Chapter Two

Later, the survivors gathered around the common fire just outside the pantry and dinning hall. They enjoyed hot, fruit cider as the children examined their loot and Bernard grumbled of potential cavities he would have to treat. Rose rolled her eyes and scolded, "Oh, Bernard, they only have one candy bar apiece. Everyone but Sawyer had to be more inventive with their treats."

"Whatzit?" asked Aaron as he pulled something from his bag.

"Stickers," answered a booming voice, and Aaron looked up, up, up to the gleaming, white teeth of Mr. Eko, who had been the one to distribute the luxury.

Claire examined the sheet, which contained smiley faces and colorfully lettered words such as Good Job and Super Work. "Oh, kids love stickers" she said warmly as she showed Aaron how to peel them off and place them on his bag. He, however, preferred to stick them on his cheeks and forehead. "Where did you find them?"

"You know of the suitcases," the priest replied, in a voice slow and serious, as though he were about to embark upon an exemplum.

"Yes, Eko, I am well aware of the suitcases salvaged from the plane," Claire replied with an indulgent smile as she flicked a stray strand of blonde hair from her eyes. She helped Aaron peel off another sticker whose resistance was inspiring vocal frustration in the toddler. "I just didn't think there was anything left in them."

"I discovered," Eko pronounced, "among the remnants of the belongings these…stickers. I concluded that the owner was a schoolteacher, as the stickers were positioned loosely atop a set of papers marked by purple ink."

"Purple?" inquired Sayid. "I thought red was the requisite color for correction."

"No, dude," interjected Hurley, "teachers used to use red, but now it's considered, like, mean, you know? Where I'm from, they don't want hurt the kids' feelings, so they, like, use purple and blue and stuff."

Sayid crossed his arms about his chest and tilted his head ever so slightly. "They use purple ink in America so as not to fracture the tiny egos of the children?"

Hurley shrugged. "Yeah, well, in some places anyway."

Sayid did not suppress the smile that tugged at the edge of his lips. "And yet you still manage to raise armies. Intriguing."

"BALL!" exclaimed Aaron, holding up a lopsided creation resembling a baseball.

Locke approached the group from behind and said with quiet pride, "That one was mine."

Aaron titled his wrist back behind his shoulder and slung the ball forward with full force. It hit Sayid in a most sensitive place, and he cried out and doubled over. Claire's mouth fell open in a gasp, which she covered with an outstretched hand.

"Uh-oh," said Aaron. "Saaee get boo-boo?"

A few feet away, the common fire sizzled and then popped, illuminating Locke's twinkling eyes. "I'll say."

"What did you put in that?" the Iraqi asked through clenched teeth.

"It's sand and pebbles inside boar skin." Then, in a musing voice, Locke continued, "Claire, that boy of yours has quite an arm for such a young man."

By now Sayid had managed to straighten himself into a standing position.

"Saaee get boo-boo," Aaron repeated. Then he pointed to his mother and commanded, "Mummy kiss it make all better."

This brought a fierce blush to Claire's cheeks and a lighter one to Sayid's. In a low voice Claire said, "I don't think that would be appropriate right now, Aaron. Now let's go play with your friends." She took hold of his arm and ushered the toddler off to the other side of the fire, where Zack and Emma stood tossing their own crude baseballs back and forth to each other with one hand while munching down on their Apollo bars with the other, chocolate smeared across the edges of their beaming faces.

Sayid heard a low laugh rising from behind him, and he turned to see Sawyer's grinning face. The southerner slapped a hand on the Iraqi's shoulder and leaned in. "Hey, Don Juan, did you notice she only said right now?"

"Don Joo-one, brother," chimed Desmond as he approached the group, holding a cup of the fruit cider's fermented variety. "You pronounced it wrong."

"What do you mean I pronounced it wrong?" shot back Sawyer. "It's Spanish, ain't it?"

"The British say Joo-one. It rhymes in the verse. It's Byron's, you know. If you'd like, I could recite some of the poem."

"I would not like. What is that, your seventh cup?" Sawyer glanced at the fermented fruit concoction.

"I'm not drunk, you know." Turning to Eko, Desmond continued, "Vouch for me, father. Can you say you've seen me drunk in the past six months?"

Mr. Eko replied, not in judgment but merely in observation, "I am not entirely certain if I have ever seen you sober."

"Casanova, then!" said Sawyer, with disgruntled resignation. He gripped Sayid by the shoulder again and smirked in Claire's direction. "I know, deep down, you've been looking for an excuse to move out of that hut you share with Hurley."

Desmond's grin was a toothier, lopsided version of Sawyer's. "Carpe diem, brother. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may."

A series of muffled chuckles rose from the surrounding men. Even Eko's deep, stifled laughter could be heard among them.

Obviously anxious to extract himself from his position as an object of amusement, Sayid insisted he was thirsty. He began to walk around the fire, but his maneuver proved flawed, for as he approached the two cauldrons that contained the sweet liquid, so too did Claire. She dipped a ladle in the swirling vat, poured a cup, and extended it to Sayid. From across the fire came Sawyer's strident admonishment: "Make sure you give him the kid stuff, pretty mama, 'cause you know about the negative effects of too much alcohol."

Not having been privy to the extended mockery of the men, Claire did not immediately grasp Sawyer's meaning, and she looked at Sayid with bewilderment. He reached out and took the proffered cup, but he said only, "Happy Halloween."