroe. I meant Charles. And they use ‘sibling’ or ‘brother’. We’re both confused—me more so than you. Ha. Sorry.” He smiled weakly and breathed on his hands to warm them, wishing he’d thought to collect his gloves and toque while making his frantic and unnecessary escape. The woman smiled back.

“Anyway, do you know what they’re famous for?” He asked. She looked uncertain, and he continued, “I mean, are some of them actors, or… are they good at sports?”

“Many things! Movie, painting. So many things!” she nodded again.

“Well, good for them,” he said, nonplussed.

“Music, like bands. Like Nickelsback,” she tried.

“Oh… good.”

A gust of wind hit their faces, like the first blow of a pillow fight you weren’t aware you were participating in. It was colder than seemed natural, even for November.

“Very cold here, even colder soon!” said his guide.

They’d taken a side-street that appeared to lead back out of town, when he spotted the back of the Bukowski van parked in a long, gravel driveway. He thanked the woman, who responded with a gracious, if incorrect, “I’m very sorry!” and a cheerful wave goodbye. He jogged the last stretch to the house, eager to be on his way home.

***

Rex was having a romance adventure. They lay on their side on Ronan’s bed in a rectangle of golden late-afternoon sun, a curtain of soft black hair strewn over their neck, wondering how such good fortune could possibly have befallen them only two days into their first tour. The warmth of Ronan’s chest pressed against theirs and his polite hands at their waist, only just beginning to toy with the bottom of their t-shirt, felt almost as good as performing music, or perhaps just as good but in a very different way.

They'd had a fleeting feeling of alarm and insecurity when they realized that their right arm, which they were lying on, was in a strange, trapped position that they didn't know how to fix, but they soon found that with some subtle maneuvering they were able to bend the arm up and curl their fingers against Ronan's collarbone in a way that was not uncomfortable, and perhaps even a bit sexy.

Rex had spent most of the afternoon kissing. As it turned out, you could find someone's philosophical ideas dubious and still be very willing to make out with them—possibly more willing, if it kept them quiet. Rex filed this knowledge away in their archive of adult wisdom, to be reflected on at a later time when they’d put their sneakers and outer layers back on.

So far, they'd learned that Ronan was sixteen years old and from a very small town a couple of hours away. He had surprisingly good taste in music, a strong inclination to make a difference in the world, and political views that he expressed vaguely enough not to offend Rex out of his bed. It was enough. Rex moved aside a swath of hair and experimentally kissed the spot just beneath his ear.

Rex knew they were supposed to have spent the afternoon finding Aaron and facilitating creativity workshops, but they reasoned that the members of their new arts collective needed time to reflect on Jaymie's advice and finish building their altar. Also, it was worth giving Aaron a few hours before going into missing-persons mode; Rex's brothers had a habit of disappearing, and had so far always turned up, mostly unscathed, eventually.

"What's your story?" asked Rex, needing a break and not wanting to have to argue about whether capitalism was an inevitable result of the natural course of evolution.

Ronan took a deep breath and turned onto his back.

"I ran away from home six months ago," he said. "I was having an existential crisis, and I knew high school wasn't going to do anything to solve it… Have you ever had to spend a ton of time somewhere you don’t fit in, and everyone cares way too much about stupid, useless things, and they’re all total idiots about what really matters?”

Rex nodded. Rex, too, attended high school.

"When I found this place, it just... made sense. Back then, they were led by Sheena Wilder. She was a genius. She's the one that brought all of us together to start doing art, and it worked every time! I wish you could have been there—we were really making things! It felt so good, I wish I could describe it properly." He was flustered, like the words were too many marbles he was trying to keep cupped in his palm but kept tumbling out between his fingers.

"I love that feeling!" said Rex, squeezing his arm. "When you have a really creative phase, and it's like you're caught up in this wild energy, and you have this crazy intense focus like you're on drugs but you're not—"

“Yes! That’s why we do the ritual—not that I’ve been the one to do it yet, obviously, but it’s just like that, and it’s worth it! That feeling is worth everything, even with what happens to you—”

He stopped. He had the frozen look of a man who has said too much and is waiting to see if you’ll politely change the subject to save him from a difficult explanation. But Rex had described a feeling he wanted to experience more than anything—they’d broken through something, and he couldn’t stop now. Rex waited.

“We were doing the ritual every week, or even more,” he said, with a tone of confession. “That all ended when it was Sheena’s turn, and we haven’t had a real leader since. That’s why we need Jaymie.” He rolled back onto his side and closed the gap between their faces. “And we need you.”

“I’m sorry, but ‘the ritual?’” Rex murmured into the scruff on his chin.

“I, uh, I can’t describe it. I hope you’ll stay long enough to see it next weekend. I mean, you will. You’ll have to.” He gazed at them with large, guilty eyes. Their square of sunlight wisped away as a cloud drifted past. A draft crept through the room.

Rex felt their emotions slide from perplexity to alarm to resignation. Obviously, this had all been too good to be true.

“We’re trapped here,” said Rex.

“Yup,” Ronan confirmed.

“And when you said you were ‘making things’… You do mean art?”

“Yes, all kinds. It’s incredible. I wish I could show you it!”

“It’s a secret?” asked Rex, feeling bewildered and defeated at the same time. He nodded forlornly.

“How long has this group been around?” they asked, mostly to keep him talking while they decided on an appropriate course of action.

"A few years. I'm the newest member, besides you guys. I'll go home someday, but there’s important work to be done first, and I can't leave here until then… I do miss my sisters, though. I have two sisters—eight and nine years older. Like how you have big brothers but, you know, sisters." Rex picked up on the feeble attempt to change the course of conversation.

"And parents?" asked Rex.

"Yes, parents too."

"Don't you think they're worried about you?"

"Yes, probably," he responded unconcernedly. "But I am on a path."

"Are you going to ask if my parents are worried about me?"

"Um, of course. Are your parents worried about you?" he asked.

Rex considered telling him that their parents knew exactly where they were at all times and were a mere text away from coming to collect them, and would alert the police and become frantic as soon as Rex didn’t return home that evening.

“No,” said Rex. “Neither will have noticed that I left on tour. Our mom's not due home until December. And it will probably take my dad ages to realize my letters have stopped. Unless I can send letters from here?"

"No. No outside contact."

"Yeah, I figured. And it isn't just regular old art you make here, is it? Like, I can't glue some macaroni to a fingerpainting and then go home."

Ronan shook his head. He reminded Rex of a gentle puppy who has just innocently lured you, on behalf of a maniacal kidnapper, into a mad cult that you will never escape from. He meant well, and after all, it was your choice to start petting him.

"Did they lock Aaron up so we can't leave?" They felt an anxious pang at the thought.

He shrugged helplessly. "I don’t know. Maybe?"

"I have to tell Jaymie. The other stuff he might take in stride, but he'll be upset about Aaron. He might go to the cops."

"I can't let you do that."

Rex's right arm began to cramp. They shifted and found a new position while their mind raced.

Rex hadn’t dated much yet because, so far, few people had invited them to. They preferred to think that this was because they were intimidating to other teenagers—in their opinions and music skills, if not in stature. It also didn’t help that they were a little shy, and spent more weekends practicing bass or jamming with their brothers than going to parties.

But in truth, they suspected that being non-binary wasn't working in their favour in the high school dating market. People hadn't gotten used to alternative pronouns, or they assumed it was a trend, designed to cause them great personal inconvenience, or they just didn't know what to make of Rex. Older people they knew, musical acquaintances they'd encountered through their brothers, had assured them they'd have much more luck in college.

"Ok, do you want to make out some more?" asked Rex.

They might be in danger, but college was still a year away and, after all, Ronan was very good-looking. Rex decided that they might as well make the best of the situation, while trying to think of some way out of it. Rex was a very competent multi-tasker; most musicians are.

***

Jaymie was rapidly conversing with Miranda and Steve when Aaron arrived late in the afternoon. He relaxed visibly at the sight of his brother returning.

“Oh, you’re back!” he said. “I want to hear all about it. But first—you won’t guess what’s happened! We’re going to stay for a couple of days. Why are you covered in hay? Wait, Rex is still looking for you.” He yelled, “Rex!” up the stairs, and turned back to Aaron. “Let’s never be parted again! So anyway, we have to stay for a bit and help these people recover their creative spirit…”

He brushed a few pieces of straw out of Aaron’s hair, produced a glass of water from somewhere, and led his crestfallen but unsurprised twin to the living room, where a large altar was being erected. The members of the collective were in the process of piecing together an oversized image of Charles Bukowski’s face, which had evidently been printed out in no particular order on many pieces of eight-by-eleven paper.

Juniper was in charge of the puzzle, overseeing Evelyn and two other helpers as they tried to determine if a piece of paper covered in porous, stubbly skin belonged in the left or right cheek area, or the forehead.

Aaron stared.

“And Aar, don’t do that again,” Jaymie was saying. “I understand we should individuate from each other at some point, but far from home on your first tour is not the time to do it.”

“What the hell is this?” Aaron asked numbly.

"Oh, this was their idea," said Jaymie offhandedly, untroubled by the Bukowski altar, which also included the table where their merch was still laid out from the night before, and a few candles. "They're heavy on the 'spirit' side of the creative spirit. But I think we can have some fun! We'll do some workshops on songwriting and basic guitar, and Rex can talk about their essays, and you can draw a little bit, right? Lead a therapeutic drum circle? And they'll feed us the whole time, and provide us drinks—not as much as last night!—and we can have a bonfire in the evening and it'll be a whole little holiday with new friends and stimulating conversation and—"

“And let me guess. They worship you,” interjected Aaron. He had no desire to stay with this odd group in their weird giant house, at risk of nervous-drinking himself into unconsciousness again.

“Aw, I missed having you here to finish my sentences—but no, what I was going to say, is that Rex wants to stay,” Jaymie finished.

Aaron gave him a look of intense scepticism. “She doesn’t—they don’t—like to miss school.”

Jaymie shrugged. “They want to be in an artist collective,” he said. “And they might not find another opportunity ‘til they organize one themself midway through art school, poor kid.”

Aaron let out a long, frustrated breath.

Incidentally, he possessed five of the nine personality traits that make a person susceptible to being indoctrinated by a cult. His self-esteem, like that of most musicians, required regular validation, and he could have benefitted from the built-in sense of community and identity that a cult environment offered. He was more of a follower than a leader, though this may have just been a result of having Jaymie in close proximity his entire life. And though his sense of self-worth and hope for the future wasn’t entirely depleted, it was safe to say he was often discouraged. Not to mention the fact that he was prone to the occasional conspiracy-theory-style delusion.

In short, Aaron would have been the ideal inductee for a cult run by anybody except the one person in the world he knew without a doubt to be completely full of shit.