I was taking a ride, doesn’t matter where, when I found myself behind the Sandias, over on the east side where things are spaced out and quiet. The Sandias (or “Watermelon Mountains”) are a towering range of peaks that pop out of the vast, flat desert right next to Albuquerque. They loom and stretch up from the plains, rising almost vertically in places for thousands of feet. There’s trams and roads and holo-pads all over but I was on the backside where things haven’t changed much since the old days, when there were dirt roads and stuff.

I was on a bicycle with pink and white fringe hanging off the hand grips. It was an oldie that I’d customized with some gravity assists. But I still used the pedals anyway, most of the time. I was trying to get exercise or something, or maybe I had no holo. I can’t remember and it doesn’t matter.

So I was pedaling along on a dirt road, and the slopes and hills and gullies back there were just as sunstruck as can be, just blazing and baking and bubbling in the famous sun. I’m sure glad I had a skin-job. The road was partway still paved, just patches of it, but in the heat of day you’d avoid those places, because there’s tar puddles that can make one very unhappy- ugh.

It was fun, though. All kinds of garbage everywhere. I even saw some old “sixpack” rings, those plastic strip things they made for carrying aluminum cans, you know? There’s like, six round holes, and you’d put your fingers in the little holes in the middle so you could carry six cans of beer and they’re made of pale, white plastic, you know? And they were supposed to be bad because seagulls and turtles would choke on them, you know what I’m talking about? Anyway I saw some of them back there just lying around with the other garbage, or stuck up in piñon trees or whatever. I should have taken some with me. They sell those things in fancy antique shops now. I even saw some old cigarette butts down in the dirt. Everything stays preserved out there.

There was other junk by the road but it wasn’t quite junk, not quite. There were shacks there too, up the hill. But they weren’t quite shacks, no, because there were people around which meant this was a habitation. But not people, exactly, just one old coot who was definitely a person, but the rest were tottering, doddering old rusty robots or something. Anyway, like I said, there was lots of junk lying around only it wasn’t quite junk, because there was all kinds of stuff stuck together in weird ways, and sporting wires and gears and things. If you separated all the pieces and spread them out you’d have junk, but look at them all put together and you had something else, the question being: what?

Well, maybe they were bits of robots that weren’t quite finished, or that didn’t work out. Some of those robots that were up and moving looked like they may have just hauled themselves up out of the dirt moments earlier. And some of them looked about ready to collapse right back down again. And who could blame them? So much effort, to lurch up onto one’s feet, or treads, or stumps, and to jiggle a bit, or wave some useless appendage around all herky-jerky, or stagger through the blistering heat… I mean, what’s the point? Some of them didn’t even have heads or motion detectors or anything. Why not flop back down in the dust, ahh, lovely old dust for a bed, go to sleep my little metal friends, no need to get up again. Join the others.

The old man came back into view. I shielded my eyes and tried to get a good look at him just as he disappeared into one of the shacks. Too late to wave, dang.

I leaned my bike against a chamisa bush and left the road, entering that weird domain. I stepped around a sticky place in the dirt and avoided a needy-looking robot that was dragging itself in my direction like a crippled caterpillar. When I got to the shack it had no door so I knocked on the corrugated tin wall.

“Hello?”

Silence, and then a shuffling, and then he leaned out into the sun like a shrunken apple on a stick. “Hello? Who the hell says so?” His eyes were tiny, tucked into deep ridges of flesh, wrinkles that looked as tanned and hard as beef jerky. Those little blue eyes blazed like cutting torches.

“I was just…”

“Who are you?” There were bits of stuff in the tangled strands of his hair and beard: hardened globs of piñon sap, electrical tape, wire, even a piece of circuit board. His shirt and pants may have once been white. His belt was a knotted, frayed extension cord. His sandals were cut from old automobile tires.

“I was just…”

“Are you the property tax guy?” He squinted at me.

“What? No, I was just…”

“Well come on in, before your skinjob peels off.”

Inside was an absolute jungle of crap, just a staggering mess of stuff utterly everywhere: on tables, on benches, hanging from the ceiling, piled on the floor, too much to fit on one little shack. But it did, and the old man went back in there somehow, just merged with the place like a fish in its aquarium. There were pathways, invisible to me, that he followed through the room as he puttered and mumbled. He was grabbing things: wires, motors, transistors, a piece of a calculator, a visiphone headset, a windup toy boat… I noticed a wooden sign on the wall, loosely scrawled: “Look at this old tinker’s shop- He thinks he’s going to live forever.”

I could only catch bits and pieces of what he was saying, as he wobbled about. “Damn thing should feed itself. Can’t even plug itself in…” and “My cars, my best cars will eat each other, and why not…” I really don’t know if that’s exactly what he said, but it was stuff like that, a steady stream of mumbles and murmurs.

Through a window that was really just a square hole in the wall, I could see his solar collectors up on the hillside. All kinds of them were up there- big, small, old, almost new… Tangles of wires made their way from the panels down the hill to the shacks. The wires were held aloft by crappy boards and poles, or they were propped up in the little piñon trees. In some places they just lay right in the dirt. One of the bigger cables was held up by a pile of rusty tricycles.

I went back outside and left the old man mumbling in there. He didn’t need me for an audience, apparently. He was talking all the time, to anybody and to nobody.

I strolled around and looked at more junk. The other shacks appeared to be similar, just stuffed with stuff. But they were dark inside and full of rusty, pointy things, so I mainly stayed outdoors.

I got a closer look at a few of the robots. A fat cylindrical fellow, like a washing machine turned inside out, waved one spindly arm as if gesturing for emphasis during a speech. Another one rolled on little tank treads way too small for him. He was tall and top-heavy and every few feet he’d topple forward or backward and catch himself with his arms (he was lucky enough to have two) and with much pneumatic wheezing he’d push himself erect only to topple again a few feet later. And there was another one, short and squat and making all kinds of energetic noises, but all he could do was hop frantically in one place.

Then the cars caught my eye. They came growling and gurgling down the road, spewing gravel and dust, a small pack of them like a motley street gang of cars gone bad. They were more complete, more finished than the robots. They even had crude decorative elements. A black, low one had eyes on the front like an old Flying Tiger warplane, and another had colored reflectors all over it. These weren’t merely cars, they were rolling predators with big claws and jaws and long sharp arms and things. They bellowed and gurgled and made themselves as threatening as possible. But the more you looked at them the more you could see that it was mostly just show, a fanciful, farcical display of harmless noise and motion. A puff of blue smoke shot from chrome nostrils and a long arm with a hook waved about, but it clattered blindly, stupidly on the next car, barely making a dent, then flopped in the dirt. Another car spat fire from a nozzle that fanned back and forth but the flames only shot a couple feet out, and only at brief intervals, not long enough to singe a rat. But my favorite was the rotating knife car that raised its rear end like a stink bug, so that a giant propeller-like thing could emerge and spread out. It had big, jagged blades, about five feet long, and as it spun faster it was really quite menacing. But then the blades began to hit the ground, harder and harder, kicking up dust and pebbles until finally they jammed in the ground and the car began to turn instead, rolling in the dirt, wham-bam-slam. After a few revolutions the poor thing ceased its self-abuse, righted itself awkwardly and crawled off. Judging by the banged up look of this old crate, I’d say the accidental twirling had happened before. The right rear wheel was off kilter, so it kind of limped as it departed.

Pretty soon the rest of the cars had left too, rumbling away to who knows where. It must have been amazing to live in the old days, when people actually owned those big metal monsters, and you would sit inside and pilot the thing by pushing pedals and turning the wheel. Imagine the sensation, being inside a hurtling hunk of metal and rubber and flammable poisons, roaring and trembling down the road, nothing between you and death but your own hand/eye coordination. Did people really appreciate what they were doing when they drove those things? Or did they just take it for granted? Surely there was a little thrill every time you pointed it down the road, and felt all that powerful, dangerous machinery at your fingertips, only somewhat under your control. I was born too late.

I’ve been to the newest cypher-domains and I’ve been in holo-shows and stuff, but it was more fun just to stand and watch all this crazy junk doing its thing. It’s real, you know? Like hologames vs pinball: There will always be pinball, because there’s an actual, physical ball. Hologames are ultimately just electronic. They don’t exist. But a pinball is solid steel, and more satisfying to hit. You’re doing something real, not just redirecting invisible streams of electricity to manipulate illusions. And all these dumb robots and screwy cars, they were real things, moving and banging around, totally physical.

For a little while I thought “Wow, this old guy should do a show of this stuff and charge people money”. You know, bring it down to the town to some weedy empty lot and pry the locals out of their cubes, make them get up and walk out of their houses and go to see something that’s actually happening. Genuine metal on metal, an old time technological freak show. But nah, it would never work. They’d say “I’ll wait until it’s in the cube”, and then settle back into their gel. That’s why I try to get out and ride bikes and stuff. I get so bovine just lying in the gel. I mean, sure, the shows are great, I’m just as much a nougat-head as anyone. But I just have to escape sometimes, you know?

I heard a young girl’s voice.

“Hello, visitor.”

I turned and saw her, standing there looking at me. Her sky-blue eyes were big as softballs, clear and bright and looking right at me. This was weird, because they weren’t real eyes. They were glassy, empty, fake eyes. And she was a metal, cloth, who-knows-what-else robot, with dainty pigtails and rosy cheeks and a blue and white checkered dress and slender arms and little black shoes. A robot. But she was kind of like a little girl. Well, not that little. More like a grown woman dressed up as a little girl, or like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Except for those eyes. They were way too big. And there was something else weird about them: they looked into mine. I mean, her eyes looked straight into mine. I’ve never had a robot do that to me before.

I waved one hand out towards nothing, and shrugged. “I’m just uh, I’m just uh…”

“Watch me,” she said, and she took two steps back, wobbly, loose-jointed steps like a marionette, you know, a puppet that hangs from strings. I even caught myself looking above her for wires, or threads, but there was only sky.

Then she leapt up, straight up, about twelve feet in the air. Her legs almost didn’t follow her. They kind of came off and stayed near the ground, but the cables that held them to her hips pulled them upwards to reattach to her body. When she came back down to the ground she was almost all together again (if she could ever really be totally together) but it seemed like every part of her was just tenuously attached to the rest.

She landed and kind of collapsed and clattered apart for a moment, falling over backward. But she quickly scrambled back up to her feet and hollered, “Watch me! Watch!” and she jumped up again, higher this time, about twenty feet. Even at the apex of this prodigious leap her big blue eyes were fixed directly on mine. She left her legs behind again, way back near the ground, and as she descended they were reeled up only partway before she crashed into the dust. She wriggled back together and scrambled to her feet, and just before she could say “Watch me” again, I put up my hands.

“Okay! That’s great, that’s enough.”

Her intense gaze pinned me like a bug. Was she artificially curious? What else was coming?

“I’m a little girl,” she said, and smiled. I didn’t think she could smile, but her face was some kind of flexible stuff, not the tin I’d imagined. It was a demure little smile, like a bow. She lifted her dress. “I’ve got pink panties.”

“Yes, I know. I saw them when you jumped. Now put your dress down. You’re a girl robot. I know.”

She frowned. “Yes, I’m a robot.” She finally lowered her dress. She was unnervingly well put-together. A bit too grown-up to be acting like that.

I looked around. Nobody else had seen, just the other robots doing their private routines. But there was one pile of junk nearby that seemed to be making a snickering sound. When I looked at it, just a pile of wires and cords and tubes and things, the snickering stopped. One electric eye peered at me from the dirt, then rolled away.

I looked back at her. She looked at me. She was absolutely still.

“So, uh, what’s your name?”

“Nettie-Marie”. She did a little curtsy, very cute. Once again I caught myself trying to see the wires that held her up. It didn’t seem like all her weight was on the ground. She began to sway back and forth, like a tendril of seaweed in a lazy lagoon. She smiled, and little dimples appeared in her cold, rosy cheeks. She batted her eyelashes a few times. Her eyelids clattered together, clickity-clack. Why had the old man given her eyelids?

“I gave myself the eyelids,” she said (although I hadn’t asked). “I built a lot of myself on my own. Do you like me?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“Will you be my friend?”

“Uh… I uh, sure.”

“Whee!” I swear to God, she said “whee” and then she spun around, first her top half, then her legs, taking turns spinning around, making a tornado of dust. Finally she stopped. I coughed.

“Will you play with me?”

“Umm… Uh… I, I…”

She took me by the hand. Her skin was surprisingly soft and gentle, like it was some kind of very flexible fabric.

“Your skin is fake, too,” she said, still staring at my eyes.

“Well, not fake exactly. You see, the sun…”

“I know.” She led me toward one of the shacks. I looked around. I had the feeling that the old man was watching but I didn’t see him. I looked up the hill and tried to remember which shack had been his. They all had dark windows.

She led me into a little tin hut and yes, I did it with a robot. So sue me. It’s not like I’m the first. And I didn’t exactly have a choice. She was insistent, you know? And the whole experience, it was so… mechanical. But she sure was well put together.

She clattered those eyelids afterward, and said “I’m going to have a little baby.”

“That’s nice,” I said as I dressed.

“It will be a very special baby and you will be the daddy.”

“That’s nice.” I wished she would put her clothes back on.

“I can make a baby. And when we are old, our baby will take care of us.”

“OK. Hey, I’ll be right back,” I said as I headed for the door.

She didn’t say anything, but her enormous blue eyes followed me.

Outside it was even more blindingly bright than before. I walked over to my bike and got on and began to pedal away. I was hoping none of those crazy cars were around. I looked back but I didn’t see the old man or the girl, just some robots staggering around in the shimmering heat.

I rode over pebbles and ruts and chunks of green glass. It took me a while to find my way back to a road I recognized. Eventually I was on the old main route, a twentieth century two lane highway crazed with cracks and dead weeds poking up everywhere. The air felt cooler as I coasted downhill. I turned a bend and saw Albuquerque glittering below.

About forty minutes later I was back on the newer pavement, and there were other cyclists there, all poised for the long downhill run to the city. We watched a dirty orange sunset as the air grew colder and one by one we rolled down the steep, smooth highway back into town.

I don’t need to tell you any of this. I’m telling it to myself, really. Don’t need to do that either. And I don’t have to explain. Don’t waste your time trying to find a reason.

Tuesday was cold and windy. A perfect winter day to go out by myself with my beer and cigarettes. Gray sky always makes me want to do those same old hikes. The same steep, rocky paths around cactus and piñon trees, past the abandoned campsites in the junipers. To sit on the same rocks, staring down at the same views. I never get tired of it, the slow release, putting distance between myself and other people. I want to live without another soul around for a thousand miles.

I’ve always lived by myself, but that’s not enough. There’s always a voice somewhere, “bla bla bla”. There’s always a car engine, a rattling trash can. Like rats in the ceiling, sure, they’re not right next to you but they’re still too close. Only by going out on foot, out beyond the roads, out beyond the last rich peoples’ houses, out beyond the last row of telephone poles, only then can you feel like you’re not surrounded. Mental elbow room. No bipeds. Peer in every direction. Startle a pair of coyotes. Sit on a rock.

On this day I drove to the big fields by the weedy tennis courts, up by the abandoned school on the hill. I parked my crumbling Plymouth Valiant by the crumbly curb. I was going to set out on a hike right away, but the steady, gusting wind made me think of the kite I had in the trunk. Why not? Why not fly a kite? I got it out and put it together. It was one of those cheap kites, the triangular plastic ones. Its yellow wings had been bundled up for so long that thick grime now clung in the folds and creases. The trunk of my car is not a clean place.

“You are one sorry looking kite,” I said. Don’t worry, I always talk to inanimate objects. Keeps me from talking to myself. “Let’s see how long you can fly before you fall to pieces.” I walked over to the splintery, listing picnic table and put down my beer-laden backpack. The beer in my hand was ice cold. My fingers were freezing. I pulled my shirt cuffs down to cover my hands.

The kite string was not in much better shape than the kite. It was a fat, sickly bundle, festooned with knots and twigs, lint and little chunks of gunk, all wrapped around a wooden surveyor’s stake. I tied it on and started letting the kite out. Immediately it began to take off. It veered from side to side at first, almost diving into the ground, but as I let out more string it straightened up and began to soar. I was surprised. It had looked so dilapidated. The kite string was comically knotted and ratty looking. As I let it out there were occasional tangles dangling from it, and even a sizable twig.

The wind was strong. I could hear the plastic wings rippling against the stiff breeze. It looked magical, a crummy yellow kite against a slate gray winter sky. I swallowed some more cheap, metallic beer and lit a cigarette, standing on the kite string while I shielded my lighter from the wind. I added a few puffs from a stinky, half smoked joint as well, just to put the edge of paranoia on my chemical stew. Naturally I had to drink some more beer to take the edge off again.

I let more string out. And more. There was lots of it. I let the bundled stake dance on the ground as the string whizzed through my fingers. The wind was so strong that the kite just kept going up. Finally I was at the end, which luckily was tied to the stake. I held it loosely and let my arm go limp. The wind gently lifted my dead arm and let it fall again. The line went out almost horizontal to the ground before it gradually curved upward toward the kite, which was now just a tiny triangle above the hills.

The sky grew darker and the wind picked up. Pellets of light, dry snow began to shoot down. I wondered if the old string would hold- amazing that it hadn’t broken yet.

The snow abruptly ceased, and the wind died, as if someone had thrown a switch. The line began to sag. Soon it was draped over a fence at the edge of the field, and I could see that the kite was losing altitude. With a curse I began reeling in the string, wrapping it around the stick as fast as I could. I tried holding my beer in the crook of my arm but it kept sloshing on my jacket, so I placed it gently on the ground. The kite kept falling. I started winding the string around my forearm, in big loops, but before I could make any progress a snag got caught in the fence at the edge of the field. When I tried to tug it free the string broke and fell limply out of sight into the dry sandy bed of the arroyo. I watched as the kite sank feebly beyond the foothills.

“Bye bye, kite.” I finished my beer, popped another and stared into the sky, not really thinking. The clouds were stretched out, a gray watercolor palette washing down into the horizon. I stood like a pole, planted in the ground, idly wondering which trail I should set out on. Or maybe I should try to retrieve the kite. It wouldn’t be that hard to find, if I wanted to. It was just an old piece of junk, but I had nothing better to do. I zipped up my backpack and headed down into the arroyo.

It took some looking, but I finally found the string. It was kind of fun, following it through the thick undergrowth down in the arroyo, over a couple of rusty barbed wire fences, as it draped from one piñon tree to another. It was tangled in the salt cedar rushes in the few places where water sometimes flowed. I decided not to save the string, just to follow it.

Soon I had company. A scraggly little black dog was galloping up behind me. I could see she was friendly, and had recently been nursing a litter. She wagged her tail as I knelt to pet her ears. Then she suddenly leaned in and licked my face, her tongue slapping between my lips.

“Bleah!” I spit on the ground. “I Frenched a strange dog.” I washed out my mouth with beer. She grinned and kept wiggling her rear end, whipping her flea-bitten tail back and forth. “Okay, Frenchy, you keep a lookout for rabbits.” I resumed following the line as the dog trotted merrily ahead.

The string kept going and going. I hadn’t thought it was so far. Frenchie led the way, as if she were following the string too. I just kept plodding along, drinking my beer. Finally I stopped and sat on a rock to smoke a cigarette. Frenchie lay at my feet and eyed me piteously. I wished I had something she could eat. She didn’t want any beer. I smoked some more stinky pot, until a big blob of resin stuck to my lip. A few pellets of very dry snow began falling again, then stopped just as abruptly.

I looked around, trying to get my bearings. The terrain was getting rougher. The kite had landed somewhere in the hills, up in the rocky pinnacles and cacti. There were steep gullies to cross, often where you’d least expect them. This was nowhere near any of the trails I’d hiked so many times before.

I got up and resumed my trek. Man, I was buzzed. I was slack-jawed, drooling, dizzy, stumbling along. “String… follow… string…” When the string went into a cave I didn’t even hesitate. I just shuffled on in, tripping out on the acoustics. It wasn’t very dark in there, and I could soon see that it wasn’t really a cave but a tunnel. The light at the other end was bright and beckoning. My mind was in neutral. I just kept follering that ol’ string.

Only when I emerged from the tunnel did I begin to think something strange was going on. How did the string… Why would the kite… How did the wind… I looked around, blinking. It was a bright, sunny day. And the sky- it was brilliantly colored, shining like an upside-down sea of rainbow crystals. I stared upward. Was it already sunset? High, narrow clouds stretched to the horizon, fanned out like palm fronds edged with silver. Frenchy ran ahead, barking and twisting in circles. She ran back briefly to me as if to say “Come on!”

The string went down a hillside into an area I was completely unfamiliar with. It couldn’t be- I knew all these hills like the back of my hand. I was off the trail, sure, but still… I tried to get my bearings. Where was I? Where was I supposed to be? It was like a dream where you’re sure you’ve forgotten something important. I stumbled down the rocky slope, following the string in a daze.

Finally I came across a good sitting rock, and sat. I popped open a beer and drank. It was still cold, and it tasted especially good, not the usual cheap, tinny flavor. I looked at the can. The brand seemed vaguely unfamiliar. I couldn’t quite read what it said.

A little horny toad was staring at me. It sat perfectly still, on a red rock, regarding me with those curiously knowing eyes. I reached out and gently stroked its back. It squinted at me. It was incredibly beautiful: the pebbled colors on its back were so vibrant, yet they blended in perfectly with the rocky soil. Then I turned around saw a much bigger horny toad.

This one was the size of a manhole cover. It had the most hypnotic dark gaze… For a long time I cold only stare at those eyes, without thinking, which is just as well because if I could have I would have thought that this was an absurdly huge horny toad. And then it spoke.

“I would appreciate it, sir, if you would not fondle my children.” Her mouth didn’t move. Telepathy? The voice was like the eyes- soft, deep, mesmerizing.

I stuttered something. The little horny toad scampered up onto its mother’s back and she crawled off into the trees. I stared at the spot where she’d been.

I stood up. How long had I been sitting there? I felt dizzy. I stared at the sky. It was a churning mixture of jewel-like colors. I knew I wasn’t dreaming, but somehow I didn’t care. I continued to follow the string.

After a while I began to find things tied to it: a toy boat with a disturbingly lifelike figurehead of a naked woman, a little orange biplane that vibrated in my hand and flew away when I untied it, a metallic green plastic soldier whose eyes followed me… The string continued on and on, from bush to tree to rock.

The sky grew gold and crimson as different patches of shard-like clouds shimmered in the fading light. A full moon rose behind me and lit half of everything with a lustrous blue glow. Stars swirled and danced like a million shiny minnows. Planets waltzed across the heavens, looping each other, racing and flirting.

Frenchy was the only thing that remained pretty much the same. She kept by my side or slightly ahead of me. I patted her for reassurance every once in a while, more for my sake than hers. The line now looked like a blue thread of light under the enormous, staring moon. I followed it, for how long I don’t know, until suddenly it split and went in two directions. There was no knot or tangle, just a perfect split. I shrugged and followed one, but Frenchy insisted I follow the other. After that, when the line split several more times, I let Frenchy lead the way. “Mush”. She barked and ran ahead. “Go, dog, go.”

Eventually we came to a field of bright flowers that appeared to be made of crystal. They sparkled in every color imaginable, which was odd since everything else in the landscape was blue in the moonlight. Then I heard the familiar sound of the kite, rippling in the wind.

I peered into the sky and there it was, about fifty yards up. It ducked and curled in the breeze, although I couldn’t feel any wind at all. The line was tangled in some flowers and thorny, dark brambles that held it firmly as the kite tugged and swooped back and forth.

As I began to pull on the line I thought I heard a voice. I looked down at Frenchy. “You hear something?” She looked at me expectantly. I continued to reel in the string.

“Daddy…”

I stopped. The voice had come from the kite. I drew it in more slowly.

“Daddy…”

It was a tiny child’s voice. I could see the faint outline of a baby against the kite, its eyes sparkling as it regarded me. Why was a baby attached to the kite? I pulled it a little closer, and stopped.

“Daddy…”

I let go of the string and ran back the way I’d come. I heard the baby crying as the kite drifted back up into the stars. Its little sobs were like a nail being pulled from a stubborn plank.

The cries faded as I ran and stumbled through the trees, their branches swiping at my face, wrists and ankles. I ran slower and slower, my momentum decreasing. I pushed my legs to move faster, but they felt heavy as cement. I tried to lean forward, but it was as if I were slogging through knee-deep peanut butter. Finally I was almost at a dead stop, just trying to push one foot forward, a few inches at a time.

I gave up, exhausted, and slowly fell to the ground, collapsing in surrender. I pulled my knees up and closed my eyes. Maybe I would wake up in the real world again.

I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there, tucked up like an egg. The grass tickled my face. Dancing water sounds played in my ears. Colors flashed in front of my eyes, in the sparkly dew drops. Then Frenchy started licking me under the chin. I had to get up.

The night was still and cool. I sat on a flat, black rock and drank another beer. Then I shuffled off to the bushes for a long overdue pee. Clouds of mist rose from the golden arch. A little green snake writhed out from under the warm stream, stuck its tongue out at me, and slithered off somewhere.

Frenchy began going out toward the kite again, obviously hoping I would follow. I turned and began to walk the other way. I thought maybe if I just walked slowly and casually I wouldn’t meet that wall of resistance. I was wrong. Right away I felt as if I were wading in tar. I sighed, turned, and followed Frenchy. Now I could walk normally again.
Soon we were back in the impossibly colorful flowers, and I could hear the kite fluttering. I began to reel it in.

“Daddy.”

I saw the baby’s silhouette against the plastic kite wings and I felt a chill, but I kept pulling. I ignored the voice as I methodically piled up the string at my feet. Soon I held the kite in front of me.

It was a big, hollow plastic baby, tied loosely to the kite with loops of string. The kite line was attached to a little chain that went into the doll’s chest. I pulled the chain.

“Daddy.”

It appeared for the most part to be a normal toy doll, with a round area of little holes in its chest from which the recorded voice came. But its eyes were some kind of crystal that sparkled so brightly I had to squint to look at them. Another odd thing was the teeth. I touched them with my finger- they appeared to be real teeth. They felt like they were in a real mouth, with real gums. While I probed in the baby’s tiny mouth I could have sworn that its eyes were regarding me, like a teacher waiting for an answer from a pupil.

I looked at Frenchy. “Now what?”

An impossibly deep and vibrant sunrise was approaching. Apricot clouds writhed and tumbled on the horizon. I dropped the doll in the grass. I picked up the kite, collapsed it and rolled it up. “That’s it. I’ve got my kite.”

I headed off along the string, fearful that I would hit the invisible wall again. I really wanted to go back now. I still felt woozy, and I had no idea where I was. The brightening landscape did not look any more familiar in the approaching dawn. I hiked at a brisk pace.

The string went along like I’d remembered it, except that there were a few different things tied to it that I hadn’t seen before. I hurried on, not even pausing to look. I climbed the hill and entered the cave. I pushed into the darkness until I could see the light of the other side. I felt a cold breeze. I paused and looked back.

Frenchy had stopped at the entrance, silhouetted against that dazzling, jeweled sky. The doll sat astride her, its eyes sparkling.

I turned and pushed on further into the tunnel. I felt a grittiness under my shoes, a heaviness in the air, the banal, cold atmosphere… Where was I? It felt real again. Was I just waking up?

I looked back and could barely make out a small speck of light. Frenchie hadn’t followed me. I turned away and pushed toward the cold, gray opening in front of me, until I emerged into a blustery snowfall. I shuffled down the steep hillside, slipping a little here and there, holding on to tree branches when I could. I went up one hill and down another. I pulled my collar up against the icy wind.

Then I stopped and stood motionless. What was I doing? Why had I returned? I looked back the way I’d come, but the snow stung my eyes. I turned and tried to go back to the cave. I hurried, following the string, my boots slipping on the snow-dusted rocks. It was further than I thought. I scrambled along as fast as I could. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was going to stay longer this time.

But the string just went between two boulders and then ended abruptly. I stumbled around the mountainside, trying to find the way back, trying to find the cave, trying to find where the string continued. And yet I knew right away, I’d already known in that first moment when I’d stopped and turned around, that I’d never find the cave again.

But that didn’t keep me from trying. For months afterward, I was up there every week or two, calling for Frenchie. I tried the kite too, on snowy, blustery days. When people passed by, they looked at me funny.

Sometimes it’s a mistake to come back.

Let me say this right away, so there’s no confusion: Mr. Perkins was a dog, not a person. Well, actually Mr. Perkins was two dogs. But before that he was a person. Wait, let’s start over.

My name is Kevin. When I was a kid we got a puppy. He was an Irish wolfhound and he puked all the time, so we named him Barfy, like the dog in Family Circus. But when he grew up he became very big and rangy, and he had this kind of morose, mopey expression, and a long beard-like growth on his chin. He reminded Betheny of her Algebra teacher, Mr. Perkins. Eventually no one called him Barfy any more, it just wasn’t dignified enough. Mr. Perkins was like the dog that some old Welsh poet would’ve had, walking out on the moors, staring through the mist at the heather. He always seemed out of place in the suburbs of Fort Worth.

He couldn’t catch a Frisbee or anything, and he didn’t know any tricks (unless you count “lie down”) but he was still a great dog. He rarely barked or made a fuss, and he almost never made a mess on the rug or chewed up anything. He had lots of long, scraggly hair in several shades of grey which he shed everywhere, but you can’t blame him for that. He was just a good, good dog. I guess. He was our dog.

I was four when we got Mr. Perkins, and we grew up together, so he was special to me. Plus, the neighborhood kids thought he was the toughest dog around, probably because he was kind of scary-looking and real big. He was huge, all right, but I don’t remember him ever getting in a fight. And that time the house got robbed, apparently Mr. Perkins just watched calmly as the thieves stole our TV, our stereo, the microwave… Well, anyway, he was still a really good dog. Honest.

So when he died it was very traumatic for me. I’d never experienced death before (unless you count the “accidental” death of Mr. Turtle). And since Mr. Perkins was only five years old when he died, it was kind of tragic, and the vet couldn’t explain it. She was a horsey girl with freckles and a red ponytail. There were stables outside and all kinds of horse magazines on the waiting room tables. I wondered if we were even in the right place, but figured we were, since my dad always calls around trying to figure out who’s cheapest. The vet looked more grief stricken than any of us. “Some dogs, they just age more quickly. And this breed, they don’t always get very old.”

“Oh come on,” said dad. “He was five.”

She tried to smile. “Yes, but when you brought him in I was surprised at how old he looked. White hair, milky eyes, that stiff way of walking that old dogs have…”

He didn’t have a reply to this. She was right.

“But if you want, we can do an autopsy.”

“How much?” asked dad.

“Ted…” Mom whispered something to him.

“No, I’m not throwing money at a dead dog.”

Then Betheny started crying. She’s older than me, but she’s a girl so it was ok for her to cry. We all shuffled out into the blinding sunshine and back into the car. I remember on the way home I was picking little tufts of Mr. Perkins’ hair our of the car seat. I saved them in my pocket.

A few years later the first “PetLab” opened in the Fort Worth area. My school bus went by the place every afternoon. It was down in the old strip mall where everything had closed except for MasterLube. The big, red and white “PetLab” sign was all shiny and new. Giant posters of a dachshund puppy and a little white kitten filled two of the windows. The slogan was hung on a banner over the door: “Where Love Comes Back to Life”. There were usually lots of cars out front, and it looked pretty busy. It was a growing company.

One day I got up the nerve to ask dad if we could go to PetLab.

“What?” He put down the sports page, snorted, and lifted it up again. “No way. I’m not spending a fortune to clone a dog that wasn’t worth a dime to begin with.”

“But dad…”

He lowered the sports page again. “And what about you, Kevin? Should we clone you too?”

“That’s illegal.”

“Correctamundo. And cloning cats and dogs should be illegal too. The whole thing gives me the creeps. Case closed.” He went back to his sports page, and I went to ask mom.

Of course she said we couldn’t afford it. “And maybe it’s wrong to do that kind of thing,” she said. “We should just let sleeping dogs lie.” I swear she really said that. “Besides, we don’t have Mr. Perkins’ blood sample.”

“But we’ve got lots of his hair,” I said.

“Hair? They can’t do it with just hair…” She furrowed her brow. “Can they?”

“Duh, mom. Hair is just as good as anything else.”

“Really?”

She sure can be out of it. She probably thought clones were still made using test tubes or something. She’s like a lot of parents that way. People get to a certain age and they slow down, and any new development in science takes ten years or so to register.

I got Betheny to join my cause. If you ever left her do something on her own you’d be waiting forever, but she was a great follower. I used her on many occasions: she could be easily swayed to any side of any argument and then back again. She also had that wild, teary way of going hysterical which can really break down parental resolve. Her white, pale cheeks and neck would get all flushed and her face would puff up like a baby’s, almost as red as her hair. She cried pitifully enough to melt the hardest heart. I played her like a cheap ukulele.

At dinner I teased the subject back to life, and pushed the right buttons at the right times, and pretty soon Betheny was wailing and dad was fuming and mom was quietly “reasoning” with him. And I was sitting there, all stupefied by the hubbub. Sometimes I’m ashamed of myself, but what else could I do? They make it so easy.

The next day we went down to PetLab and gave them some of Mr. Perkins’ hair. The girl behind the counter was a little spaced out, and she had a creepy cold sore on her lip. I was worried she would lose the hair, or label it wrong, but luckily one of the lab techs took over. Dad was quiet. I knew he was biting his tongue the whole time, but it was too late. We were doing it.

Seven months later we went to pick up the new Mr. Perkins. You never saw a more adorable puppy: tiny and fuzzy with shiny black eyes like obsidian. He was no bigger than a cat. It was hard to believe this scrawny puppy would grow to be an enormous Irish wolfhound. I couldn’t remember the original Mr. Perkins as a puppy- to me he’d always been big. But mom said that he’d started just like this so I had to take her word for it. I said we should call him “P2″ but that was vetoed right away. Everyone wanted to call him “Mr. Perkins”, just like the first one. How boring is that?

We took him home and right away I began to remember pieces of my childhood. Like the time I put a clothespin on his tail and watched him flail about, trying to get it off. Or the time I put PopRocks in his food. Or the time I chased him around the yard, shooting bottle rockets- there’s still marks on the back door frame where he tried to chew his way in, to escape me. Maybe I should send some money to the ASPCA, to buy off my sins. I guess it’s kind of embarrassing, the things little boys do.

But now I was sure that I’d treat this Mr. Perkins a lot nicer. I gave him his puppy food and water whenever he needed it and changed his newspaper daily. We kept him in the guest bathroom at night, for the first few months, while mom attempted to house-train him.

But almost from the beginning we could see that this puppy was not quite an exact match for the first Mr. Perkins. Oh sure, they looked the same, and their DNA was supposedly identical, but this new version, well… At night he would howl and yap, something the original never did. The sound of his caterwauling in that little tiled bathroom kept all of us up. And he didn’t get housebroken like the old Mr. Perkins. No matter what mom tried, he still relieved himself any old place, usually where you would least want him to. After a month or so we thought that maybe there had been a mistake, so we revisited the nice folks at PetLab.

Dad had to convince the girl at the front desk that we needed to see someone more important than her. Finally she relented and made a call to the back room.

Dr. Scofeld was a young, sporty genetic engineer. He had a tan and a hairstyle and a metallic green Jaguar with a license plate that read “COPYCAT”. He came out into the waiting room in a spotless white lab coat. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“I’ll tell you what’s the trouble,” said dad. “I broke into little Kevin’s college money to pay for this clone dog, and you guys botched it.”

“Whoa there,” Dr. Scofeld smiled and held up his hands. “We don’t make mistakes at PetLab, only happy memories.”

Dad was momentarily stunned. I could almost see those old, sticky cogs turning in his mind as he tried to decide whether or not the doctor was kidding. “Oh yeah?” He put the carrier containing Mr. Perkins up on the counter. “This dog is nothing like the original.”

Dr. Scofeld peered into the cage. “Impossible. You brought us hair from an Irish wolfhound. This is an Irish wolfhound puppy. It’s the only clone of this breed that we’ve ever done.”

“Yeah? Well, somebody messed up something.”

Mom leaned in and whispered apologetically, “He just doesn’t behave like the first Mr. Perkins did. He yaps and howls all night.”

“And he chews up my boots,” said Betheny.

“And he took a dump on my skateboard,” said I.

“Kevin!” said mom.

Dad grunted. “Well, it’s true. This puppy squats any old place it wants to. The first one was housebroken, never yapped, and didn’t chew anything. And watch this.” Dad stuck two fingers through the mesh of the cage. Mr. Perkins eagerly licked them, his tail flailing happily as he made puppy-dog eyes. “Huh. Usually he bites the hell out of me.”

“Hm…” Dr. Scofeld was trying hard to be interested but just like a real doctor he couldn’t disguise his boredom. He had that typical drowsy delivery, very deliberate and slow. He opened the carrier door and Mr. Perkins came bounding out, a wiggly, joyful, adorable bundle of puppy energy. Scofeld held him down and turned him on his back. He poked at the hair on his belly, pushing the tufts around, looking for something. “Aha, here it is. Sixteen, twenty seven, forty four. Yes, that’s the right number.”

“He has a number on him?”

“Yes, all our pets have a number tattooed there. This is definitely the dog we made for you. And you say he’s different?”

“Absolutely. Not the same at all,” said dad.

“Are you sure it was the right dog hair?”

“Of course. How many Irish wolfhounds do you think we have?”

“He wouldn’t know that, dear,” said mom quietly.

Dad frowned. “OK, he sure looks like Mr. Perkins did as a puppy. The photos we have are an exact match. But it’s the personality that’s different.”

“Well, that’s not very likely,” said Dr. Scofeld. The puppy was now licking his hand. “You see, disposition has been proven to be determined by the genes, just as surely as hair color or size. Personality is at least eighty-nine percent inherited. It’s almost impossible that he’d have a different personality.”

“But he does!” whined Betheny. “This dog is… it isn’t as nice.”

“Perhaps you don’t remember the first dog’s puppyhood quite as clearly as you think. Time passes, and we tend to sentimentalize things. He may have been more trouble than you’d care to recall. It’s only natural to dwell on the good things while forgetting the bad.” Scofeld stroked him behind the ear. Mr. Perkins wiggled all over and tossed his big, floppy ears around. He rolled on his back and licked Scofeld’s fingers. He even tolerated a rectal thermometer which made my belly tighten up just to watch. Aren’t kids not supposed to see stuff like that?

“Was he ever dropped as a puppy?”

“No!” said Betheny.

“Ever in any kind of accident, or trauma?”

“Nope, nothing like that,” said dad.

“Did he ever eat anything unusual, like paint, or get into any other kinds of toxic chemicals? Was he ever exposed to strong fumes of some kind? No? Well, then, I suppose we could do a cat-scan. Though I suppose in this case we should call it a ‘dog-scan’.” He laughed.

Dad asked him how much it would cost. Dr. Scofeld told him. Dad snorted, laughed, muttered something, rubbed his eyes and stood up. “Alright, let’s go.”

“But daddy,” whined Betheny, “what about Mr. Perkins?”

“He’s coming home with us, and he’s not getting any doggie-scan, either. We’re keeping this evil clone dog as is, for better or worse, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But daddy…” Betheny hadn’t given up quite yet. She was dawdling just inside the door to the office. The rest of us had filed out into the hallway, looking at the pictures on the wall of happy families and little old ladies, holding their adorable cats and dogs. “Maybe they can give Mr. Perkins a pill,” said Betheny, “to make him mellow out. You can do that, right doctor?”

Scofeld had the good sense not to take the bait. “I think your father’s made up his mind.”

She stomped out, pouting, and glowered all the way home. Mr. Perkins, meanwhile, leered at us from the back of the station wagon, a long string of drool dangling from his jaw.

About ten months later “Mr. P”, as dad called him, had become a much bigger problem. That tiny puppy was now the size of a small pony. He had shot up alarmingly, eating way more than his predecessor, and achieving a size and weight that easily surpassed the original. And he developed some new habits: he buried books and clothes in the back yard, he hid the car keys under a rug or in a plant, he dropped cell phones in the toilet, etc, etc.

Betheny said we should take him to PetLab again, but dad held firm. It was just as well. I don’t think Dr. Scofeld would have cared about our problems. I’d seen him a few times at the country club where I cleaned the pool on weekends, and it was like he was a different person. He was always with a new blonde, and he wore mirrored sunglasses, and his hair was bigger. “Hey guy, how’s your cat?” he asked once.

“Dog.”

“Whatever.” He and the blonde laughed and twirled their tennis rackets, walking down the pathway between the lilac bushes.

We learned, over time, to put up with Mr. P. His little outrages became more commonplace, and although dad occasionally suggested we should give him away or something, this was always vetoed by mom and Betheny. Then came the cat incident.

Our neighbors two houses down, the Shumways, have always had a bunch of Persian cats. I don’t know if they breed Persians or what, but there’s always been mobs of them around their house for as long as I can remember. Every one of them has an ugly little squished-in face. Sometimes they have brown slime dribbling down from the corners of their eyes.

Mrs. Shumway was in her front yard picking up the newspaper when Mr. Perkins dashed by. Without breaking stride he scooped up one of the cats in his mighty jaws. The woman screamed bloody murder, out in the middle of the street. She really drew a crowd. She was a fat, pink-faced broad in a yellow bathrobe and galoshes, and she was absolutely wailing like a banshee. Naturally no one wanted to get too close. Me and my friend Tony were on our bikes, watching this phenomenon from a distance. When I figured out it was my dog she was yelling about, I beat it out of there pretty quick.

About twenty minutes later Mr. Perkins came back to pay another visit to the Shumways. This time both Mr. and Mrs. Shumway were in their living room, comforting each other, when they saw Mr. Perkins coming up the driveway. Mr. Shumway went to grab his baseball bat and Mrs. Shumway went to the door. She opened it just in time to see Mr. Perkins barfing on their welcome mat. Mr. Shumway was about to charge out with the bat, but the big pile of puke froze him in his tracks.

“Oh my God,” said Mrs. Shumway. “It’s Five.” (Some of their cats didn’t have names, just numbers).

Mr. Shumway looked down at the mess as Mr. Perkins trotted merrily away. Yes, there was no denying it: this was the remains of Five. Most of it was unidentifiable but it was all held together by that long, clumpy, white hair.

The way the Shumways carried on you’d think this was the last cat on earth. I mean, they had a couple dozen more. What’s the difference if one gets eaten? They made a complaint to the city and insisted that Mr. Perkins be destroyed. They also filed a lawsuit, which we settled out of court (one of dad’s college buddies is a hot-shot lawyer). We had to buy them a fancy Persian kitten, and dad had to buy a heavier chain for Mr. Perkins, along with a new, thicker collar.

It seemed so mean keeping him chained up in the back yard the way we did, but we had no choice: He was a menace to the neighborhood. He wore a circular path around the tree, tugging the chain as far as it would go. He would run one way, then turn around and run the other way, on the edge of his circle of misery. I always figured he’d eventually wrap himself around the tree, and I’d need to help him unravel. But he never did. He always surprised me that way. He may have been destructive and a nuisance, but he wasn’t dumb.

He sure did scare the neighbors, though, and not just the Shumways. Everyone figured Mr. Perkins was a mad dog, capable of anything. The neighborhood kids were especially wary of him. Except for Jimmy Connelly. He’s the rich kid of the block. His dad owns a couple of Toyota dealerships, and they live in the big mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac. Jimmy goes to the same school as me, Atwood Advanced Placement Preparatory Academy, even though he’s dumb as dirt. Everyone says his dad made some kind of huge contribution to the alumni fund to get him in. They’re so much richer than anyone else in the neighborhood that it’s kind of a mystery why they even live here.

Jimmy liked to torment Mr. Perkins. Once I saw him across the fence, throwing little rocks. Mr. Perkins moved as far away as his chain would allow, and was rarely hit, but a few still found their mark. When I went out and yelled at Jimmy he flipped me off and smiled. He had real big, white teeth, just like his dad. Then he got on his zillion dollar mountain bike and rode off.

There must have been other times that Jimmy threw stuff at Mr. Perkins, too. We used to find lots of rocks and sticks in the back yard, and once there were a whole bunch of little red crabapples back there. The Connellys are the only ones with a crabapple tree, and I know for a fact that Jimmy likes to shoot them from his wrist-rocket. They’re more aerodynamic than rocks, you see, because they’re round. It’s easier to hit what you’re aiming at. I doubt if Mr. Perkins could have dodged many of those. So when he finally got the chance to bite Jimmy Connelly, he did it with gusto. It didn’t surprise anyone, either. That schmuck had it coming.

It happened when I was walking Mr. P after school. Actually he was towing me on my skateboard, our daily around the block ritual. Jimmy was on the sidewalk with his bike upside down, checking the gears or something. He must have heard me coming on my skateboard, but he didn’t turn around and see Mr. Perkins until it was too late. When he did, I swear his hair stood up, just like someone in a cartoon. He turned to run, but Mr. Perkins lunged forward and chomped on one of his buttocks. His jaws were so big, it was like he had half of Jimmy’s butt in his mouth. Jimmy screamed like a girl and ran into the street, with Mr. Perkins still clamped to his caboose. I was tugged off my skateboard and did a face-plant in the gravel by a mailbox. While I cursed and picked bits of rock out of my palms, Jimmy Connelly did a few awkward pirouettes in the street, howling and trying frantically to get those jaws off his rear.

I stood and watched for a while. When I saw a few people coming, I grabbed the leash and tugged him away. “No! Bad dog!”

He wheeled and bared his teeth at me, growling, eyes full of hate. I was totally taken by surprise- I felt sure he was about to attack me. He gradually calmed down, but there was still the remnants of a growl in his throat as he eyed me.

Jimmy was hobbling around crying, holding his butt. Old Mrs. Huber came and comforted him, while shooting dirty looks at me and Mr. Perkins. “Let me see, dear,” she said to Jimmy. “Let me see where he bit you.”

“No!” He turned away from her several times, and they went around and around just like when Mr. Perkins was attached to him.

Jimmy kept crying, and I didn’t know what to do. “I’m real sorry Jimmy. He’s never bit anyone before. Not too much, anyway… Uh, I guess I’ll take him home now.”

Naturally, Jimmy’s parents sued the crap out of us, and they also tried to get the judge to order that Mr. Perkins be destroyed. Dad got his old college buddy back again, but this time his services weren’t free. And I was part of it too, since I’d been there. More importantly, I testified that Jimmy had routinely taunted Mr. Perkins. Although I’d only actually caught him doing it twice, our lawyer thought it was pretty important. The Connellys’ lawyer must have thought so too, because he became fixated on the subject. He grilled me up there on the witness stand, especially regarding crabapples: what did they look like, how big were they, how did I know they were crabapples? He was real old and had totally white hair. I figured he was a family friend of the Connellys, and it seemed like he was a little nervous. Maybe he usually dealt with business law or something. The whole time, I kept staring at his left eye. It seemed like the pupil was off-center. Maybe he had a glass eye. Somewhere in there I gave an answer that cracked up everyone in the courtroom. I still don’t know what I said. Finally he let me go.

We had to pay for Jimmy’s stitches, and Mr. Perkins was confined to the house and yard by court order; no more walks around the block. But I think we got off easy. Thank God the Connellys had such a cruddy lawyer. And I got the bonus of getting to watch Jimmy sitting very gingerly at his desk in home-room for the next week or so.

The confinement was hard on Mr. Perkins. He ran himself ragged, going back and forth, back and forth around the big oak tree, his tongue hanging out, his eyes wild. Sometimes I wondered if he really was a mad dog. But hell, any living creature would go a little nuts being chained like that. I tried to get him to play fetch- I’d throw a stick or a ball, but Mr. Perkins wouldn’t even break stride in his steady pacing. Sometimes I swear he gave me a mocking glance. And when we let him in the house it wasn’t much better- he’d pace by the front door, or worse, stand like a statue and stare at you.

In early June dad announced that we were going to get an RV, a Concord WindCaptain, and go sightseeing for a few weeks. The first thing I asked about was Mr. Perkins. None of the neighbors would feed him, and kennels were too expensive. “To hell with it,” said dad. “We’ll take the dog. Maybe it’ll learn some manners. Come here, dog.” Mr. Perkins promptly ignored him. “He’ll guard the motor home when we’re gone, and he’ll be… fun to have around.”

I nodded but it was obvious that dad just wanted to save the expense of a kennel. Mr. Perkins was going to come with us on our odyssey, for better or worse.

On the first day, when we hadn’t even gotten a hundred miles out of town, Mr. P lifted his leg and went on the arm of the sofa. This was kind of a bummer because there aren’t a whole lot of sofas in an RV. So dad locked him up in the tiny little bathroom, where he howled like the hound of the Baskervilles as we drove across sunbaked west Texas.

That night we tied him outside, at the campground we’d found in sleepy little town just across the New Mexico border. We had to be really careful because there were no dogs allowed. Luckily Mr. Perkins wasn’t in a barking mood that night. I guess he’d already howled himself out. He promptly went under the WindCaptain, as far as his chain would allow, and went to sleep. We climbed back on board to do the same.

I awoke briefly at one point when I heard something. It was a kind of scraping, grating noise. I figured it was the wind, pushing a branch against the side of the camper or something. I went back to sleep.

The next day started off much better. Mr. Perkins was very well behaved as we got back on the highway. He even appeared to be smiling, in that way that dogs have.

We drove up into the Rocky Mountains and had lunch at the Rio Grande gorge bridge. The bridge itself was amazing: When you looked down at the river, way below, it was like peering down one of those cliffs that the coyote falls off in cartoons. Me and Betheny had a good time tossing paper airplanes until mom scolded us for littering. Later we visited some tiny little Spanish towns way up in the mountains and mom made a big deal about taking pictures of all the tiny little churches. Whatever. Then, towards sunset, as we drove back down towards the interstate, things got interesting.

“Damn.” The word came out of nowhere, during a quiet stretch when we were all dozing or looking at the scenery.

“What’s wrong, hon?” asked mom. I could see immediately what it was by peeking over his shoulder. A red light was glowing in the dashboard.

“Something with the brakes,” he muttered. “Maybe it’s just a faulty indicator.” The WindCaptain picked up speed as we descended the winding mountain road. Dad pushed on the brakes. “Damn.”

“Can we stop, dear?” asked mom.

“Of course. I’ll just have to pump the brakes a bit.” He pushed the pedal several times. There was a muffled pop and a “ssshhh” sound. The camper gave a little shudder and continued to pick up speed.

“Damn, damn.”

“Daaad,” said Betheny, “can’t you stop?”

“Of course I can stop. I’ll just have to use the emergency brake. Everyone buckle up.” By now we were going pretty fast. The scrubby little trees by the roadside were really whizzing by. “Okay, here we go.” Dad pulled up on the emergency brake handle, and the WindCaptain began to slow down.

There was a loud snap, and a deep twanging noise. “Now what the hell…”

Mr. Perkins barked twice. I looked at him, and in his eyes I saw that crazy shine. His teeth were exposed in a hair-raising canine grin.

Dad pulled up harder on the brake lever, as we began to pick up speed again. The tires crunched on the gravel shoulder.

“What’s wrong dear? Look out!” A deep ditch was suddenly very close on our right. At that same moment a huge eighteen wheeler roared by on our left, deafening us with its air horn and rocking the camper back and forth with a blast of air. Dad said a word that I won’t repeat here as he wrestled with the steering wheel and Mr. Perkins began to bark frantically. “Shut that dog up!” yelled dad as he jerked us back onto the highway. “I’ll just… downshift. Yeah, that’s right.” He shifted into first, making the transmission scream, but it barely slowed us down. “All right everyone, hang on tight. I’m going to throw it into park. It could be a heck of a jolt.”

“Daddy, wait! What about Mr. P?”

“To hell with the dog! Okay, here we go.” He wrenched the gear lever up and over. The camper made a sickening grinding noise, shuddered, and lurched back like it had hit a tree. Mr. Perkins was sent sprawling into the front where he ended up tangled in dad’s lap, struggling and thrashing around. Dad grunted a curse and shoved him off.

A car flew by, blaring its horn. There was more traffic from the other direction, and we were in the middle of the road, almost at a dead stop. A blast from behind made us all look back at once: another eighteen-wheeler was coming fast, and this time there was no shoulder, just a scrubby, rocky drop-off down the mountainside.

Dad put it back in gear and stepped on the gas. We began moving again, down the mountain, as the big-rig came roaring and bellowing up behind us. The cars coming from below made it impossible for the big-rig to pass, and it was bearing down so suddenly that it couldn’t slow down enough to avoid rear-ending us.

“Come on, come on…” Dad muttered and rocked back and forth at the wheel, the accelerator pushed all the way to the floor. I looked back again and the truck was growing bigger and bigger, much too fast. Then it was right behind us, so close I could see the bugs in its radiator grill. I braced myself for impact- I was sure it was going to hit us. But somehow, miraculously, dad found a little extra speed in that WindCaptain engine, and we stayed just inches ahead of the truck.

“Omigod, omigod.” Betheny was trembling and hugging Mr. Perkins.

Dad was gritting his teeth at the wheel, grim and furious. “That S.O.B. better pass us. We still don’t have any brakes.” He rolled down the window and motioned for the truck to pass. Its horn bellowed furiously in reply. “This is no good. He doesn’t know we don’t have brakes. And we’re coming to a town pretty soon. Wait a minute…” Dad’s attention was focused on a road sign.

“That’s it! That’s how we’ll stop!”

“What? How?” asked mom.

“That sign back there said there’s a truck ramp in one mile. It’s like a steep road that goes up from the main highway. They’re for the big trucks that lose their brakes on downgrades like this. It’ll stop us easy as pie.”

“Are you sure?”

“You got a better idea?”

I looked back at the huge truck which was still only a car length behind. Then I returned my attention to the road, peering ahead for the ramp. There was now no drop-off to the right, but the beginnings of some low hills.

“Is that it? That there?” asked Betheny, pointing.

“No, pumpkin, we haven’t even gone half a mile yet, but it’s coming soon. And this time, hold on to the dog.”

We stared grimly ahead, looking for the sign. Finally we saw it: “Speed Ramp”, with an arrow. Just beyond was a vague, rocky trench cut into the mountain.

“Is this it?” asked mom. “This can’t be it.”

“This is it!” yelled dad. “Everyone hang on!” He turned sharply, decisively to the right, and we blasted onto the speed ramp. The WindCaptain gave a terrific jolt and bucked like a stallion, bouncing off big rocks and shrubs and ancient-looking ruts. We were now suddenly going uphill, but it felt twice as fast as before, with the camper hammering up and down and side to side. The left wheels dipped into a trench that looked like it had been dug by run-off from Noah’s flood and we tipped over perilously. Betheny screamed just like when we were on the Texas Cyclone at HowdyLand. Dad kept the wheels pointed straight ahead- there was nothing else he could do, nowhere to the left or right for us to go. Then, just when I was certain we were about to tip over, the trench flattened out again.

At last we seemed to be slowing. There was a frying pan in my lap, and books, socks, boxes of beans and whatnot everywhere else. The camper gave one or two more lurches and rolled to a stop, then slowly began to roll backward.

Betheny screamed again. “Stop! Stop!”

Dad fumbled with the gear shift, finally ramming it into Park. The camper gave one final spasm and was still. A huge cloud of dust settled around us.

Mr. Perkins barked twice, really loud, making me jump.

“I am going to kill that dog,” said dad. “I’m going to kill it with a shovel.”

Mom called Triple-A while dad prowled around outside, inspecting the damage. Me and Betheny tidied up as best we could. The worst mess was inside the fridge, where the milk, mustard and olives were all swimming together.

We eventually got towed down to the city. We spent the night at your standard chain hotel, and I got to show off on the diving board for some local girls. When we went to pick up the RV the next day the mechanic had some interesting things to say. “It looks like a critter chewed through your brake hoses,” he said. “Got ‘em tore open so the fluid leaked out.” He smiled in an unsettling, not really friendly way. He had a pudgy, young, baby face but his hair was gray and thin like an old man’s. There were grease stains on his arms and in the wrinkles of his eyes. “The same thing that chewed up them hoses also bit through your emergency brake cable.”

I thought back to the first night of the trip, when I heard that scraping one night and thought it was a branch.

“That’s absolutely it,” said dad. “The dog is going to the shelter. No argument. That’s all there is to it.”

“But daddy,” said Betheny, “we don’t know if it was Mr. Perky.”

“Don’t we?”

“It could have been some other kind of animal,” she said.

“Such as?” Dad was mad. The mechanic kept grinning bigger all the time.

“What if it was a squirrel?” said Betheny.

Dad snorted. “A squirrel, of course.”

“Or it could have been a coyote, or a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?”

“Maybe it was a beaver,” I said. “They have good teeth.” Judging by the look he shot me, dad was not amused. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the conversation. Betheny and dad did most of the talking, with the occasional soft cooing of mom trying to get a word in. Betheny got those hysterical juices flowing and eventually Mr. Perkins won another reprieve. During this exchange he sat in the shade of a soda machine, panting happily, his eyes squinting until they were nearly closed. It was weird how happy he looked. In fact, for the whole trip, he’d either been a psycho nutcase, or a blissed-out, happy pooch. No in-between.

Then he opened one eye a little and looked at me, and the look in that eye was pure… Well, it gave me the creeps. It was a mean look, and not like a dog’s eye at all. Not like a person’s either.

So we all got back on board and continued on our merry way, one big, happy family and the family dog, traveling across the high desert hills and through the Rocky Mountains, taking pictures to put in the photo album when we got back. Mom made us stop at lots of churches and dad took us to about a million different pueblos. I was bored out of my skull. Whenever we stopped somewhere I would try to find a video game, or at least a magazine stand. Anything to escape the mind-crushing monotony.

Finally we got somewhere that I wanted to see: the Grand Canyon. When we arrived and walked up to the canyon’s edge it was even more awesome than I’d imagined. We got there just at sunset, when the colors are glowing. I could have stared for hours at all the endless scenery but the sun went down and it was time for dinner.

The next morning we took a ‘hike’ along the canyon’s edge. It was the basic tourist trail, paved and marked with zillions of little signs. Twice we were stopped by Japanese tourists who asked us to take their picture. Then we encountered what looked like an inner-city street gang. I thought we were going to get mugged for a second, but I guess the biggest, scariest one was their chaperone, and they let us pass. I bet it was a rehabilitation thing. Then a troop of Boy Scouts passed us, and after that a herd of pale, waddling freaks that was either a church group or a weight-loss camp.

I wanted to take off, leave the trail and go right to the edge and peek over. I wanted to find a place, a rock or something, where I could sit by myself and enjoy the view. So I complained to dad. “This is too crowded. I feel like I’m on a city sidewalk. Can’t we go to some other part of the canyon?”

“Stay on the trail, Kevin. Maybe for lunch we’ll go somewhere less crowded. I’ll have a look at those maps they gave us.”

He actually did look at them. I guess he was as sick of the tourist throng as I was. Finally he plopped the maps on the floor and announced that we would be traveling to bla bla lookout on bla bla road.

It turned out that we had to drive over two hours, because the place was on the other side of the canyon. Much of the drive was on a dusty washboard road, and then a narrow lane full of rocks. But when we got there it was worth it: we were the only people on an isolated, narrow peninsula with an incredible view of the canyon.

Dad parked and we all got out to stretch our legs. It felt great to escape the camper. The only one who stayed was Mr. Perkins. He refused to budge. We strolled down a little slope and out onto the finger of rock that stuck way out into space, with staggering drop-offs on either side. I gazed down at the tiny thread of the Colorado river, and could see hawks soaring far below. Mom scolded me for being too close to the edge, and made me go get the picnic supplies.

As I was getting the stuff from the camper I made one last attempt to rouse Mr. Perkins. “Come on, boy!” I slapped my knees. “Come on outside and pee!” He gave me that one-eyed look again. I left him alone.

We set ourselves up just like a family having a picnic in the comics: a red and white checkered cloth on the ground, a wicker basket like the one Dorothy carried Toto in, plates with pickles and things on them, and even a trail of hungry ants. Mom really knows how to do that Hallmark card kind of stuff. We munched and crunched and swallowed fizzy soda and rubbed sun screen on our pasty suburban foreheads. Then Dad got out his old camera and the tripod.

“I’m going to get one of all of us together,” he announced. “This is going to be a great picture.”

Betheny groaned. “Oh God, is this going to take about five hours, like all our other ‘spontaneous’ pictures?”

Dad ignored her, whistling tunelessly as he fumbled with the tripod. We continued eating. Of course Betheny was right, this was going to take a while. When he finally had the camera on the tripod and pointing in the right direction, he pressed a button and then came rushing over with a silly, excited look on his face. “Quick! Quick! Everybody smile!” I crossed my eyes and did my best Alfred E. Neuman. It’s hard to hold that pose for long, so after a while I let it go.

“Isn’t a little light supposed to blink or something?”

“Hmmm…” He got up and marched over to the camera and fiddled with it some more. I couldn’t really be upset with him. I was enjoying this moment too much. It was as if our little trip had finally become what it was supposed to be. I felt so peaceful and relaxed, munching on a kosher pickle spear, gazing out at the canyon. I was thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Dad came rushing back. “It’s working!” he shouted. “It’s blinking! Everybody smile!” He slid like A-Rod coming into second base and turned to the camera, wearing a big, hideous grin. But just as quickly the grin disappeared. “What’s that?”

We looked up the slope, beyond the camera. Something was appearing over the edge of the little rise. The WindCaptain was rolling towards us, its tires crunching in the rocky soil.

Dad jumped up. “Quick! Uh…” The camper crested the ridge and picked up speed. It was too late to try to jump in and step on the brake.

“Daddy!” screamed Betheny, but he was petrified like the rest of us. We couldn’t go forward- we’d just get run over. And to go backwards meant jumping off the cliff. At that final moment of truth, as the WindCaptain came barreling right down on top of us, I saw Mr. Perkins, hunched forward in the driver’s seat. I swear he had his paws on the steering wheel. His eyes blazed with pure, murderous bloodlust.

What happened next is a blur. Somehow I dodged or tripped or fell out of the way just as the giant RV rumbled by. And even more miraculously, mom and dad and even Betheny managed to get out of the way. How we did it without going over the edge on either side is a mystery- looking at that narrow peninsula afterwards, I just couldn’t believe there had been enough room for us to escape.

The camper hurtled off the cliff and turned slowly, end over end, until it smashed and tumbled against the rocks far below. There was no dramatic explosion, like in the movies, but the deafening impact echoed back and forth off the canyon walls. The picnic blanket was still laid out perfectly, as if nothing had happened. The RV had gone right over the top of it, leaving tire tracks on either side. The flies settled back down onto the cupcakes and soda cans.

Eventually we gathered our wits, and when it was confirmed that everyone was alright, we began swapping our different versions of what had just happened. I discovered that I was the only one who had seen Mr. Perkins at the wheel, and none of the others believed me. This did, however, have the effect of making Betheny get hysterical. “Boo hoo, poor little Perky,” and so on. Me and dad peeked over the edge at the wreckage way down below.

And that’s how Mr. Perkins bit the dust. What an exit, the dog from hell going out with a bang and almost taking us with him. At first the park officials were going to give dad a big fine: They said he was negligent in how he’d parked, that he hadn’t set the parking brake, etc. But with a little help from his overworked lawyer buddy they finally agreed that it was just a freak accident. Maybe the dog bumped into the brake release mechanism, or the previous repair job had been botched somehow. In any case, it was impossible to tell for sure- the rig was now just a scattered trail of mangled wreckage.

The park rangers did return a few thing to us: some clothes, a few books, pots and pans, a mysteriously intact bottle of catsup… They even found dad’s old camera. It was ruined, of course, but Mom was still able to get the last batch of pictures printed, and when they were ready she put most of them in our vacation photo album. But there was one she threw away, and it was only by dumb luck that I spotted it in the kitchen trash. It was a little bit stained with coffee grounds, but otherwise OK.

Of course I’m talking about the last picture, the one taken by the automatic timer. The colors alone are totally amazing. There we are, surrounded by all these rich earth tones: the golden-brown sandy soil, the deep orange of the canyon walls, the pale blue of the desert sky… And then there’s Betheny with her pink and yellow striped tank top, mom with her fuchsia pants, and dad with his neon green and orange Hawaiian shirt. I was the only one dressed normal.

But the best part is the expressions on our faces. The shutter must have clicked just at the exact moment that we saw the WindCaptain. We’re sitting there like the Brady Bunch, but our faces are all freaked-out. It’s like Norman Rockwell had painted everything but our expressions, and then Edvard Munch took over. Naturally I’ve saved this picture. I’ve even shown it to a few friends at school. You just can’t keep something that good to yourself.

And speaking of Betheny, she’s at it again. She has some of Mr. Perkins’ hair from an old doggie brush, and she’s put it in a Ziploc bag which she keeps waving in dad’s face. So far he’s stood his ground, but she’s getting a little more hysterical every time, and I think she’s wearing him down. The other day he even offered to buy her a pony, but Betheny just screeched louder. I think we’ll be making another visit to PetLab pretty soon.

Ike didn’t want to be bad. He dreamed of being a great hero some day, famous for acts of bravery and selfless virtue. But whenever he did something it always seemed to turn out bad and someone would have to punish him. He knew that he had a reputation, at the tender age of eight, as one of the worst kids in the school: he was always getting in trouble, always visiting the principal’s office. At home he seemed to be constantly incurring the wrath of one parent or the other, or in special cases, both of them.

It started so innocently. He was outside, on a damp fall day, playing with his GI Joe. This was the one with reddish “lifelike hair and beard”, but the hair had been worn off one spot on his head, and a corner of his chin. There were other battle scars too, but he was still holding together. Ike twisted the doll’s arms, legs and neck into different positions, then threw it as high as he could, straight up, and watched it come hurtling back to earth. He was trying to find the pose that best simulated how a man would really look, falling from the top of the world’s highest cliff.

He deftly caught the GI Joe most times. But once, when he threw it too close to the apple tree, it ricocheted off a branch and crashed onto the brick patio. He rushed over, picked up the doll and pulled the string in its back.

After a bit of static came the familiar, gravelly croak: “Fix bayonets!”
The mechanism was apparently OK. He pulled the string a few more times, just to make sure.

“Geronimo!”

“I need two volunteers!”

“Fix bayonets!”

“I’m going for more ammo.”

“Bazooka: fire!”

Ike was disappointed. He liked breaking things. Even though this was one of his favorite toys, he almost wished… He threw it as high as he could, this time making no effort to catch it as it plummeted to the patio with a resounding smack. He tried the string again.

“Bazooka: Fire!”

It seemed as if the people at Hasbro had anticipated this kind of treatment. He inspected the torso of the doll, and noticed there were four tiny screws in back. He went to look for a screwdriver.

As he walked through the house he passed the twins, Stacy and Sarah, who were on their way to swimming class. They weren’t identical. They didn’t even seem very much like sisters. Stacy was burly and bossy while Sarah was petite and mousy. Still, they were inseparable, especially around Ike. Stacy did most of the talking, while Sarah whispered periodically in her ear.

“I’m telling mom and dad I saw you trying to break your GI Joe,” said Stacy. Sarah whispered something to her. Stacy said, “I’m telling just mom.”

Ike leered. “Good, ‘cuz I’m gonna break your Barbies, too.”

The twins reply was a familiar, shrill chorus: “Mooommm!”

He continued back towards his dad’s workshop, behind the house. He heard the car pull out of the driveway a few minutes later and knew that his sisters’ pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Or at least on tired ears.

The workshop was a dusty, oily place. There were lots of sharp, heavy things to rummage through before you could find what you wanted. After trying several screwdrivers that were too big, he finally found a little one that was just right, and eventually removed the back panel from his talking GI Joe. Inside was a rather clunky and solid looking mechanism. It was just a pale plastic box, with very few moving parts visible. He frowned and stared at it. He’d expected to see a gleaming collection of springs and gears, maybe even a little record. This thing was so boring looking. He thought about taking it apart, but somehow the challenge was gone. If only he could make it say something new, something different. He was so sick of the same seven phrases.

He screwed the panel back on and tossed the GI Joe aside. Now it was time to explore his sisters’ room.

Even though he knew nobody was home, he very gingerly opened the door and peeked inside. Stacy’s bunk-bed, the one on top, was buried in a sea of toys, clothes, shoes and books. Sarah’s bed below looked like a flawless, frilly model bed from a furniture catalog. But this was not where the prize Ike sought would be found.

Although most of the girls’ toys found their way onto Stacy’s bed there were some they shared, such as the Barbie things. Barbie’s house was the real centerpiece of the room: it was a rambling mansion of crates and homemade odds and ends, built around the actual store-bought Barbie house with its perfect furniture and wall paper. Certain rooms were obviously off limits for one twin or the other: Ike marveled at the immaculate kitchen, right next to the chaotic living room.

The dolls themselves were scattered here and there except for three special ones who lay in their original boxes, arranged in a perfect row like little coffins: Barbie with lifelike growing hair, Barbie the disco queen, and of course, talking Barbie. He grabbed the talking one because he knew it was the most sacred. He peered into her painted blue eyes. Nobody home.

He saw some PlayDoh on one of the shelves. “What babies! Still using PlayDoh!”

He had an idea. He ran back to the shop, got his GI Joe, and returned.

He stripped both dolls and began to sculpt crude genitalia with the PlayDoh, so that it looked like GI Joe and Barbie were “doing it”. He put them on Barbie’s bed. This wasn’t quite right. He put them on her kitchen table. Much better.

As he gazed, beaming with pride at this little scenario, a thought began to tug at him. It could be, just maybe, that no one else would see the humor in his creative use of PlayDoh. Something about this particular gag made him think that perhaps he should call it off. Ike’s grasp of the finer points of polite behavior was tenuous at best, but somehow he knew that this harmless little prank could really blow up in his face if he went through with it.

He removed the Playdoh and cleaned up both dolls, wiping off the residue with the corner of Stacy’s bedsheet. Then, as he made ready to replace the Barbie in her perfect little box he absent-mindedly pulled her string.

“Let’s go down to the soda shop.”

Confused, Ike pulled it again.

“Ooh, isn’t Ken cute?”

He couldn’t believe it. Why did it say things like that? He pulled it once more.

“This is my new hairstyle.”

He shuddered, jammed the doll back into its box, and got up to leave the room. But then he stopped, turned around, and looked at the Barbie again. For a moment he just stood and stared at it. Then he picked it up and headed back to the shop.

When the girls got back from swimming they had that yucky wet hair smell. Ike had to put up with it all through dinner, since he sat next to Stacy. She smelled like a combination of wet dog, chlorine, and pee. Luckily they were having corn on the cob, and he was an expert at making it squirt when he bit. If you tilted your head just a little, and chomped down with the left side of your mouth, you could aim it pretty good.

Stacy wiped some corn juice from just below her ear. “Mooom! He did it again.”

“Ike, stop it.” said his mother.

“I can’t help it,” he answered.

“Just stop it.”

He did stop after one more direct hit. After all, something special was going to happen tonight. His mother eyed him suspiciously, wondering why he’d given up so easily.

That night he took his comic books into the TV room, next to the girls’ room. He leafed through the comics while his dad watched football. Ike kept peeking into the girls’ room to see if they were playing with their Barbies yet, but Stacy and Sarah were all wrapped up in their new Pipi Longstocking sticker set.

Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. “Hey girls, how come you never play Barbie any more?”

“We do. We did yesterday,” said Stacy. They stared at him until he sheepishly retreated, then rushed over to carefully inspect their inventory of Barbie stuff. It took some time, but eventually they relaxed, assured that nothing was missing or broken. But they still gave him the hairy eyeball for a while.

He paced and grumbled until bedtime, and when the girls turned out their lights he shuffled off, resigned.

The next day he again lurked near the girls’ room, but after dinner he got bored and went the shop to work on his Sherman tank model. He made a puddle of model glue on some newspaper and used a pin to apply it as he carefully attached the plastic parts. This one wasn’t too hard, if you followed the directions. He began to feel that familiar drowsiness that came whenever he worked on his models. Then, at about eight thirty, he heard a shriek. It was definitely Stacy. He tilted his ear and listened: some shouts, mumbled outrage, tears, and of course, as always,

“Mooommm!”

He wondered if it was just his imagination. Sometimes, after a couple hours of working with the model glue his mind could really wander. Then he heard more commotion and decided it was time to make himself scarce.

He slipped out the shop window just as his mother was coming, calling his name. He edged around the house until he could peek into the living room window.

His father sat in his easy chair, with the twins sobbing at his side. Stacy clutched the talking Barbie in an unusual way, at arm’s length, as if it were poison. She pulled the string.

“Fix bayonets!” growled Barbie in a gravelly voice.

She pulled the string again.

“Bazookas: fire!”

She threw the Barbie against the wall and screeched, “She’s broken forever!” and ran from the room, followed by Sarah, both of them in tears.

Ike watched his father retrieve the doll. He pulled the string. He smiled and pulled it again. He laughed, then looked around guiltily. That’s when he spied Ike through the window. With a sinister, beckoning finger he signaled him to come inside.

Ike was immediately compelled to return the proper mechanism into the Barbie. His sisters watched in fascination and fear as he worked with the screwdriver. Soon he had the doll back to normal.

Stacy pulled the string a few times to make sure. It was as good as new. Then she looked at Ike and asked, “Did you make it so GI Joe talked like Barbie, too?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Why would I go and do something stupid like that?”

The floor was not swept. Danny sat in an old wooden chair and stared at the tiles, watching a stray ball of lint. The sun streamed in through one of the big, curtainless windows in the corridor, warming his hands. A sparrow landed on the windowsill outside and hopped around, peering in through the glass.

Danny kept staring at the lint ball until a door opened at the end of the corridor and Nurse Chadwick came towards him, clip-clopping in her thick-heeled white shoes. A breeze blew the little lint ball away. Danny kept staring at the same spot on the floor.

“Ok now, Dummy, ok.” Nurse Chadwick pulled on his hands to help him up. She was a strong woman but still had trouble moving him. He was thin and not very tall but sometimes he seemed heavy as lead. “Up now, let’s go.” She tugged harder. Finally he leaned forward and stood up. “You already done your morning poop, huh?” She wrinkled her nose, then guided him very slowly down the hall, as he shuffled with tiny steps beside her.

When they finally got to the care station she changed his diaper. Then they made their way back down the hall and he was planted on the sofa with the others, in the sunny part of the day-room that looked out on the parking lot. Nurse Chadwick sat in the armchair next to the sofa, thumbing the remote control of the TV. She never knew what to watch at this time of day, talk shows or soaps or what. “Why the hell can’t we get cable?”

Sometimes she would listen to the radio instead. Or she would read any new magazines that were around. Or catch up on the newspaper. Other times she would give Danny a bath. She liked giving him baths. He was the cleanest one in the building.

The day passed quietly, as usual, until just after five when some unexpected visitors came by. Nurse Chadwick jumped up from the couch at the sound of tires crunching in the gravel. She peered out at the driveway: It was one of the white sedans. She relaxed a little but still went around straightening up here and there. A pile of magazines became a neat stack. The scattered newspapers were stuffed into the recycling bin. She heard a knock and the loud voice of Dr. Langham. “Hello, it’s me. Anybody home?”

She tucked a few stray strands of hair up under her cap and came out to greet him. “Hello, doctor, this is a surprise. What brings you out here today?”

“Well actually, it’s Mr. Haney. And here he is.” A second man came through the door. He was short, beefy and a little sour, very unlike rangy, smiley Dr. Langham. “Mr. Haney, meet Nurse Chadwick. She’s in charge of day-to-day operations out here.”

They shook hands. His was warm and damp.

“Hi”.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I’m going to show him around, if you don’t mind,” said Dr. Langham.

“Make yourselves at home, there’s sodas in the fridge. You want some sandwiches?”

“All right.”

Nurse Chadwick went to the kitchen while the two men went towards the TV room. They passed through a clean little hallway with bare, pale green walls, and entered a large, much brighter room. “I think they’re in here at this time of day. Yes, here they are.” He gestured to the four young people sitting on the couch.

They were packed in a tight row, their arms jammed in at their sides or sprawled awkwardly across their knees. Each of them was looking in a different direction- at the floor, out the window, at the wall- and never taking their eyes off that one spot. They were nearly motionless.

“Do they sit there all day?” asked Mr. Haney.

“No, they have a variety of activities. There’s a daily schedule that includes some exercise.”

“You mean they can move? On their own?”

“Yes.”

“But how? I thought they had no brains. How can they do anything?”

Dr. Langham walked over to the couch and stood over them, his hands in his pockets. “Well, they actually have some brain tissue, but only just enough to control the vital functions and so on. If you help them to their feet, they can stand, and if you gently pull them along, they can walk. Twice a day we put them on a little treadmill, and they walk for about half a mile.”

The two men stood in front of the couch. Amy, puffy and pale, was the oldest of the group at nineteen. Beside her sat Michael, nine years old, and Cindy, six. At the end was Danny, eighteen, with tired brown eyes and a touch of acne.

“So they’re just like babies, but it’s permanent,” observed Mr. Haney.

“No, I wouldn’t put it that way, except for the ‘permanent’ part.” Dr. Langham reached out and waved his hand in front of Michael’s face. Michael kept staring at the same spot of carpet. “A baby would follow my hand with his eyes and maybe even reach for it. And babies cry when they’re hungry. These specimens are totally mute.”

“But they’re all wearing diapers, right?”

“True.”

“And they eat baby food, right?”

Dr. Langham laughed. “Yeah, you’ve got me there.”

Mr. Haney walked slowly in front of the group, peering into
each one’s face, like he was trying to read a clock in the dark. He wore a cramped expression, not even attempting to conceal his revulsion. “God, I thought this was going to be kind of like going to the zoo. This one must be mine.”

“Him, yes. His name’s Danny, but everyone calls him Dummy.”

“Dummy? Why’s that?” Mr. Haney grinned, showing tiny, crepuscular teeth. “All of them are dummies, aren’t they?” He motioned at the entire group. “Isn’t that the idea?”

“Sure, but his nickname comes from when he was little. We had a Nurse here who liked to sew her own clothes. She had a mannequin that she used, a dummy, and Danny here used to stare at it all the time.” Dr. Langham chuckled a little in his throat, trying too hard to be light and breezy.

“He stared at it? Why’s that?”

“Just one of those things, I guess.” He ruffled Danny’s hair. “Probably just coincidence. We can go back to calling him Danny if you prefer.”

“Nah.” Mr. Haney reached down and flipped through the stack of magazines on the table. “Newsweek, Cosmo… Who reads these?”

Dr. Langham ran his fingers through the stringy hair at his temple. “Oh, I guess the nurses wanted a homey touch, you know? We let them have a little freedom to make the place their own. Little home-makers.”

“More like vegetable gardeners.” He looked at the subjects. Amy was leaning awkwardly, jammed up against the sofa’s arm. “Ever have a male nurse in this place?”

“No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Probably best not to. Let’s go to the kitchen and get some sodas. Smells like shit in here.” He jangled his keys in his pocket as they walked down the hallway. “So, when will he be ready?”

“Danny? In about eighteen months, give or take a few.”

“Good. Sooner the better.” He coughed deeply as he fished out his cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“No thanks. Quit years ago.”

“Wish I could. Would save a hell of a lot of money.”

They sat out on the porch with their sodas, talking business while Mr. Haney smoked. Nurse Chadwick brought out some sandwiches. A squirrel dug in the tulip bed. A windchime of tubular bells rang softly. The sun began to set, filtering through the oak tree. Finally they got back in the big white car and drove away.

She was making the kids’ dinner when she saw them go. They’d left without saying good-bye. “Too much trouble to be civil, I guess.”

She put the blender on high, and as it screamed she fed it a banana and some protein powder. Dinner was her least favorite meal of the day. She just had less patience by then and was more likely to give up and feed them all with tubes.

She was continually amazed at how exhausted she felt. It didn’t make sense. Her previous job at the hospital had been for longer hours and involved heavy lifting, moving patients from one bed to another and so on. But at that job she had never felt this tired, not even after an especially long day. It was tough work at the hospital, and much harder on her feet, but not nearly as draining as her current position. Somehow it was more exhausting to watch the clock hands crawl around the dial.

Or maybe the emotional stress was to blame. It wasn’t easy to understand these shells of people, to care for them. She’d worked with all kinds of cases at the hospital, and even those in comas seemed more real to her than her current patients. She’d had a connection, a bond, with even the most profoundly disabled people at her old job. But here, with these brainless kids, there was no connection at all. None. She didn’t sense any life in them, no presence of any kind. They didn’t have any personal histories, or families, or loved ones. They were like machines of meat and blood. On some days when she was especially tired she imagined herself taking care of four ghosts, lost souls who couldn’t find their graves.

She didn’t use the feeding tube this time. Slowly and patiently she spooned the sweet paste into each of their mouths, taking turns, while watching TV over her shoulder. Much of the food wasn’t swallowed and ended up on their bibs, but it didn’t matter.

When the other three were put to bed, she decided to give Danny a bath. “Come on, that’s right…” She gently led him down the hall to the bathroom.

She undressed him and eased him into the tub. His gangly arms and legs were very pale and soft. As the tub slowly filled she rubbed a bar of soap across his arms, his neck, his chest, his stomach… It was soothing, relaxing. The water was warm and inviting. Why waste it? She undressed and climbed into the tub with him.

A few weeks later Nurse Chadwick’s sister came to visit at the clinic. She brought her kids, aged four and seven, and left them in the living room with their coloring books while the sisters had wine coolers in the dining room.

Danny stared as the older girl colored. It was a book of unicorn adventures, full of flowers and rainbows. She held it up periodically for him to look at. “See? Do you like it?” When he didn’t answer she just kept on going, singing a little song to herself. Her younger sister, meanwhile, was scribbling madly in a sea-creatures coloring book, racing to keep up.

Later on Nurse Chadwick and her guests went to have a picnic down by the little pond. No one was left in the house but the four patients. Michael and Cindy sat on the sofa that faced the front window, while Danny and Amy sat at the table.

A game show came on the TV, and for a half hour the contestants spun the wheel between commercials. This was followed by an afternoon talk show. Danny was still staring at the spot in front of the TV where the girls had been coloring. They’d taken their books and the basket of crayons, but there was one forgotten brown crayon on the carpet. Danny kept staring at it. For over two hours he stared at it.

Then, as if pushed from behind, he leaned forward. He tried to stand up, but twice he fell back onto the chair. On the third try he finally made it to his feet. He stood there for a long time, slowly rocking back and forth, just on the verge of falling. He took a tiny step. Then he took another.

He walked towards the television, his eyes on the brown crayon. Eventually he was standing over it.

He tried to reach it without bending. He slowly crouched and reached again. His balance was now completely lost. He tumbled forward onto the carpet, landing awkwardly. He lay on his side, one arm pinned beneath him. The sunshine through the window was warm against his cheek. He stared at the TV cable that ran along the edge of the floor molding. He lay there for a few minutes, then very gradually raised himself to his hands and knees. In front of him was the brown crayon. He reached out and picked it up.

Slowly, painfully, he got up and shuffled back to his seat. He sat down again, clutching the crayon, staring at nothing until Nurse Chadwick came that evening to give them a late supper. He held the crayon tight in his fist all the way through mealtime and until he was put to bed. Even when she was changing him into his pajamas, she didn’t notice that he was holding something. Why would he be? She turned out the light and left the room.

It wasn’t completely dark. Danny lay on his side, looking at the pale trapezoid that was there on the wall every night, cast through the window by a neighbor’s garage light. Occasionally a car would sigh past out on the street, its headlights sending bright daggers racing across the wall.

He lay there for over an hour, staring, rarely blinking. Then, slowly, ever so gradually, he began to move his feet to the floor. He pushed himself up an inch at a time until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. When he was finally sitting up straight, he reached out and without any hesitation began to draw on the wall with the brown crayon.

The next morning Nurse Chadwick came in to wake them at the usual time. She was leaning over Amy’s bed, gently shaking her by the shoulder, when she saw the drawing. Her breath stopped in her throat and her eyes opened wide. On the wall was a meticulously detailed, very realistic nude figure drawing of none other than Nurse Chadwick.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and began whispering, “No way… no way…” When she’d caught her breath, she went to look more closely. It was a remarkable piece of work, shaded only a little bit here and there, yet portraying a very full and rounded figure. The lines of her face and body were rendered with exquisite sensitivity. It was an unnervingly honest portrait, showing all the awkward proportions of her body. It wasn’t exactly flattering, and yet it was beautiful.

She went to get the cleaning supplies. She burst into the kitchen and rattled around under the sink until she’d gathered up several cleaners and a scouring pad.

Walking back through the living room, her finger already on the trigger of a spray bottle, she almost tripped when she saw the white company car in the driveway.

She muttered a curse as she marched down the hall. How long had the car been there? She hadn’t heard it drive up. Was it Dr. Langham? She groaned when she heard his voice coming from the bedroom.

“Oh ho, what have we here?”

She came through the door without looking at him and headed straight for the drawing. “Sorry doctor. I just discovered it myself. I’ll just…”

He stopped her as she raised the spray bottle. “Wait a minute. Who drew this?”

She turned and stared out the window. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Langham was looking down at Danny, who lay on his side staring at nothing. His eyes looked even more tired than usual. Danny’s eyes bothered Dr. Langham. Even as a little boy, his eyes had always looked weary, like an old man’s.

“What’s that you got there, sport?” He gently tried to pry open the fingers of Danny’s right hand. It wasn’t easy- he had the limp, soft muscles typical of most subjects, but he managed to grip with surprising strength. Finally he pried the fist open and removed the brown crayon.

It was worn down to a half inch nub, and the warmth of Danny’s hand had made it soft and sticky. “It’s the same color,” he said. “This is absurd. Is this a practical joke?”

“I certainly hope not,” said Nurse Chadwick. “Or, I mean, I hope so… or…”

He looked at Danny. Then he looked at the drawing. Then he looked Nurse Chadwick up and down and he blushed. She looked away while he looked back at Danny. There was an uncomfortable silence. The elm tree outside the window rustled in the breeze.

He walked over and stood in front of Danny. “Give me a hand.” He pulled one arm while she pulled the other and they helped him to sit up. They coaxed him to his feet and led him slowly into the hall. “Where are the crayons?”

“In the pantry. What are you doing?”

He sat Danny at the dining room table. Then he went to fetch the crayons, which were easy to find. Paper to draw on was not so easy to find. He had to go out to his car to get some blank stationary from his briefcase.

Meanwhile, Nurse Chadwick had been spraying at the drawing on the wall and scrubbing it away. The crayon smeared when she wiped, but she kept at it. When the wall was finally spotless, without a trace of the drawing remaining, she gathered the cleaning supplies and headed back towards the kitchen. She stopped and stared when she passed the dining room table. There was Danny, a fresh brown crayon in his hand, drawing while Dr. Langham held down the paper. “Do you have anything bigger for him to draw on? He keeps going off the edge.”

She came closer to see what he was drawing. It was a portrait of Dr. Langham, an absolutely unmistakable likeness, even though much of it was unfinished. In fact, he hadn’t even drawn the hair, and had only just started one of the eyes. He drew steadily, at a slow, constant rate, almost like a machine, while his eyes stared blankly at the paper. A thin stream of drool dangled from his slack-jawed lower lip. She wiped it before it could fall on the drawing.

“He’s not even looking at you.”

“Hello, some bigger paper please? And also some tape, to hold it down.”

She hustled off to the kitchen and rattled through a few drawers. When she returned she had tape but no paper, so Dr. Langham placed six pieces of stationary side by side and taped them down on the table. By now Danny was done with the portrait and was sitting absolutely still, the crayon loose in his hand.

“All right, champ. There’s some fresh paper.”

They waited but he didn’t move. Nurse Chadwick wondered if he would draw her naked again. The clock ticked steadily on the wall, as the first cicadas of the morning began to drone outside. Then, finally, he began to draw again.

He started with a big rectangle, with shapes inside it. As the drawing emerged, it became clear that it was the big window in the living room, and the cars outside, and the trees, and the fence. Even though he had just started, all of the objects were beginning to take shape, in startling, graceful detail. As he drew, the doctor and nurse stared in silence. He was barely even looking at the paper, and his back was to the window. The cars in the drawing weren’t out there on this morning, either. He was drawing from memory.

“Look, it’s Beth’s Volkswagen,” said Nurse Chadwick. “He even drew the bent license plate.”

“Yeah. It hasn’t been there in ages. How can he remember exactly what it looks like?”

“Maybe he’s a savant?”

“Elena…” He called her by her first name when she tried his patience. “He’s not a savant.”

“Well… What is he then, a genius?”

He didn’t answer, watching as the drawing progressed. The cedar post fence, the lilac bush, the sickly elm tree… It was all there, even the drip irrigation hose snaking through the flower bed. Although Danny’s hand seemed to be moving very slowly, he’d managed to render a nearly complete landscape in a very short time. He even included the oily patch of gravel where the gardener parked his leaky truck.

“This is something. This is really special. I’m going to call the newspaper and the TV station. Are you ready to be famous, Nurse Chadwick?”

“Me? It’s him that’s going to be famous.”

“Yes, but you were his first subject.” He was smiling with his eyes as he spoke. “You were his inspiration.”

She fixed him with her stare, like a bug on a pin. “That drawing,” she said quietly, “no longer exists.”

“What? You didn’t…”

“I cleaned it off.”

He shook his head. “Well, that was rash. What if it had been the only one he ever drew?”

“Too bad.”

He picked up the portrait. “Good thing he’s so prolific. I just hope he can do it on camera, in front of witnesses.”

She twisted her mouth around. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Calling reporters and everything? After all, Dummy is, well, he’s not ours.”

“This is news. It’s our duty to report it. Look at that, he’s konked-out.”

He had fallen asleep in the chair. His hands were limp in his lap, palms upward. The brown crayon had dropped to the floor. His head was tilted a little forward, a little to the side. He looked like a very tired old man in a boy’s body.

“You’d better let him rest,” she said. “I don’t think he got much sleep last night.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

She helped Danny back into bed. He slept until past lunchtime. At about two she came and woke him and led him to the dining room table. Dr. Langham was sitting with a local TV reporter, Brenk Farnkstroy. She recognized him right away. It was hard to mistake him for anyone else, with his sleek black hair and long silver sideburns.

“Here he is, the man of the hour,” said Dr. Langham.

“The lobotomized Leonardo,” said Farnkstroy.

“No, no sir, not lobotomized. He was born this way.”

“Engineered that way?”

“That’s right.”

“I get it,” said Farnkstroy. “Making regular clones, that was wrong. Clones are people too, right? But if you engineer a clone without a brain, then it’s not really a ‘person’ any more, is it? And you no longer have the sticky, moral issues. Isn’t that the rationale here?”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t comment on that issue. I just want you to watch him draw. Miss Chadwick, could you please sit him down in the same place he was this morning?”

She led Danny to the dining room table, where a big piece of fine artist’s paper was already taped down. She held him by the elbows and slowly lowered him into the chair. She picked up a brown crayon from the table and put it in his hand.

Farnkstroy came over to see what would happen. Dr. Langham remained seated, trying not to look nervous.

After putting the crayon in Danny’s hand she noticed that he wasn’t really holding it at all. She tried squeezing his hand around it tighter, but his fingers were limp. “It’s no use. He just doesn’t want to draw right now.”

Farnkstroy gave a sideways smile. “Well, I guess I won’t interrupt Tony’s cigarette…” He gestured toward his cameraman, a hirsute youth in artfully torn jeans, lounging out on the porch.

Dr. Langham got up and came over to Danny’s side. “Let me try something.” He took the crayon out of his hand and put it down in the middle of the paper. “Just wait a little while.”

After about a minute their patience was rewarded. He slowly leaned forward, until his hand was on the crayon. As soon as he had it he was drawing, at that same, steady pace.

“This is going to take all night,” said Farnkstroy. “Sure doesn’t look like much so far.”

“Wait and see,” said Dr. Langham. “It’ll be done before you know it. You’d better get Tony.”

When he came back with his cameraman, Farnkstroy stared at the drawing. “Hey, that’s… Is that me?”

“Sure looks like you, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it look like him?”

“Yes, Doctor.” She had moved to the couch and was watching TV with the sound off.

Tony turned on the camera’s spotlight. It was so bright that Dr. Langham was worried it might spook Danny, but he just kept on drawing. Tony knelt to get a close up of his face with the lens only a foot away. Danny wore his usual expression: blank, tired eyes, dangling lower jaw, head slightly wobbling like a bucket on a stick.

The drawing was of Farnkstroy, anyone could see that, even though the face hadn’t even been halfway hinted at. It was a full figure study of him sitting in the armchair with his legs crossed, just as he’d been when Danny first shuffled into the room.

“This is impossible. He barely looked at me when he came in here. And see that? His eyes aren’t even on the crayon.”

“That’s how he always does it.”

“This is ridiculous.” He sat back and looked at Dr. Langham. “This young man is obviously a highly trained artist. Do you think I’m a complete rube?”

“I swear to you, it’s like I said. He has practically no brain. We discovered his talent by accident.”

Farnkstroy looked down at the picture. It was nearly done, except for a few details. “Get a good shot of the finished drawing, Tony. We’re out of here.” He picked up his coat from the couch and turned to Dr. Langham as he put it on. “Great story. Too bad it’s… I just don’t believe this guy is who you say. I’m not implying…”

Dr. Langham laughed. “I know it’s pretty weird. I should have anticipated your reaction. I mean, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe it either.”

Tony turned off the camera and began packing it away.

Dr. Langham put his palms together. “Here’s an idea- you bring in an expert, anyone you want. Have them test Dummy. I mean Danny. You can even take him to get a brain scan, an MRI…”

“Well… I’ll have to do that, I guess. And then he’ll have to do a drawing right there on the spot, after we’ve tested him.”

“No problem.”

The next day they all took a trip down to Sutton Hospital to get Danny a CAT scan. He was placed on a narrow slab and sent slowly into a massive, tubular structure.

Behind the glass in the control booth the technician moved the slab back and forth, checking and rechecking, unable to come to grips with what he was seeing. He couldn’t stifle his amazement. “This is incredible… He has only the most basic vestiges of a brain stem, the brain itself is almost non-existent. His skull is full of fluid and fatty tissue. Who did the design on this clone?”

“There’s a team of South Koreans and Germans who do most of the work,” said Dr. Langham. “But the design specs are done at MIT and Johns Hopkins.”

“Very impressive.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the monitor as he nudged the slab in and out. “Yes… I see now how they left only the most essential parts…”

While this was going on, Brenk Farnkstroy stood in the booth, silently peering over the technician’s shoulder. Even his untrained eye could see on the screen that there wasn’t much inside Danny’s skull. Finally he’d seen enough. “OK, gang. I’m convinced he has no brain. Or mostly no brain. Now let’s see him draw again. And don’t try to pull any switch, I’m not taking my eyes off this guy.”

Dr. Langham laughed. “All right, whatever you want.”

They stood him up and escorted him down the hall. They had to wait while he walked, shuffling along in tiny steps like a 99 year-old man. Farnkstroy hated doing segments in hospitals. They all had that nauseating, undefinable smell.

They went into an office. Dr. Langham got out a piece of paper and taped it to the table. He put a brown crayon on the paper. Then they waited.

Eventually, like a tortoise emerging from its shell, Danny reached out and grabbed the crayon. His hand moved with a regular, constant motion, and a picture began to emerge: several trees, a parking lot, a man with a leaf blower… Some of the hospital staff gathered around to watch. He drew a motorcycle and a few cars. Some of his audience had no idea who Danny was but they were as riveted as the others. The lab technician came over briefly to look at the drawing, then returned to his monitor to have another look at the brain scan.

When Danny was done, he stopped drawing. He didn’t let go of the crayon, or take it off the paper. He simply stopped, like a machine with its plug pulled. Dr. Langham gently took the crayon. “Well, what do you think? Now are you a believer?”

“Yes I am. Did you get all that, Tony?”

Tony nodded, smacking his gum as he put on the lens cap.

Farnkstroy turned back to Langham. “Doctor, I’m sorry I doubted you.” They shook hands. “This is a great story, a real jaw-dropper. We’re going to rush back to the studio now, and edit the footage for tomorrow’s newscast.”

“That’s super…” He couldn’t stop shaking hands. “Tomorrow at six o’clock?”

“That’s right.”

“Great, just great.”

The next day he sat with Nurse Chadwick to watch the news. The top stories of the day went by: a scandal-mongering politician, a tornado, a factory closing… then weather and sports.

“Are you sure it’s the right channel?”

“Of course I’m sure.” He jabbed at the remote with his thumb, raising the volume. “You saw Brenk Farnkstroy on the screen, didn’t you?”

“Well, excuse me, I just wondered if…”

“Wait, this is it.” A close up of one of Danny’s drawings appeared, with a voice-over:

“We’ve all heard of brainless clones,” said Farnkstroy, as the camera zoomed in on Danny’s blank, placid face, “…but did you ever see one that could draw like Michelangelo? Meet Danny, also known affectionately as ‘Dummy’. He’s a custom clone at a local clinic, and he’s suddenly started showing a real talent for art.”

The camera cut back and forth from Danny’s face to the drawing, and then it was over. Farnkstroy, the weather lady and the sports guy were all together in the studio.

“Well, that kid sure can draw,” said the weather lady, smiling through her shiny, pale lipstick.

“Yes, he’s got an amazing talent,” said Farnkstroy.

“Wish I could draw like that,” said the sports guy. “All I can do is little stick people.”

They shared the customary fake laugh and Farnkstroy said “That’s all for tonight. Have a pleasant tomorrow.” Then a truck commercial came on.

Nurse Chadwick looked at Dr. Langham. She was going to say something, but she just giggled. He glared at her.

“Sorry doctor, but with your jaw hanging open just now you looked like Dummy for a second.”

“Thank you,” he said. “If I appear stupefied, it’s because I just, I just…”

“What did you expect, an hour-long special? These people have a news show to run.”

He tried to keep his voice steady. “And this isn’t news?”

“Well, I thought they did a good job, really. And thank God they didn’t show me on camera.”

“So this story,” he said, “… is the kind that belongs at the end of the news, like a pie eating contest? Is that what you think?”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were so interested in art.”

“Elena…” He took a deep breath. “That’s not the point. That’s not it at all. Don’t you get it? He has no brain. Or supposedly no brain. He shouldn’t be able to… This means… Oh forget it, I don’t even know what world I’m living in.”

She watched silently as he rose from his chair and left the room.

The next day she got two phone calls from art galleries and one from a museum. She passed these messages along later in the afternoon.

He went to the kitchen and called all three numbers. One of the galleries was still open, and the proprietor was eager to come over and see Danny in action. “How about tonight?” he asked. “I was just about to have him do his daily drawing when I got your message. So you’ll come right over? Great. See you soon.”

The lady from the gallery pulled up in a tiny little car festooned with dozens of bumper stickers, all about saving this and fighting that. She was a big woman, very wide and solid. She had to turn sideways as she came through the front door. Her clothes looked like something a Peruvian highlander might wear. “I finally found the place,” she said in a voice somewhere between a wheeze and a mutter. She looked around at everything but Dr. Langham.

He offered her a seat at the table. He usually pulled out a chair for a lady, but in this case he thought it might be better to play it safe and let her decide how to sit. Perhaps she would put two chairs together, that would be most prudent. He tried not to wince as she lowered herself onto a single, suddenly very spindly-looking dining room chair. It creaked a little but held up.

Danny was already at the table. “OK, here we go,” said Dr. Langham as he put the crayon down on the paper. They waited for a minute or two, passing the time with idle chitchat. Five more minutes went by. He was running out of things to say. He didn’t feel very comfortable, trying to talk to this woman who seemed not to like him very much. He picked up the crayon and put it down again in a different spot. Then he talked about the weather for a little while.

Finally Danny reached forward and picked up the crayon, drawing immediately.

“See how he’s not even looking?”

“Mm-hm,” The gallery lady’s eyes were on the drawing. Something began to take shape, a big, chunky cement picnic table with thick benches, like you might find at a public park. There was tall grass growing next to it, and an empty potato chip bag on the ground near a trash can. All this was clearly discernible already, even though he’d only drawn a few lines.

“I think that’s from a park that the subjects are taken to sometimes. He draws everything from memory. Isn’t that remarkable?”

The woman frowned as she peered at the drawing. “Have you tried giving him conté crayons?”

“County crayons?”

“Never mind.” She watched as Danny drew. When he was done he had created an entire landscape with the picnic table as the centerpiece. In the background were two children squabbling over a hula hoop. A dog lay on its side. The weather was gray but pleasant, the air damp. The grass smelled fresh, from a recent mowing…

She tore her eyes away from the drawing and looked up at Dr. Langham. “I think I might be able to sell this gentleman’s work.”

He gave her three drawings. They sold in less than two days, and other galleries became interested. There was also the museum, which had initially wanted Danny just as a subject of study for their “Special Needs” program, but was now eager to purchase his work for their permanent collection.

As the weeks went by he continued to do one drawing a day. The growing demand sent the prices climbing. His work was now gathering the attention of some prominent galleries in New York and San Francisco. In fact, his gift was being so widely hailed in the art world that it was beginning to make Dr. Langham nervous. “Look at this letter,” he said to Nurse Chadwick one afternoon as they sipped coffee. “Some guy in Italy wants us to sell him one of Dummy’s drawings for twenty thousand dollars. He’ll take anything, sight unseen. Can you imagine?”

“Well, isn’t that what you wanted?”

As Danny’s fame spread he eventually caught the attention of the mainstream press. They all seemed to come at once, just after the article in Art News. His picture was on the cover, a dim silhouette. He looked pensive and soulful. Dr. Langham had it framed and hung in the hallway by the bookshelves figuring that this would be the pinnacle of Danny’s fame. Less than a week later he was fending off reporters from all the major news outlets.

Finally it was agreed that there would be a news conference. Danny was led into a silvery skyscraper and elevated to the 42nd floor. He was seated at the head of a vast, gleaming oak table in a room full of sweaty press people. At the appointed time he drew an old lady sitting on a park bench, and some pigeons that looked as if they might fly away at any moment. Flashbulbs popped and cameramen jostled one another, but he just kept on drawing. Footage went on the national evening news, columns appeared in the newspapers, and museums from around the world began calling. Dr. Langham had to hire a temp to answer the phone. He also had to hire a couple of security guards to keep the reporters out. They’d been coming right into the home, without even knocking.

Around this time Mr. Haney’s lungs got worse. The doctors had warned him to stop smoking, but he’d ignored them. Now he was hooked up to a bunch of tubes in a hospital.

He’d been mostly unaware of his clone’s celebrity. All he knew was what he’d heard from Nurse Chadwick, the one time she’d called him (at home) with the breathless news that his clone had done a drawing with a crayon. He’d feigned interest and promised to keep in touch with her for updates on Danny’s progress, and then he’d cut her a little short, pretending there was someone at the door. He didn’t like being rude, but this nurse, she seemed a little flaky. And he didn’t like not knowing how she’d gotten his phone number.

Now, lying on his back in a hospital bed, a machine doing his breathing for him, Mr. Haney could see Danny up on the television. He heard all about how amazing it was that he was doing those drawings.

The next day Dr. Langham sat at his bedside, along with Kitteridge, Mr. Haney’s lawyer. Kitteridge had arid blue eyes, and his flat, lifeless gaze unnerved Dr. Langham as he tried to explain the situation.

“You see, with the money we’re getting from Dummy’s, I mean Danny’s drawings we could expand our program, and…”

Mr. Haney typed something on his keyboard. Dr. Langham leaned over to read it on the monitor. Kitteridge glanced over too.

Dr. Langham squinted. “Could you make the letters bigger? I can’t see…”

Haney scooted his mouse around and the letters got much bigger: “PLEASE MAY I HAVE A CIGARETTE?”

“No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Dr. Langham with a little laugh.

Haney typed something else: “THAT MONEY IS MINE, NOT YOURS.”

“Ah, well…” Dr. Langham laughed again.

Haney frowned back at him, not easy to do with all those tubes in his face. For a few moments the only sound in the room was the pneumatic puffing of Mr. Haney’s mechanical respirator.

Dr. Langham nodded. “All right, that’s fair. Your clone, after all. So I suppose some of the money…”

“ALL THE MONEY,” typed Haney.

“Well, I’ve been the one doing all the work. If not for me, there wouldn’t…”

“ALL THE MONEY,” typed Haney, “AND HIS LUNGS.”

Dr. Langham laughed. Haney frowned. Kitteridge stared straight ahead like a stuffed frog.

Dr. Langham leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Now look, Mr. Haney, from the money he’s made so far you could buy some lungs, maybe even a perfect match, or close to perfect. And you’d still have a steady source of income. You see, every day he…”

“GO AWAY” typed Haney.

Kitteridge popped up like a cork and motioned in a curt, elegant wave toward the door. Dr. Langham stood, smiling, hesitating. Then he nodded at Haney and walked out.

The next day Danny was taken to the hospital. His lungs were removed and transplanted into Mr. Haney. At first it was thought that Danny might still be too young, but his lungs fit perfectly. His eyes, liver and other organs were frozen for safekeeping, and his blood was used to give Mr. Haney a fresh change. The operation was a complete success.

Within three weeks Haney was out of the hospital. His stitches were still a little sore, but aside from that he felt no pain. His employees threw him a little welcome back party, complete with pointy hats and a cake shaped like the patient in the “Operation” game for kids.

“It’s like I’m decades younger.” He grinned and blew smoke over the balcony that overlooked the company grounds. His assistants milled around nearby. “God, this cigarette tastes fantastic. You should all get clones.”

“Aren’t they expensive?”

He waved his hand. “Value is a relative thing.”

“Didn’t yours do drawings, or something? Wasn’t he, like, the guy on the news?”

“Yes, that’s right, and you know it’s not really that strange. It’s a brainless activity, so why not him? Art is for anyone to do these days.” He tossed his cigarette butt over the railing. “And you know, since he had my genes, that talent must be part of my natural recipe. So I’ve been trying it out.”

“And how are the results?”

Haney shuddered as he thought about the sketch pad in the garage, and the awkward, stiff drawings inside it. He wasn’t going to touch that thing again. “Not bad, not bad at all. But it’s such a boring hobby.”

They all had a laugh and Haney lit another cigarette.

                                                                                                                                                                                         
       A drop of sweat dangled for a moment from Brian’s nose, then landed with a little plop on the pale blue test booklet. He didn’t notice. His mind was a raging whirl of worries, distractions and small panics. He was sitting very still, waiting for the announcement.

The prim librarian, in her spotless white blouse, minced up to the podium. She smiled sweetly, presenting her sunny attitude as an example to the rows of grim faces turned towards her. She looked like a dainty little doll, standing behind the huge, heavy oak podium. “Okay, everybody ready? You should have part one, science, in front of you. When I get to zero, open your test books and begin. Five, four, three, two, one, zero.”

The sound of hundreds of turning pages briefly filled the room, as if a strong breeze had passed through. Monitors began their sinister strolls between the desks: silent, stealthy, stalking. Cheating was impossible.
Brian began to sweat even more. His entire face and both hands were damp. He could tell just by glancing at the first three questions that he was in trouble, so he decided to skip along until he got to an easy one. He passed, skipped, jumped and squirmed all the way to the end of section one, able to answer only three of the thirty nine questions. His panic rose another notch.

He went back to the beginning and took a deep breath. “Okay, just relax. Time to start weeding out the obviously wrong answers. Here we go.”

On the first few questions he couldn’t eliminate any of the choices, so he picked them at random and carefully filled in the ovals on the answer sheet. He looked at the lonely little dots that he’d made so far, surrounded by legions of empty, mocking ovals. Brian saw himself in a sinking canoe on the Amazon, and the ovals were the eyes of hungry piranhas peering up at him through the water.

He looked at the clock. Six minutes left on this section, and he still had thirty questions to go. He tried to read the next one. His pencil trembled in his hand. “They can’t do this to me.” His eyes drifted off the paper. “My future shouldn’t hang on one test. All these words look like Russian or something…” He moved down the page, agonizing over the questions he thought he should know, only to guess wildly. When he did fill in an oval, he felt as if he were making a mistake, and his arm wanted to pull away from the paper. He was going on only the haziest of hunches. Every impulse was contradicted by an equal and opposite one. He squirmed against his little desk, squeezed in like a sardine.

He glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He looked down at the answer sheet. Twenty spaces left. He started to fill them in at random, without even reading the questions. He broke his pencil point twice, and tore the paper a little when he tried to blacken an oval where his sweat had dripped.

“Okay, stop now,” said the perky librarian. Her amplified voice was like a spike heel in Brian’s ear. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? Only eight more sections to go! Get ready for section two. Five, four, three, two, one, begin.”

Brian stared at the librarian as everyone else opened section two. She beamed benevolently at the throng. She was so pretty and unaffected by it all. She wore a little brooch on her a collar, a golden sun with a smiley face. Brian wanted desperately to strangle her.

He turned his attention back to the booklet, and saw that section two was math. He looked down at the questions, squinting. “What is this? I’m sure I’ve never seen some of these symbols…” He cursed himself and the various study guides he’d pored over for the previous two weeks. He was not nearly as prepared as he’d hoped. After filling a couple pages with wild, meandering calculations, he managed to make vague guesses at about one third of the questions. Then, with time running out, he blackened the remaining ovals at random.

The next section was vocabulary. The words all seemed fleetingly familiar but the answers remained utterly elusive. By the time this section was done Brian was in bad shape. His body trembled and jerked spasmodically. His eyes darted around the room. His hair and skin dripped with perspiration. All his dreams were being torn apart like wet Kleenex. Each new section of the test took another piece out of him.

It was all too familiar. The upset stomach, the artificial light, the hushed, stuffy room… All his life Brian had hated school, felt trapped like a gerbil in a cage. There was always someone trying to tell him something incomprehensible, some absurd piece of forgotten history, or a preposterously useless mathematical formula. He thought back, without wanting to, remembering that awful day in English last year.

Mr. Blount was a short but exceedingly burly man, who also coached the football team. The team usually won district but the rest of the school had to pay, suffering through Mr. Blount’s idea of English class. It was the day they were reviewing ‘Macbeth’ that Brian remembered so vividly now. There hadn’t been a specific event that stood out that day, and any insult that Mr. Blount may have tossed Brian’s way wasn’t any more memorable than usual, but there was something about that class: Listening to that runty Cro-Magnon ramble on about Shakespeare, while pacing back and forth, punching the air like he was giving a halftime pep-talk… That memory had come to symbolize something in Brian’s mind, something awful and true about the nature of school.

The next section was math again. Brian shook himself back into the present just in time to discover that he was even more lost. He couldn’t begin to guess at a single question. With his face in his hands he tried to take deep breaths. Then, through his fingers, he saw Frothy outside the window.

He was looking right at Brian and wagging his tail. He had a stick in his mouth. “Frothy? Here? He must have jumped the fence…” Brian gazed longingly at the dirty white dog outside the window, the only living creature he could call his friend. “He shouldn’t be running around. He might get hit by a car.” He gestured frantically at the dog, mouthing the words “go home”. This drew the attention of the unsmiling aisle patrollers. He looked back down at the test.

This was all too much. He was tempted to get up and walk out, and spend the rest of the afternoon playing with Frothy in the woods. Then he thought better of it. He should finish the test. After all, he may have guessed right on some of them. Maybe it would get easier toward the end. Scanning the new questions he began once again to squirm and struggle to come up with something, anything, on which to base a guess. Each one was more alien and unfamiliar than the last. He felt the blood pounding in his temples. “Oh great, now my head’s going to explode. They’d like that, wouldn’t they? My brains splattered all over the library.” He snorted. The nearest aisle walker shot him a particularly withering glare. Brian stuck his tongue out at him, which froze the guy in his tracks, a look of astonishment on his face.

Brian got up and stretched, tilting his head back and reaching for the ceiling. “Sit down,” hissed the now livid aisle patrol leader.

“You sit down. I’m outta’ here,” Several nearby students mumbled and sighed. He strolled toward the front.

Mr. Blount, the football coach/English teacher, moved in front of the door, blocking his way. Brian wondered if he remembered him from his class last year.

Mr. Blount crossed his thick, hairy arms on his chest. “Sit down.”

“No. I’m leaving. I quit. I’m…”

“Fine. Just sit back down.”

“No, I want out, I….”

“No one leaves early, Bri-anne. Sit down and shut up.”

All the frenzied momentum of Brian’s great escape instantly dissolved. Mr. Blount was a small man, but the muscles in his huge neck had the texture of beef jerky, and an expression of cruel anticipation glimmered in his eyes. Brian probably outweighed Mr. Blount, but the showdown was over before it had started. He turned around and walked back towards his desk.

Never in a lifetime of losing had he felt more defeated. Wasn’t it enough that he’d given up on the test? Now he had to sit in humiliation until it was over. He shuffled back to his chair. He could feel the other students’ eyes on him as he went by. He could hear their whispered insults. He stared at the orange and brown carpet as he walked. If a hole had opened up, he would have gladly stepped in.

He sat at his little desk. Staring at the test he began to wonder if he should try it one more time. His heart began to pound. “Maybe I should just fill out the answers at random, maybe I’ll get lucky…” Sweat began forming on his brow again. “Maybe I can fill out too many ovals and jam up the computer.” His knee began to bounce. His chin jerked spasmodically. “Maybe….”

He looked out the window. Frothy was still out there, gazing in at him. When their eyes met, his tail began thumping on the grass where he lay, and his ears perked up. Brian looked over at the librarian, who was seated far from the podium, demurely reading a romance novel. He peered around the room. None of the aisle patrollers were near.

He rose from his chair. Slowly at first, and then more quickly, he walked toward the front. Just as people were starting to notice him, he lifted the heavy oak podium with a grunt and ran awkwardly toward the window. Mr. Blount was too far away to stop him. He heard the shuffling feet on the carpet and a few muted exclamations, but they were too late.

The podium plowed through the window with a deafening crash and Brian followed it without missing a step. Frothy was barking and twirling as they ran down the grassy hill together, bounding along ten feet at a time, leaving Mr. Blount and the others stunned and staring. Brian let out a whoop and shook some bits of broken glass from his hair as he raced Frothy towards the woods.

He had passed the test.

Ike stared as the spindly teeth of the Venus flytrap clamped onto his finger. It didn’t hurt but it was faster than he expected. There were other plants on the windowsill, growing in little paper cups, but they weren’t nearly as interesting.

“Ike, sit down,” said Teacher. “Now. And pay attention. Everyone pay attention.” Ike spun slowly on his heel and flopped back into his chair, casting a baleful look toward Teacher which she ignored with her usual bland indifference. He squirmed on his hard wooden seat and tried to get comfortable. He still wasn’t used to sitting at a desk. In kindergarten they let you sit on a rug.

Teacher stood in front of the class, her eyes scanning back and forth across the room as she spoke. “Every year about this time the first grade has show-and-tell day. I remember when I was little, how much fun it was when we did it. I’m still the new teacher on the block here, so I’m not sure how you all have done this in the past, but anyway I’ve printed some notes for you to show your mommies and daddies. The notes will tell them how they can help you decide what to bring. Ike?”

He had been inching back toward the Venus flytrap on the sunny windowsill, but Teacher’s voice made him spin around.

“Ike, would you please pass out these notes to everyone in class?” He ran up, snatched the notes away and began regally marching down the aisles, slapping one on each desk.

“Thank you Ike. Now everybody try to think of something to bring tomorrow. Remember, it should be something interesting to look at and talk about. That’s why we call it show-and-tell. Sarah? What will you bring?”

Sarah was the tallest, biggest, loudest kid in the class. She always wore perfect dresses and shoes and she loved to answer Teacher’s questions. “I’ll bring my Lil’ Rainbo Unicorn, with green hair that changes.”

“Very good, Sarah. And Joey, what will you bring?” Joey was a quiet kid who minded his own business and never caused trouble, but for some reason Teacher always called on him. Joey looked around, rolled his eyes and said “I’ll bring my Sergeant Brawn, and his under-water thing that bubbles.”

“No, Joey. Remember, we want something that will interest the rest of the class. Try to think of something else. How about you, Ike?” He had finished handing out the notes and was returning the extras to Teacher.

“What?”

“What will you bring to show-and-tell, Ike?”

“What’s show-and-tell?” The classroom erupted with jeers and laughter. Sarah was yelling at him, her face all red and scrunched up like when he pulled her hair. He grinned at her. Teacher finally got everyone settled down.

“Ike, just make sure to show this to your parents,” she said, folding the note and stuffing it in his pants pocket.

That night he threw his pants in the laundry hamper without even the faintest glimmer that he’d forgotten something. The next morning while walking to school along the stream, throwing rocks at waterbugs, he recalled the note. Was it for a field trip? Flu shots? He couldn’t remember.

Ike strolled into the classroom as Sarah was demonstrating the many functions of her Lil’ Rainbo Unicorn. Teacher scolded him for being late as he made his way to his seat. The other children went to the front of the class one by one and made their presentations. Ike tried to become smaller, shrinking into a little ball under the desk.

Teacher was going through the room a row at a time, working front to back. This meant that Ike would be third from last. He felt in his pockets. He looked in his desk. He leafed through his notebook. Nothing. He peeked furtively at the plants on the windowsill. They were so close… Maybe he could pretend one of them was his. An icy look from teacher stopped that idea.

The children went up one by one. Michelle had one of her mom’s combs made of imitation turtle shell that came all the way from Mexico. Gretchen had a bundle of religious tract comics that Teacher wouldn’t let her hand out to the class. Travis had a horny toad in a jar and he said it could shoot blood out of its eyes. Teacher told him not to make up stories.

Ike had trouble paying attention to the show. It was going by way too fast. The kids weren’t spending enough time explaining their things. Then it was his turn.

“Ike, did you bring something?” asked Teacher.

He went up to the front of the class. Everyone’s eyes were on him. “Today for show-and-tell,” he said, “I brought my invisible monster. His name is Goolala.” He gestured to the space beside him, as the class began to titter. “Do not laugh at Goolala,” he said, pretending to pet the monster. Everyone enjoyed it but Sarah and Teacher.

This time she attached the note to Ike’s shirt, right in the middle, with a safety pin. She folded the paper carefully and made sure the pin was fastened securely. “Since you’re the only one who forgot to bring something, you’ll have your show-and-tell tomorrow, all by yourself. How does that make you feel?”

Ike shrugged.

On his way home from school that day he decided to take a swim by the old wrecked bridge. He pulled his shirt off, inside out, and tossed it in the reeds. While he was splashing around he saw a salamander. Remembering the horny toad, he thought a salamander would be even better, but he couldn’t catch it. Then he tried to grab some water skeeters but couldn’t catch any of them either. He skipped rocks for a while, trying to break his record of eleven skips. He found a perfect, flat rock and made it skip thirteen times. He climbed out and sat on a log, throwing pebbles at dragonflies. Then he started for home, his shirt (still inside out) slung over his shoulder.

When he got home he found a different shirt to wear and threw the old one in the laundry room. His mom was in there, sorting socks.

“Ikey, what’s this?” She held a bluish-white wad of something. “I found it in the wash and I think it came out of your clothes. Is it homework or something? Is it your lunch ticket?”

“Probably an expulsion notice.” said Ike’s big sister, peering around the corner. “Ike, Ike, the terrible tyke.”

“Candice…”

“Never learned to ride a bike.”

“Mom!”

“Candice!” But she was gone. “OK Ike, wash up for dinner.”

The next morning he was just starting down the path by the stream when he remembered about show-and-tell. He went running back to the house to find something he could bring but nothing seemed quite right, and his parents had gone to work so he couldn’t ask them for advice. Then he got an idea.

“Boris! Booooris!”

The familiar jingle of dog tags came from the back yard, followed by Boris. He was a big, messy, half St. Bernard, half mutt with a happy face and a brown and white shaggy coat. Ike grabbed a leash. “Come on, Boris!”

They went running down the path, Ike excited by his brilliant idea, Boris excited just to be leaving the yard. Ike had to tug him along a few times when the various intriguing smells along the river caught his attention, but twenty minutes later they made it to school. Ike strode down the hallway with his dog at his side, while Boris glanced warily at his weird surroundings. He sniffed the air: glass cleaner, floor wax, cafeteria food, disinfectant… His tail wagged a little slower.

Teacher met them just inside the classroom door. Boris sniffed at the purple-stockinged toes poking out from her sandals and gave her a curious look.

“Ike, you know there’s no dogs allowed in here.”

“But Teacher, this is my show-and-tell,” he said.

All the kids had already gathered around. She decided not to force the issue. “OK, Ike, but right after roll call you’re going to do your show-and-tell and then after class you’re going to take him straight home. Is that clear?”

Ike shrugged.

Boris was not amused by all the attention. Several kids had pulled his ears and tail. He didn’t understand why he and Ike had left the sunny riverbed to come into this noisy place. When the kids finally went to their desks he flopped down by Ike’s side.

Teacher called roll and then asked Ike to do his show-and-tell. He had difficulty getting Boris up. He’d just gotten comfortable. When they arrived at the podium he curled up again on the floor.

“This is our dog. He is part Saint Bernard and part other dogs. Umm…”

“What is his name, Ike?” asked Teacher.

“His name is Boris. He can do lots of neat tricks.”

“Yeah? Like what?” yelled Sarah, although she was sitting only five feet away. Ike glowered at her. “Like what?”

“Umm… he is part Saint Bernard. We feed him once, no, twice a day.”

“What tricks can he do?” asked Sarah. “I bet he can’t do anything!” The class began to titter and whisper.

“Oh yeah? Well, he fetches bottle rockets!” hollered Ike. This quieted them down a little. “And he ate my squirt gun, and he fought a big German shepherd from across the river and it was a tie, and, umm…”

“Ike,” said Teacher, in her I’m-so-patient voice, “what sort of real tricks does your dog do? Does he roll over? Or play dead?”

“Well, um, sometimes he can shake hands.” A long silence followed this statement, while Ike tried to think of something else.

Boris let out a deep, rumbling groan. Then he shifted around a little and went back to sleep.

“Uh oh…” said Ike.

“Why uh oh?” asked Teacher. “Is your dog ill?”

Ike began to back away from Boris.

“SBD,” whispered one of the boys. “Silent But Deadly!”

The kids in the front row began to cough and abandon their desks.
Teacher wrinkled her nose. “Oh my God…” She began gagging before she could say anything else. While holding a Kleenex over her mouth she motioned the kids towards the emergency exit. They poured out screaming with glee, into the sunshine. Ike was already heading towards the monkey bars when Teacher grabbed him.

“Ike, you go in there right now and bring your dog out.”

“You go in there!” he yelled, twisting expertly away from her taloned grip.

The kids spent the rest of the period playing outside. Ike saw Teacher talking to the principal. He was smiling. She wasn’t. Ike was the hero of the boys. The girls ignored him, as if it were a normal recess.

Finally the bell rang and Ike had to go retrieve Boris. The room still held traces of the horrible stench, and Ike had trouble opening all the windows as Teacher had ordered, but he made it, holding his breath almost the whole time.

He and Boris emerged from the classroom to cheers and applause. He took an elaborately deep bow. Then he strolled up to Teacher. “What should I do with him now?”

She eyed him with her best steely look. Ike just stood there. “You had this all planned out, didn’t you?”

Ike shrugged.

“You fed him beans or something, didn’t you?”

“No, he just farts naturally. He’s an outside dog.”

Teacher pretended not to hear. “The principal of this school and I have agreed that it might be best if you returned the dog home right now. That means you’ll miss some class. How long does it take you to walk home?”

Ike thought for a moment, thought hard. “Two hours.”

“Fine. Sure. Whatever. Just take the dog and go home.”

Ike was out of the school yard almost before she was done talking. He waved to the kids behind the chain link fence. They watched him forlornly, their tiny fingers clutching the wire mesh, as he and Boris scrambled out of sight down towards the river.

“Yay, Boris!” Ike gave him a big hug. In return Boris gave him a single, huge lick. Ike undid the leash and together they wandered upstream.

“What am I going to tell Mom and Dad?”

Boris said nothing.

“Good idea.”

“Oh no…”

A car was coming. Not a car, a truck, a huge truck, racing along over the ruts in the washboard road. This was the widely accepted technique, to drive as fast as possible over the little ridges, “smoothing them out”. The truck was fish-tailing a little as it passed, the wheels only touching the ground about half the time. Ike cringed and leaned away from the beast as it roared by, and Boris strained against his leash. Then came the dust.

Ike hated this part. To get to the park, you had to walk along Chapel Road and eat dust every time someone drove by. It was the dustiest road in town. He took a deep breath before the brown cloud descended- it was already getting in his eyes. The sidewalk, the grass, the cottonwood leaves- everything near the road was covered with a dense, fine coat of dust. And now so was Ike.

He looked at Boris. “Oh no.” His freshly washed and brushed fur, which had looked so smooth and sleek moments before, now was streaked and splotchy. Ike had hoped to make it down the road before any cars came, but no. When he saw that two more cars were coming, he said a word that had once made his mother stick a bar of soap in his mouth.

By the time they got to the park they looked like cinnamon-powdered donuts. He brushed the dust off himself and did his best to brush it off Boris. Boris was a big dog, half Saint Bernard, so it took a while. Ike wished he’d brought a brush, and wondered if he could borrow one from somebody. He looked around.

The park was full of people and dogs. There was barking and children shouting, and he could see the judges’ stand set up way at the other end. This was a big dog show all right, the biggest in town. In fact it was the only dog show in town, and it seemed like everyone who owned a dog was in the park.

Nearby a girl was brushing her little border collie. They wore matching yellow bows on their heads. Ike approached timidly and watched, waiting for her to finish.

After a few minutes he was still waiting. It didn’t seem like that little collie needed any more brushing but she kept on anyway. Her dog stood up straight, rear legs pushed way back, eyes half closed, tongue hanging out.

Ike was tired of waiting. “Can I borrow your brush? I mean, when you’re done.”

The little girl turned and looked at him. She was so pretty that he blushed a little. Her hair was black and straight, and her eyes were blue and bright. “What?”

He mumbled his request again as she looked at him and looked at Boris.

“Why didn’t you bring your own brush?”

Ike shuffled and murmured.

“It’s best not to use a brush on more than one dog,” she said. “The oils from their hair might be different.”

He gazed at her, uncomprehending.

“I mean, even if your dog was clean, I couldn’t lend you my brush. This brush is only for Bedford d’Bickingham, isn’t it baby?” The dog looked up at her. They gazed at each other, rapt.

“What’s his name?”

“I told you, Bedford d’Bickingham.”

“No, I mean what do you call him?”

“Her name is Bedford d’Bickingham, therefore we call her by her name. My mother and I have raised several champion border collies. By the way, there’s a dog show happening, so you might not want to walk your dog through the park right now.” She strolled away with Bedford d’Bickingham trotting daintily at her side. Ike felt his face get hot, and he muttered that word again. He glanced down at Boris. “Never mind that girl, you look fine.”

They walked together through the park, checking out the other dogs and their owners. Boris strained at his leash, eager to play with some, to fight with others. At one point he came nose to nose with a big, well-muscled boxer. Boris wagged his tail but the boxer was growling, so Ike tugged him away.

They approached the obstacle course. “Ok Boris, this is it.” He eyed the jumps, the tunnel and the slalom poles. He’d been training Boris for about a week, in the woods near the river. They had practiced jumping over fallen trees, and crawling through an old culvert. But the hurdles here were like little white fences, and the tube-tunnel was cardboard, and much skinnier. As for the slalom course, he had only hope and not much else.

They went to the sign-up table, where a perky woman waited. He presented the little voucher given to him at school, which waived the entry fee. The lady plucked it from his hand and stuck it in a box already full of them. With her other hand she gave him a twist tie and a white, cardboard octagon with the number ‘113′.

“Take this and put it on your dog’s collar,” she said. “Ok, Hon?”

He looked down at the tag in his hand. It was about the size of a large drink coaster. “Do I write his name on it?”

“Sure, if you want to.”

He looked around. “Did they write their names on them? All those other people?”

“No, you don’t have to, Hon.”

Ike fidgeted.

“You’re number one-one-three,” said the lady. “Just wait ‘til you hear the number, ok sweetie?”

Ike looked at her. She was quick and pointy, like a bird. “Don’t you want to know his name? I thought you had to write down his name. Teacher said…”

“Ok, sweetheart, what’s your doggie’s name?”

“Boris.” He leaned over the table and watched her jot the name down amongst all the others on her clipboard.

A man on the judges’ stand started yammering into a megaphone. People clapped and he yammered some more. Ike couldn’t make out a word of it, so he just followed the main crowd along. Soon there were people and dogs packed in everywhere, and they started to gradually move counter-clockwise around the judges’ stand. Eventually Ike could see what was going on: different people were dividing up the dogs by number. The first guy was in charge of dogs one through twenty, the next guy got twenty through forty, and so on. Ike recognized a couple of the dividing people from the pet store in the mall. He almost waved, but was too embarrassed. When he finally got to his group, the person in charge was a scowling high school student, who looked like he’d slept in his clothes and was only there as some sort of punishment.

“I’m 113,” said Ike. “Is this my area?” he asked, just in case he got lucky and it wasn’t.

“Listen,” said the boy, “is one hundred thirteen more than one hundred?”

Ike nodded.

“This area is for all those over one hundred. Do you understand the concept here, Sherlock?” The boy had dense red hair, perched on top of his head like a little round cake.

Ike mumbled and moved off. He was starting to wish he hadn’t come at all. Boris wasn’t looking any better. In fact, he was as irritated and confused as a dog can be. Ike wondered if he could just kind of slip away when no one was watching. But then he’d miss the show.

When everyone was settled down the guy with the megaphone began talking again, thanking the sponsors and saying how nice the weather was. Ike looked around for somewhere to sit. All of the folding chairs were occupied so he sat cross-legged on the grass. Boris gave him a big, wet lick on the side of his face, and lay down beside him. Boris rolled on his back and Ike rubbed his stomach as the announcer droned on in the still, hot air, introducing last year’s winner and lecturing on the importance of pet birth control.

Finally it was time for the first review. Each group of dogs had to be put in proper order so they could walk in front of the long table where five judges sat with clipboards and pencils. There was big chalkboard behind them, with three sections marked off with tape. Ike watched the judges as the first groups went past. They usually didn’t write anything, unless it was a really fancy dog going by. If it was just kids Ike’s age the judges would smile at them sweetly or chat among themselves. The panel consisted of two old ladies with big rings on their fingers, a well groomed, frowning young man who acted real important, and two cops, one male and one female, both wearing mirrored sunglasses and drinking giant-size sodas. By the time Ike’s group passed the judges it was obvious they weren’t paying much attention. The young man was holding court over the two old ladies, while the cops clowned around and stuck their chests out.

Finally it was time to start on the obstacle course. Ike wondered if he’d be able to wait along enough to get a chance to do it. Luckily most of the dogs weren’t entered, otherwise it would have taken all night.

Ike watched intently as the first few dogs went through the course. The first dog did it perfectly, but very slowly. The second did it very fast but knocked over a jump and a pylon. Next came the boxer that Boris had sniffed earlier. He made it through the tunnel, but only after some agonizing hesitation. He gazed worriedly at his master as he was prompted, and then finally crawled through. The same thing happened with the fence jumps. The poor dog looked wound-up and anxious before each one, like a child at the edge of the high diving board, before finally leaping over. But at the slalom course it all really went sour. The boxer just sprinted alongside the poles, not going between them, then sprinted back. Then he’d stop, stare with that stricken face at his master, and sprint down and back again. The crowd laughed, but Ike felt bad for the poor, confused dog. He began to get that feeling again, that it might be wise to fade from the crowd.

A few more brave dogs tried the obstacle course. The ones who did best were usually small terrier types or sheep dogs. A few of them actually got through quickly and correctly. Ike hoped Boris would at least be ok at it. His idle fantasies of winning or placing had evaporated as the best times were being written on the chalkboard.

Then it was Bedford d’Bickingham’s turn. She still had a yellow bow on her head. The girl with the matching ribbon walked along the perimeter, issuing firm commands as Bedford d’Bickingham raced through the course. She cleared the jumps in a blur, squirted through the tunnel like a watermelon seed, and snaked flawlessly through the slalom poles. She crossed the finish line with the new top time, the crowd gasping and cheering. Then the little dog leapt up into the girl’s arms and they posed for the newspaper photographer. A bunch of other people rushed over to take pictures too. The way they were acting it was as if the competition was over. So Ike cheered especially loud about ten minutes later when a little Australian sheep dog blazed through the course even faster than Bedford d’Bickingham. He found the girl’s face in the crowd when the new time went up. She was trying to appear emotionless and unaffected, and failing utterly.

Finally there were only a few entries left. Ike approached the starting line, his face sweating. He unhooked Boris’ leash and knelt down beside him. “Ok, boy, remember our practicing. Just do your best.” Boris gave him a lick.

When Ike stood up the timer said “Ready, go!” even though they weren’t really ready. Ike ran around the edge of the course, and Boris followed excitedly. “No Boris, over there!” He pointed toward the first jump. Boris wagged his tail. “GO!” He pointed more pointedly. Boris licked his finger.

Finally Boris went back towards the jump as various kids in the audience hooted and squealed with laughter. Ike turned red as some of the adults laughed too. “Jump, Boris. Jump, jump!”

Boris looked at him, and then jumped over the first hurdle as if it were nothing.

“Good boy!” Ike beamed as polite applause trickled in. He looked at the judges table and saw that the timer wasn’t even watching the action. “Jump again, Boris!”

The second jump wasn’t of much interest. Boris sniffed at it and walked by. The third jump he ignored completely as he headed toward the tunnel.

“That’s ok boy. Through the tunnel!” yelled Ike.

Boris sniffed at the edge of it.

“Go inside Boris, through the tunnel.”

Boris went alongside the tunnel, lifted one rear leg, and did what boy dogs will do as the crowd howled and barked. He took his time. Apparently he’d been waiting quite a while.

“Boris! Boris!” Ike was at the finish line, trying to be heard above the roar of the crowd. “Come here Boris!”

Finally he was done, and he raced toward Ike, knocking over one of the slalom poles, which then got tangled in his feet, making him stumble and knock down several more. By the time he got to the finish line he had knocked down all the posts but one.

Ike tried to put the leash on as the crowd hooted and whistled. He just wanted to go home. The leash wasn’t cooperating: the little hook with the clip-on thing was out of its groove. As Ike struggled with the clip, trying to bend the metal one way or the other, Boris wandered into the crowd. By the time he was done fixing the clip, Boris was gone.

Ike walked around the park. “Boris! Booooris!” His calls went unanswered. Boris had ignored him before, usually when he’d escaped the yard due to someone coming carelessly through the gate. Ike had learned that the best thing to do in that situation was play dead. He would lie flat on his back with his eyes closed, unmoving. Boris would look back and see him, pause in his flight, and stop. He’d come walking back, wagging his tail slowly, guiltily, until he was close enough to lick Ike’s face. Then Ike would come back to life and seize him by the collar. But that wasn’t going to work here in the park. He was going to have to find Boris by searching around. Only a few minutes earlier he’d thought the whole debacle was over, but now…

“Boris! Boooris…” What a place to lose a dog. He was almost beyond being embarrassed as he wandered the park, smiled at by the adults, teased and jeered by the kids. There were too many people around- he couldn’t see far enough. He decided to climb the little slope at the edge of the park, to get a better view.

Halfway up the incline he heard some commotion. Someone across the park was shrieking and other voices were yelling. It only took him a few seconds to see where the noise was coming from, and that’s when he spotted Boris.

The little girl with the long black hair and the yellow ribbon was the one with the high-pitched screech. Boris had mounted Bedford d’Bickingham from behind, and it looked to Ike like he was trying to dance with the smaller dog, his hips keeping time. Ike ran over and tried to push through the wall of people. The girl kept screeching. “What’s her problem?” said Ike. “They’re just playing piggy back.”

By the time he had squeezed through the crowd the show was over. A big man with hairy arms held Boris by the collar. Boris eyed him warily. “Is this your dog?”

“Yeah.” Ike knelt down beside him.

“Well…” The man looked away, at a loss for words. “Well, keep him on a leash for crying out loud.”

“Ok.” Ike attached the leash, which was finally working, and led Boris away. He briefly caught a glimpse of the little girl with the yellow ribbon, and she shot him a look of pure venom. He crossed his eyes at her and stuck out his tongue, sideways. It was time to go home. Ike wanted to forget all about the dog show.

Suddenly Boris took off like a bottle rocket, jerking the leash from Ike’s hand. A squirrel had wandered into the park and was dashing towards the creek. Boris tore after it, followed far behind by Ike. Then, as abruptly as he’d started, Boris came to a halt, the leash taut, almost yanking him off his feet. He’d snagged it on one of the sprinkler heads. There were several of them around the park, clunky sprinklers like little mechanical men, coming about a foot and a half up out of the ground. They were a nuisance to step around. Ike wondered why they’d been left up during the dog show.

Boris tugged as Ike approached. Meanwhile, the squirrel had escaped into the riverbed while several other dogs strained at their leashes, eager to chase it. A sudden chorus of barks and yelling rose over the park. Boris tugged again, just as Ike was reaching for him, and this time he burst free. The sprinkler popped out of its mooring and a geyser of water shot eighty feet straight up into the clear blue sky. Ike staggered back, stunned, and was instantly soaked. Boris forgot about the squirrel for a moment and turned to admire his handiwork. Then he resumed the chase, dashing down towards the creek.

The park became a scene of chaos and confusion. Dogs were barking and people were yelling. The geyser was spraying almost half the crowd, with some help from the wind. The judges’ table was getting wet, as the little old ladies struggled to gather up all the entry forms and clipboards. The two cops and the fancy man had high-tailed it to the dry part of the park. The best times for the obstacle course were running down the chalkboard in pale, white streams. Several dogs were loose, running and playing in the water. A hirsute sheep dog rolled in the sudden mud by a soccer goal post.

Ike watched all this with fascination as he slowly worked his way over toward the creek bed. Had anyone seen him? Did anyone know it was his dog that did it? He expected at any moment to be apprehended, possibly by that man with the hairy arms, but miraculously he made it to the creek and climbed down the retaining wall without being accosted.

Across the creek was Boris, sitting perfectly still, looking almost straight up at the squirrel. It was chattering at him from atop the opposite wall, safely out of reach.

Ike sloshed straight through the creek, since he was wet already, and undid the leash. “Come on boy.” They walked upriver together, out of sight of the park and the road. After a while Ike stopped and looked back. He could still see the geyser, off in the distance, over the tops of the trees. Boris kept looking up guiltily, until finally Ike bent down and hugged him. Boris gave him a big, wet lick.

Go back inside? Out of the question. To go in now and face interrogation would mean the end of his brief freedom. She would make him stay, and bend his ear into a pretzel, and goad him into lots of little chores. If he went in now he might as well put out the light and lock up the shop. And he wasn’t going to do that, not this time.

Walter was making a skittles set for his grandson. He remembered from long ago how infectious, how addictive this deceptively simple game could be. You wound up a top, then set it spinning in a long box with several chambers connected by narrow doorways, in the hopes of knocking down wooden pins. The pins became more valuable the farther you went along. He figured that Cace would give up those abysmal video games and succumb to the lure of skittles. He would hear the drone of the wooden tops out on the back porch, as everyone rooted or jeered, the tek-tek of the top knocking into things, the rattle of falling pins… What child could resist those sounds for long? Of course he would ignore it at first, but eventually the beeps and electronic groans from the TV would begin to wear thin. Then Cace would emerge, blinking in the sunlight, pretending not to be curious.

He finished cutting the last doorway with the jigsaw. He brushed away the slightly gummy sawdust and inhaled the intoxicating perfume of fresh cut pine. But there was just one problem: He desperately wanted a drink of water, and he hadn’t brought any with him when he’d slipped out of the house hours earlier. Stupid, stupid. Usually he stocked up with food and drink before leaving for the shop. It was only a few steps away, next to the garage, but it was worlds away from the house.

He stood looking down at the old sink, his hands on his hips. He’d never even considered drinking from it before. It was caked and grimy from countless washings of everything from paint rollers to cement buckets. Even the faucet was covered with about half an inch of multicolored crud. But the water? It would be fine, why the hell not? He grabbed an old soup can and dumped out a bunch of brittle, crinkly glue tubes. The jagged lip of the can was speckled with rust. He looked around for something else.

His eyes rested on an old, beat up metal cup on the top shelf. He pulled it down and saw that it contained a motley assortment of nails, some of them bent, and a green penny. He evicted a little spider then dumped the rest into the soup can. After a quick re-inspection he decided this humble old cup with no handle would do just fine.

He ran the faucet full blast until it stopped complaining and the water lost its copper color. He rinsed out the cup. Then he filled it and drank down the sweetest, most refreshing water he’d tasted in years. He wondered briefly if this faucet came from a different water main, or a well. The water in the house didn’t taste this good. But he dismissed that thought: He knew it was the same water, it just tasted better under the circumstances. He made a silent toast toward the house, raising the cup towards the yellow curtains of the kitchen window. Now it was time to put all the pieces together.

He glued, drilled, cut dowels and sanded. Before long it was all assembled and he only had to make the tops and the pins. Walter hadn’t planned on finishing them too, but he was on a roll. He felt good and wanted to keep going, so why not? He switched on the lights as dusk settled in, and began turning the pins back and forth on his old foot-powered lathe. He whistled and muttered and before long he’d finished the pins, with two to spare, as well as the tops. He set the whole thing up on a couple of saw horses, neatly wound a top, and prepared to give this brand new skittles board its maiden spin. Then came a voice from the kitchen: “Walter, are you still out there?”

He placed the top in the launching area. He held the board steady with his left hand and pulled the string with his right, stepping back and really whipping it. The top whirred and whined at a high pitch, bounced off the walls of the first, smaller chamber, then sailed through the narrow doorway into the pins. It ricocheted this way and that, knocking over several five-pointers, before slowly entering the chamber with the ten-pointers, carrying a good head of steam. “I’ve still got it.”

Four of the five ten-pointers fell in rapid succession before the top wriggled toward a far corner, flirting with the opening to one of the small chambers where a single fifty-pointer stood, and beyond it, the great, elusive, hundred point pin. “Come on baby, come on…” Tek, tek, tek, it tapped near the narrow opening, beginning to slow down. A little gray moth landed of one of the fallen pins, then flew off again as the top wobbled near. Then, with one last swerve, the top plunged like a drunken man through the doorway and knocked over the fifty pointer. It spun briefly on its side, then came to a rest upside-down. He beamed at the scattered pins for moment before shutting off the light and hurrying back up to the house.

Harriet punished him by having nothing to say all through dinner but he didn’t even pretend to feel adequately gloomy. He ate a few extra meatballs. “Delicious as always m’dear.” He kissed her too-warm forehead and puttered off to watch his TV shows. He wanted to go out and try the skittles again but figured he’d better wait until morning. There was only so much the old gal would take.

That night he slept soundly and deeply, for eight whole hours. He would have gotten more if Harriet hadn’t sprayed him with the plant mister. “Is this a new trend?” she asked as she pinched some leaves off the philodendron. “Are you going to become gradually more bedridden? I certainly hope not. I can’t live day in and a day out with… What are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself, Walter.”

He straightened up and stretched toward the ceiling, then reached down and touched his toes again. “Feels good to stretch in the morning. You should try it some time.” He hustled downstairs, followed by some vague remark about foolishness.

After a quick breakfast he was at the skittles again, sending the top spinning like a turbine into the unlucky pins. He tried all the different tops until he knew which ones were winners and which to avoid, then marked them cryptically on top: one had a circle, one an X, another had two circles. Then there was the narrow, wobbly one on which he simply wrote “Turkey” to save everyone a lot of trouble. He also put markings on the pins, and on the end wall of each chamber, to show where the pins went. He drank another cup of the sweet water as he whiled away the morning hours. He left the old cup on the spigot handle, upside-down.

He delivered the new skittles set, still smelling of fresh cut pine, on a wet and drizzly day. Perfect skittles weather. His son Patrick’s house was down a dirt road where the slightest rain resulted in huge mud puddles. Walter made sure to hit every one- he liked the way they splattered up on the old station wagon. Makes people wonder where you’ve been. He also liked watching for birds as he drove in. The road went along a creek that attracted all kinds of wildlife. It seemed like the perfect place to raise a kid.

He had always been dismayed that Cace wasn’t more outdoorsy, and now that he had all the latest video games the pale little tyke never seemed to go outside at all. All he ever asked for any more were the latest versions of his favorites. Even fusty old grandpa knew their names: Thuggz, Questar, and the ever popular HammerKlaw. Walter hoped that today, as Cace unwrapped his birthday presents, there wouldn’t be any more video games.

They ate cheeseburgers and cake, and then it was time for the gifts. Harriet gave him the usual clothing items, along with an apology for not attending due to her swollen ankles. Everyone knew that was just a cover: She’d never felt comfortable with the fact that Walter had children and grandkids from a previous marriage.  

Cace opened a few more presents, including two video games. Then he tore the wrapping paper away from the skittles set. His face said it all: This present, the biggest one, was just some kind of old-fashioned homemade game. He held it awkwardly balanced on his knees and gave it the once over with a furrowed brow. He tried to pretend he liked it, just as Walter had privately predicted.

As Walter set up the skittles under the back porch roof his sons pestered him about his new, more youthful appearance. This was news to Walter.

Nathan, his younger son, gave him that tilted-head look. “What is it dad? Viagra?”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

 “Steroids?”

“I bet you finally stopped eating red meat,” said Patrick.

“I don’t know what it is, I swear! I just feel more… bouncy, or something. I guess I’ve been drinking more water, if that’s worth anything.”

They soon had the pins set up. The tops were knocking around for only about five minutes before Walter noticed that the sounds of HammerKlaw from the living room had ceased. Soon Cace had joined them and was shouting the loudest whenever a top did something exciting. Walter showed him his “secret” way of winding the string around the top, always counter-clockwise, always neatly and tightly.

Later that week he began to feel more old and run down again. Harriet obviously approved. Then he went out to the shop to start another skittles set, and he began to feel much better. The improvement happened whenever he drank from the old spigot. He decided to drink several cupfuls a day for a while, to see what happened.

His hair got darker, his sight and hearing became sharper than they’d been in years and he even began playfully tugging at Harriet’s skirt. She gave him an unintentionally comical look of horror, eyes wide, mouth agape. He laughed and left her alone. He decided he would tell Patrick about the water. He’d always been the more health-inclined of the boys.

Naturally Patrick wanted to try it, and after carefully washing out the old cup, he drank. Then he drank some more. “You’re right, Pop. It’s utterly delicious. Best water I ever had.”

“Bet it puts some lead in your pencil, too.”

Together they worked on the skittles and drank the water late into the evening, with sawdust in their hair. Harriet peered towards the shop from behind the kitchen curtains. Patrick had to admit that the water really had him feeling good. “And you look great, pop. Maybe this spigot is attached to an old well. There must be some kind of minerals in it or something. How about if I take a sample to have it tested?”

“Good idea.”

They filled up an old cider jug with the water and Patrick stuck it in his trunk.

He took the jug to a feed store that did water tests for a reasonable fee. When the results came back a week later they showed that it was ordinary city water. Patrick tossed the manilla envelope on his dad’s workbench. “There’s a few columns of numbers but it all amounts to squat. No special minerals, no nothing.”

This time Nathan had come to visit too. He went over to the old tap, rinsed out his coffee cup and had a drink. “Tastes like typical tap water from around here. Slightly suspicious.”

Patrick took a sip and had to agree. He privately concluded that it must be mental: his father believed in the water so completely that it was acting like a placebo. That had to be it.

Nathan stepped back and looked at Patrick. “You know, you really look good. Been working out?”

“No.”

“Using wrinkle cream?”

“Har har.”

“Well you look younger, or something.”

Now Patrick was confused again. Had he been led to believe so strongly in the water that it was working on him too? He didn’t like to think he was the type to be swayed by the power of suggestion. He decided not to worry about it. What’s so bad about looking younger?

The following Saturday Patrick came walking up the driveway of his father’s house. He stopped in mid-step and stared as his father emerged from the shop. He seemed to have shed ten years in a week. “Well dad, all I can say is if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. You just keep drinking that water.”

For the next several days Harriet kept getting quieter. This normally would have filled Walter with apprehension but he was having too much fun to notice. He had pulled his tennis racquet out from behind the vacuum cleaner and was busy getting his form back. Patrick could barely hold his own against him, just like the old days. Harriet kept pacing through the house, sometimes peering out at the shop.

One day when he had gone to play tennis she went outside and stood by the shop door. It wasn’t locked, but she just stood and looked at it. The shop wasn’t off limits. There was no prohibition against her going out there. And yet, there was a kind of unwritten agreement that while she might rule the house, Walter ruled the shop. There had to be a way… Then she noticed some sawdust on the stairs by the back door.

“Oh, yes, that’s it. Of course.”

When the boys returned from their game, looking flushed and happy, they went straight for the beers and TV. It wasn’t until the next morning that he noticed. He went out to the shop, and was very quiet for a long time. Then he came back.

She was sitting in the kitchen, scrubbing the plastic tablecloth with a Brillo pad.

“Have you been in the shop, m’dear?”

“Yes. I was cleaning up.”

He nodded, and jingled the coins in his pocket. He cleared his throat and spoke. “Well, I thought the shop was my territory. Shouldn’t I be the one cleaning it?”

“You kept tracking sawdust into the house, so I went out there to sweep.”

“It looks like you did more than sweep.”

“Yes, of course I did.” She glared at him. “The place was a pig sty so I straightened it up.”

He was confused. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to be exasperated? “Well if you’d told me…”

“What on Earth are you doing out there anyway? What’s going on? Your hair is darker, you’re looking younger. Are you taking drugs?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what is it? I have a right to know.”

He sighed. “Alright, come out to the shop and I’ll show you.”

The sink had been cleaned, as much as an old paint-caked sink can be. Two plastic tumblers now sat on the shelf above it. He filled one of them. “I want you to try this water. Ever since I’ve been drinking it I’ve felt wonderful.”

She sniffed at it, eyeing him as if he might be trying to make a fool of her. She drank some down. “It needs ice.”

“Yes, well, there it is. You wanted to know, and now I’ve answered your question.” He stepped out and held the door open, then locked it behind her. They went back into the house.

“I can’t believe it. Water? There’s got to be more to it than that.” She spent the rest of the evening asking questions: What was the real reason? Did he have some kind of special exercise? A change in diet? A young lady friend? Was he sure he wasn’t taking any new drugs? He endured it all.

Over the next couple of weeks the tension in the house died down. Harriet no longer brought up the issue, even when Walter repeatedly asked her to drink some more of the water. He began to wonder if the whole thing hadn’t been psychological after all. His familiar aches were creeping back, and his limberness was deserting him. Patrick didn’t visit as often, and when he did, he always looked disappointed when he drank the water. “It just doesn’t taste as good as I remember.” Soon Patrick rarely came over at all, just like before. Busy at work.

Walter’s gray hair returned. His eyesight and hearing retreated to their previous state. His voice descended back into that old man’s croak. Harriet wasn’t sure how she felt about it at first, but then decided it was more comfortable this way. And he wasn’t tracking sawdust into the house.

On the last balmy night of September, as they lay on their separate beds in the darkness, he cleared his throat and spoke. “Remember when you were cleaning out the shop…”

“What?”

“When you were cleaning out the shop, did you see an old metal cup?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“An old metal cup. It was on the faucet handle of the sink.”

She thought for a while. “Yes, that thing. I remember now. I threw it out with the rest of the trash. You’re lucky you didn’t get tetanus drinking out of that filthy cup, you old fool.”

He stared at the shadows on the ceiling. “Yes, m’dear. Good night.”

She grunted and rolled over.

It was hours before he finally drifted off.

Eric had hair the color of cardboard. His eyes were like hard little nuts and he had bony corners on his arms and legs. His skin was all scratched up from sticker bushes and his feet smelled like moldy cheese.

He loved to race and roar all over town and get himself in trouble. He pounced on every chance to be a pest and rattled all the old people and most of the not-so-old people too. He shoplifted popsicles from the drug store and broke bottles under the bridge and stole the wheel off a go-cart and did lots of other stuff.

Most of the time he wasn’t really that bad. He said please when he asked to be forgiven for hiding a sandwich bag of stolen pennies in his shoe. He said thank you when the principal said he wouldn’t send a note to his dad. He even remembered not to cuss in front of his grandmother, most of the time.

But other times, when a certain mood came over him, he would descend into a storm of temper. He would tear at the world, a hurricane of shouts and flailing limbs, a demon of rage and wrath. His temper was a legend before he could even walk, and now that he could roam around town it was even more famous. He had as foul a temper as anyone had ever seen.

One day Eric was alone in his room trying to glue the steering wheel onto his James Bond car. It was the first time he’d built a model all by himself, and he was almost finished, except for this last difficult step. He tried and tried to put the glue only where it was needed but it kept dribbling. He grunted and furrowed his brow, concentrating, trying to hold the steering column just so, long enough to let the glue dry. His hand slipped, and the whole front of the car busted apart, the wheels flying off in different directions.

A darkness rose behind his eyes. He smashed the car to bits under his fist. He screamed a curse and lashed out at the cabinets, slamming them shut with a bang and a whack. He lunged at the door and with withering force he flung it shut like a clap of thunder, shaking the room and making all the pictures hang crooked. He grabbed his toys and let fly against the wall. Wham! Crash! His shoes were next. Boom! Bang!

His father opened the door and yelled: “Hey!”

This stopped him in his tracks because his father never yelled. In fact it was a source of great mystery to people that such a mild mannered gentleman could have such a wild son.

He stared at his father. “What?”

“Stop it,” he said. “Stop slamming the door and the cabinets. Look at the wall.” There were marks where the shoes had hit. “I will not allow you to smash up this house.”

He thought about it for a minute. Yes, it was true that his tantrums were usually not at the expense of the house, or his things, but it wasn’t as if he’d never lost his temper before.

“You are getting too big for these outbursts,” said his father. “When you were little it was bad enough but now you’re bigger. I’m afraid you’ll break the furniture and smash the door frame. Sit down right now.”

This request snapped Eric out of his daze. “No!”

“Sit down. Right this second.”

“No!” He slammed a cabinet with a sharp crack.

“Eric…”

He kicked a dresser drawer and socks flew up to the ceiling.

“Eric…”

He pushed over the bedside table and the lamp’s bulb shattered against the wall.

“Eric!”

“What?!”

“Get out! Get out of this house right now!”

He stared at his father for a moment, not comprehending.

“I mean it. Get out of my house. Leave. Go away.”

“Ok, I will!” He stomped out of his room and he stomped down the stairs and he stomped outside, slamming the screen door behind him.

“Come back when you’ve calmed down,” called his father from the porch.

Eric was madder than he’d ever been before. He couldn’t remember what started it and he didn’t care. He didn’t wonder why he was getting more furious with each passing second.

He brought his fist down on a mailbox with a bang. An old man yelled at him. He yelled back, but it came out as gibberish. The German shepherd at the house on the corner came charging out at him. Eric roared and raced toward the dog. It turned and dashed away, yelping.

He headed down the street to where some neighborhood kids were playing football. One of them, Broderick, was a fat bully who liked to pick on Eric. When Broderick saw him he came swaggering over. “Hey! The wuss is coming to give me some more money.” But something made Broderick slow down and stop in mid-step. Eric wasn’t running away. He was marching right at him.

“Hey, did you get bigger?” asked Broderick. Eric punched him, right on the button. Broderick screamed like a girl and ran away, holding his nose. The other boys backed off and watched as Eric lumbered by. They looked puny to him. When he saw their football lying in the street he stomped on it and popped it like a grape. He headed for the school.

There were still some kids on the playground. He marched toward the swing set. The children screamed and abandoned their swings. He grabbed one of the chains and yanked on it with a bellow of rage. It swung around and whacked against the side of his head. He howled and tugged harder. The chain snapped off in his hand. Confused, he stared down at it. Broken links lay scattered on the ground and the limp chain looked thinner than he remembered. He looked up at the top of the swing set and bumped his head against the crossbar. He roared and pulled on the rest of the swings, snapping the chains like threads, then turned to the monkey bars.

A couple of first graders were on the bars, staring in wide-eyed terror. Eric bellowed and slammed his fist down in the dirt, shaking the ground so hard that the children flew off the bars and ran away crying. He grabbed the monkey bars and tugged. They refused to budge. His eyes went wild and he screamed like a banshee and tugged again. This time the whole thing came out of the ground along with its cement foundations in a shower of dirt and rocks. He crushed the bars between his hands, crumpling them up until he had a ball of iron and concrete. He threw the ball at a nearby police car, crushing it like tin foil. The siren had begun to annoy him.

By now he was as tall as the trees. He grabbed some and pulled them up like weeds, tossing them to the left and right. Another police car came wailing so he stomped on it. A fire truck was close behind, lights blazing. He picked it up with both hands and broke it over his knee like a baguette.

There were a lot of police cars coming now and he was having a tough time smashing them all. He didn’t really care anyway since he was busy stomping on the houses and watching their contents explode out across the neighborhood.

He heard a crack and felt a sharp pain in his arm. The police were shooting at him! He heard a few more shots and felt the bullets hit his chest. They didn’t do much damage but they hurt, so he pulled up the biggest oak he could find and used it like a broom. He swung it back and forth along the ground, sweeping the policemen away as he headed downtown.

By now there were lots of helicopters hovering above. A few of them were news or hospital helicopters but the others had police markings. He lunged at one of them. It turned sharply to escape but it was too late. He pulverized the chopper between his hands and it exploded in flames. Eric enjoyed this so much that he crushed a few more until the rest of them learned to keep a respectful distance.

He swaggered downtown into the financial district. He was now bigger than most of the skyscrapers. He shoved against one of them but it didn’t fall over. He gurgled with apoplectic fury and shoved again. This time it toppled and collapsed in a cloud of rubble and dust. He moved on to the next one and shoved it over, then kicked over the next two, and knocked down few more after that.

A blinding flash filled the air. He felt a sharp pain in the side of his head as a deafening explosion shook the sky. They were firing missiles at him! He looked around and saw the jets in the distance, swooping around to make another run. He howled in pain and hurled big handfuls of wreckage in their direction. One of the jets was struck by an I-beam. It spun to Earth and the pilot ejected just before his jet hit the street and erupted in a humongous fireball.

The other jets kept coming and they fired several missiles before peeling away into the clouds. He swatted at the missiles and blew up a few of them, but a couple got through and exploded against his chest and neck. He roared and began stomping and bashing the buildings more fiercely than ever. By now he was much taller than any of them, and he could feel the clouds cool and wet against his face. He saw the jets rapidly retreating so he ran after them, each step shaking the earth. When he caught up he crushed them like gnats between his mighty palms, with a clap that put the most terrible thunder to shame.

He marched over to the next city and began to crush it. By now he could easily step on the tallest skyscraper like it was a soda can. When the city was almost flattened Eric saw a blinding flash and was sent sprawling on his backside. Dazed, he looked up and saw an immense mushroom cloud rising above him.

“Aargh!” He leapt back to his feet and began tearing all over the countryside, crushing every city he could find. He was now so fantastically huge that he could take out an entire downtown with one stomp. City after city was obliterated. He just kept on growing, until he was so big he couldn’t even see the buildings anymore. The cities now looked like little gray scabs, with lots of roads going to them. He destroyed those he could find, but many were concealed by clouds. Looking around, he noticed that the horizon was taking on a curved appearance.

He turned to the East and with a few steps he was in the Atlantic Ocean. It only came up to his ankles. He kicked and splashed and sent giant waves crashing over entire continents. He strode about, shaking the Earth, crushing countries beneath his feet. By now he was so huge that the earth was like a big beach ball that he was standing on. A few moments later it was the size of a basketball. Then he held the entire planet in one hand, and brought his fist down upon it with a grunt. The Earth exploded into a million little chunks, shooting off into space.

He turned and swatted the moon like a Ping-Pong ball, reducing it to dust. Then he reached out to the sun.

It was too big for him to grab at first, and too hot, but a few seconds later he was able to get his arms around it. As the sun’s flames seared his face he squeezed harder and harder, grinding his teeth in a blind fury. Finally the sun exploded in his arms, spewing flaming comets across the cosmos.

He reached out to the stars. They were too far away. He screamed and reached again. Now he could grab them, millions at a time, crushing them between his fingers. He reached out at the middle of the Milky Way galaxy and swatted it across space, scattering billions of stars like dust. He crushed the other galaxies, billions at a time, screaming and wild eyed, until every last star in the universe was snuffed out.

A few minutes later he came quietly back into the house. His father was in the living room, reading the newspaper. “Feeling better now, Eric?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m ok now.”