“Hey,” Mr. Green said, gently putting a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. To the couple, he said, “I think now that everything’s under control, we can all go back to what we were doing. Sorry about those hot dogs. I might have a few extra in my fridge.”
The couple grumbled something about having more wieners of their own. The woman went back into the cabin while the man dragged the table out from under the tree.
Mr. Green said to Jeff, “You okay?”
“I guess.”
“Come join me on the porch.”
He led Jeff to his cabin, opened the spring-loaded screen door, and pointed to a folding aluminum chair with fraying canvas webbing. “Sit.”
Jeff sat.
“You’re way too young for me to offer you a beer. How about a Coke?”
Jeff said he’d like that, thanks. He was feeling kind of shaky. He didn’t yell at grown-ups very often.
Mr. Green came back out of the cabin with a can of pop and a bottle of beer. The man was probably in his sixties, and from what Jeff knew, was a retired construction worker whose wife had died a few years ago. He was enjoying his summer here, fishing and reading books and just taking it easy. He was a short, stocky man, with a few wisps of hair around the side of his head, and he wore glasses with thin, wire frames.
“You okay?” he asked, sitting next to Jeff in another folding chair.
“I guess.” The truth was — and he was embarrassed to be feeling this way — he felt like he was going to cry.
“If those people rat you out to your aunt, I’ll tell her what really happened,” he said. “Those two, putting a barbecue under a tree — they’re dumb as a pair of old boots.”
Jeff sniffed. “Thanks, Mr. Green.”
“How many times this summer have I told you to call me Harry?”
“My aunt says it’s disrespectful because I’m a kid and you’re, well, you’re sort of old.”
“Well, your aunt ain’t here right now, so you call me Harry.”
Jeff smiled. “Okay... Harry. Thanks for the Coke, and for putting out the fire. I might have been able to do it if I hadn’t tripped on my own stupid feet.”
“Good thing I keep an extinguisher in my truck. I was sitting on the porch here, reading my John Grisham book, when I saw that idiot putting half a can of lighter fluid on that thing and then poof! Up it went. I ran to my truck about the same time you showed up.”
Jeff nodded. He was feeling a lump in his throat.
“You okay, son?” Harry asked.
“It’s just... it’s, it’s... ”
“You know what I think? I think you’re something.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, here you are, just a kid, helping your aunt run this place. Not having — you know — a mom and dad any more. That was a terrible thing, them dying in a plane crash and all.”
Jeff looked at him. “You know about that?”
“Your aunt told me.”
“Oh,” he said.
“That’s a pretty tough thing to go through. That’s why I think you’re something. I don’t know that I could have dealt with all this when I was your age. How old are you, anyway?”
Jeff wasn’t going to lie to Harry Green the way he had tried with Emily. “Twelve.”
“Ha!” he said. “The way I seen you driving around in your aunt’s truck, I figured you might be a bit older, but not old enough to be driving legally. You’re a good driver.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got a son, you know,” he said. “But he’s all grown up, got kids of his own now. Lives clear across the country. Haven’t seen him in years.” His eyes softened. “When he was your age, we did lots of things together.”
Harry sat back in his chair and drank his beer. “I know I’ve asked you before, but you should come fishing with me some time. But you don’t care much for it, do you?”
“Not really,” Jeff said. “It’s boring, just sitting in a boat all day.”
Harry laughed. “I suppose. But when you’re an old guy like me, boring can be kind of nice. Well, if you ever change your mind and want to come out with me one day before the end of summer, you just let me know.”
“Okay.” Even though Jeff didn’t care about fishing, he thought hanging out with Harry Green might be nice. It would be good having someone like him to talk to. Jeff missed both his parents, but he missed them in different ways. He had liked to talk to his mom when he had trouble with his friends, or needed advice about school. With his father, it was more guy stuff. Cars and action movies and baseball and hockey. Things his mom wasn’t as interested in. Well, except hockey. His mom had loved hockey. She’d had an uncle who’d once played for Boston. Maybe, Jeff thought, if he went fishing with Harry, if he got to know him a bit, they could talk about those kinds of things, so that it didn’t get so boring waiting for a fish to bite the hook.
“You want something to eat?” Harry asked. “I got some of the sticky buns from that bakery in town.”
“No, thank you. I better go. I was going to go for a boat ride, but I don’t think there’s time now. I’ve got to cut some grass.”
Harry Green nodded. “Your aunt, she works you hard.”
“I guess.”
“It may seem like she’s being mean to you, but she’s making you tough. You need to be tough in this world.”
“I guess.”
“You guess, you guess, you guess.” He pointed his finger into Jeff’s chest, gave it a nudge. “You have to know.”
“Know what?”
“You have to know that you are being the best that you can be. That you’re living up to your potential.”
“Okay.”
Harry Green grinned and rubbed the top of his head, mussing the boy’s hair. “Go on with you, then. You ever need help with anything, you just come get me.” He smiled. “I’m gonna keep my eye on you.”
Seven
The dog ran.
And ran.
Chipper was moving so quickly his body had moved aerodynamically lower to the ground, like a race car. The fur on his stomach brushed the surface of the subway concourse floor.
At first, all he wanted to do was get away. Get out of the subway station. Put some distance between himself and those people from The Institute searching the train.
But once he’d emerged from below ground and slipped in among the hundreds of people walking on the pavement, he headed northeast. He had to get to his destination, a place where he thought he might be safe.
A place where he could set things right, too.
He had dipped into his memory files long enough to know that the place he wanted to get to was a considerable distance from here. Well beyond the city’s limits. He’d do the trip on his paws if he had to, but it would take days, if not weeks. It would be better if he could travel in some kind of vehicle.
But a dog, even a dog as advanced as he, could not exactly rent a car and get behind the wheel, or even walk along the side of the highway and stick out his paw to hitch a ride. And while his software allowed him to think in ways that other dogs could not — by using actual words and language — he did not have the power of speech. He could not go up to someone and say, “Can I get a lift?”
Imagine if he could. The sensation it would cause. Just as well he couldn’t utter anything more than a bark. He’d be on the six o’clock news, or sold to a circus.
So even though he couldn’t go up to the counter at the bus station and ask for a ticket, it didn’t mean he couldn’t get a ride on a bus. He just couldn’t expect to get a seat. But maybe he could ride with the luggage.
He consulted his database, went into the map program, and found a location for a terminal that dispatched buses to places outside the city. It was only ten blocks away. At the next corner he made a left, then a right three blocks after that. Within fifteen minutes he was across the street from the bus station. He watched as the vehicles pulled in and out, diesel exhaust spewing from under the back bumpers. Even from across the street, the diesel fumes found their way into his nose. Chipper loved distinguishing between the thousands of smells the world presented him, but diesel exhaust was one he could do without.