Chase might have been the “otters love water” kind of guy, but Carl also connected the dots of sadness to the ever-giving liquid.
He thought of clouds, of azure depths, even though both things were rare in the desert. Lake Emma could be the reason, given how much misery it had given him and his friends.
He cried to himself, every once when he found himself short on weed.
He cried to himself, seeing everyone go for better pastures elsewhere.
He cried to himself, as even after getting over his imposter syndrome and becoming and artist depression had a way of brings evil old thoughts back.
But when Flynn was with him, the waters drenched. Like a dragon or a setting sun, the Gila’s fire purged away the noxious waters.
And then Carl cried, in joy and love.
“Queer” Flynn said.