to tell the truth. It went haywire! You have to help me!â
âHave to? Like fate, huh?â He laughs, a dry, tight sound.
âPlease â¦â My teeth chatter. I notice the chill air for the first time. Running off, I forgot my jacket.
âSit down.â
âNo! Weâve got to go away from here!â
âIt isnât easy to hide from TIA, kid. Gotta think, so sit down.â He slaps the bench.
Heâs going to help me! My knees fold from relief and I collapse onto the seat next to him. He knows what weâre up against. Maybe he can come up with a plan.
He shrugs out of his jacket, wincing as he draws his arms from the sleeves. He wraps it around me. It settles heavy on my shoulders. The pockets must be crammed with stuff. Smells a little sour, but itâs sleep-hot. I pull my legs into the cave of it, too.
âHave a sip of this.â He takes a squeeze bottle out of his pants pocket. He folds my fingers around it, urges them toward my mouth. âDo it. Iâve seen shock plenty of times, kid, and thatâs where youâre headed.â
Dadâs let me sip wine before, but this stuff grabs your attention in a whole different way.
âHey, thatâs enough!â He snatches it back, fires in a mouthful for himself. âWhen did this happen?â
âFifteen minutes ago? Longer since weâve been talking.â
He looks at the Chronomatrix on his wrist. His lips draw thin and straight.
âGo buy a soda. Machineâs right there.â He points to a cluster of vending machines along the same wall the bench is against.
Heâs crazy! âWe canât sit here drinking soda!â
âNot to drink. For that bruise on your cheek. Gotta get something cold on it to stop the swelling.â
I pull the jacket tight and head for the soda machine, press my thumb to the charge plate.
TIA can trace that.
I never worried about TIA before. Mark knows a lot â¦
Mark! Has anyone told him yet? Does anyone know anything yet? Or is Mrs. Phillips still zonked out?
She shut the Counselor down. Maybe she was going to help me. I just ran away. What if sheâs hurt? I just ran.
Two Helium Zingers drop out of the slot. I might drink one. Supposed to be good for queasy stomachs. When I come back to the bench, he sits rigid as a block of ice, staring out at the ships on their launch-pads.
âTend to that bruise.â He doesnât even glance at me. âAnd keep your mouth shut.â
Gingerly, I press the cold, sweating can to my right cheek. Hiss in a sharp breath. But the cold feels good. Slowly, I rotate the can.
âOkay.â He lurches to his feet with a curse and a grab at the small of his back. âCome on.â
He bends down only far enough to catch the strap of the duffel bag. He hitches the strap over his shoulder, then, Igor-like, limps toward the rear of the station. I stand up, but itâs tricky holding the sodas and keeping the jacket from falling off. Heâs around the corner already. I rush to catch up.
Heâs standing behind some kind of wheeled thing.
âWhatâs the matter?â He shrugs the duffel into the back of the thing. âHavenât you ever seen a golf cart before?â
âNot with wheels !â
âGet in.â He hitches up his right leg and works it over the sidewall into the driverâs side. The cart tips as he shifts all his weight onto that foot and hauls the rest of his body in using the steering wheel.
âWhere are we going?â
He gestures toward the ocean and now I see that the cart is parked at the beginning of the long road out to Pad 12âmust be at least a mile. The ancient concrete is heaved and shattered, but thereâs a smooth path of fresh sand down the middle of the decayed roadway. Two ruts are packed hard from frequent trips. His berth. Heâs been living out there with the rocket! Probably cleared away any surveillance stuff. But