ã€ŠThe Seventh Deviceã€‹


 Foreword

    Hey Royal Road readers! Important disclaimer:

    The following story is not a "web novel." Readers who are used to that format''s main features--namely, lightning-quick plot motion and frequent cliffhangers--might want to browse to another title. This novel was written for eventual paperback publication, and I think the different writing philosophy is easy to notice when compared to most of the fiction here. If you could pluck a sci-fi novel off a library shelf and enjoy the read, this book may be for you... but if you prefer bite-sized chapters and light reading on the go, you''re likely better off moving to something else on this site. Both writing philosophies are equally valid, but I just wanted to highlight the fact that I''m akin to a chicken vendor in a fish market; this product may be out of place on a site like this, so buyer reader beware.

    With my mildly-self-sabotaging disclaimer out of the way, now comes the novel''s intended foreword:

    <hr>

    In the late 2000s and early 2010s, I was a high-schooler with dreams of being the next Steven Spielberg. Any self-respecting writer-director extraordinaire would need some original scripts¡ªand so, on my rinky-dink high-school laptop, I started a screenplay for a project with the working title of Artifakt. The outline was ambitious: it would combine sci-fi, some mystery, some police procedural¡­ a dash of Stephen King crossed with a twist of the superhero and thriller genres. By around page 60, it became abundantly clear it was way out-of-league for a kid with a project budget that would''ve rounded to $0. The writing ground to a halt. Then, in 2012, a film came out that hit so many of the same plot beats it felt like a gut punch¡ªmore on that in the afterword. Four years later, Stranger Things brought 80''s nostalgia media back into the popular spotlight, and Artifakt felt like a project that missed its moment. Its incomplete draft sat in stasis in the cloud¡ªfloating in an ancient Dropbox account¡ªand there it would remain until 2019. That was the year I decided I''d try a career in writing instead¡­ as Artifakt was intended to be my debut into filmmaking, it only felt appropriate that it be my first big-boy book project, too.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    The result, the book you''re reading, is a novel that feels like a duet between the two versions of me that wrote it. The front is written by the fifteen-year-old, while the back two-thirds were written by the 25-year-old who had let the story sit and ferment for that interim decade. I''ve spent effort trying to smooth out that seam, but I do think the reader can still feel the switch. Worry not, as you''re not about to read a teenager''s writing. I, of course, did plenty of editing and cleaning up in the beginning¡ªyounger me was way too heavy with the scene description¡ªbut overall, I tried to keep as true to the original vision as I could. The end result is a story that I know younger me would''ve been proud of, but older me¡ªcurrent me¡ªhas certain, specific reservations about. Don''t get me wrong, I had a lot of fun with this project, and I think most readers will, too. But the reader should be forewarned: the now-renamed Seventh Device contains scenes of dark (and occasionally graphic) violence among teenagers. When I wrote it, I was as old as those kids, and I saw it as only scenes of violence between people. Now that I''m an "adult," I can''t help but find those scenes fairly uncomfortable. Reader discretion is therefore advised.

    With what feels the responsible warning out of the way, I hope you enjoy the story.

 Prologue

    There was a wild animal in the forests of Boone.

    The moon cast its tired light over the woods, but the animal steered clear of even that meager illumination¡­ the shadows were its refuge, and it scurried from cover to cover so that it might remain unseen. It watched the kindling of the blaze, saw the arrival of the six¡ªwas almost sighted, in fact, but the shadows proved a faithful ally. Days later, with eyes wide and trembling, it camped by the shack in the deep forest until it watched its own damnation, all the while wondering if it could stop it¡ªbut it was a muted, clinical wondering. It never actually tried, nor did it mean to.

    Then came the shootout, the car, the struggle, and, at long last¡ªthe 7th device. So close all along¡­ and now, so very far away.

    It raised its hands, noting the cold metal bracelets that affixed it to the table¡­

    There was a wild animal in custody of Boone PD.

    He sat in the holding cell, handcuffs chained to that stained table. He was bruised, and he was bloodied, but it was the hollow look to his single unpatched eye that made the police chief squirm.

    "You know what we''ve arrested you for?"

    The boy''s head twitched¡ªwhether in a nod of yes or no was unclear.

    "You''d better get talking¡­ start at the beginning."

    The boy locked gaze with the chief, an expression of fear on his face.

    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    "It doesn''t have a beginning," the boy said. His voice was breathy, heavy with emotion the Chief couldn''t read.

    "Start with Trent, then," the Chief commanded. "What happened that night?"

    The boy''s one eye searched the empty table, replaying memories he''d relived a thousand times. "Can you hear it?" he asked, look still distant.

    The Chief heard only the scratchy hum of an AC unit in need of replacing. "Hear what?" he asked.

    "The music," the boy said, before he suddenly began to buck and writhe against his restraints. The Chief stood instinctively, hand lowering to his weapon, but he could see that the cuffs held the thrashing boy firmly to the table. He was trembling with rage now¡ªor was it sorrow?¡ªbut his struggling was a futile thing, and soon the boy realized it, and he slowed back to a fevered rocking. "Can you hear it?" the boy again asked, clattering weakly against his restraints. With the pained look on his face, and the tears that welled in his unpatched eye, the question was perhaps the most pathetic thing the Chief had ever heard.

    Offering no answer, the Chief backed out of the room, head shaking in pity. A job for the shrinks, then¡ªand if they couldn''t get useful info out of him, the courts would still have their day.

    "I need them!" the boy shouted from behind the now-shut door. "Please, I''m drowning!" And then came broken, quiet weeping that had every officer in range listening with downturned eyes. Of the five in the immediate vicinity of the holding cell, only one, Nora Campbell, had any idea what had happened¡­ and she wouldn''t dare tell the rest, for she knew how crazy it would all sound.

    The Chief wanted the beginning? She understood why the boy said there was none¡­ or maybe, it''s that there were too many. In a way, it started six days ago: July 11th, 1981. In another way, it started as far back as the turn of the century, or it started as recently as yesterday. But the beginning that troubled her the most? The fourth of May, 1973.

    For on that night, two men sat in an idling car, the older writing his secrets in a cramped, arthritic scrawl. That was the night of the great and terrible favor¡­ the night of so many questions at long answered.

    It was, in essence, a righting of Nora''s greatest personal failing.

    That was the night the hunt formally began.

 Chapter 1 - Summer

    It was the morning of the eleventh of July, 1981.

    The creek babbled and bubbled as it meandered through the clearing. On a day as hot as today, Shaun was grateful for its cool touch. The diminutive brown-haired boy sat reading a comic book on the creek''s edge, shoeless feet submerged in the shallow water. His mom would yell at him if she saw¡ªcreeks were such dirty things, she''d surely say¡ªbut that was, of course, one of the joys of summer. School was out, but the adults still worked. In other words, he could do whatever he wanted, and there was nobody to tell him otherwise.

    The other boys were nearly late, but that was little surprise. Summer had everyone on lazy schedules, sleeping in where they could. Shaun was relatively sure that the boys knew where the creek was, at least. He had fond memories of them all racing about this very clearing, fighting with sticks as though they were swords. They were children then, but now Shaun was old: last April, he had celebrated his twelfth birthday. A boy of such experience could surely decide for himself whether creeks were a fitting place for feet.

    The wind stirred, and Shaun sighed with the forest itself as he turned to the next page in his comic. On the full-page panel, Lord Galaxy piloted a burning rocket into an emergency landing on a wild, alien world, a picture that nearly took Shaun''s breath away. He immediately reached for his pack to his right, rummaging around for the construction paper and pencils he brought. He set the comic book down¡ªgingerly placing a rock on it so that no wayward breeze sent it into the creek¡ªand then he started his sketch. He, too, would draw a rocket ship on dangerous descent, but instead of an alien world, his rocket would be crashing towards¡ª

    "That''s Boone?"

    Shaun almost jumped at the voice. He''d been so absorbed in his sketch, he hadn''t noticed the older boy''s approach.

    "You could recognize it?" Shaun asked excitedly.

    "You did write the word ''Boone'' with a line pointing towards the trees," said the newcomer, Skinny.

    "Oh, that''s right."

    Skinny sat down next to Shaun, watching the sketch with genuine interest. He peeled his left shoe off, followed by the right.

    "Water''s cool," Skinny said.

    "Sure is," Shaun agreed.

    Skinny''s nickname was fitting, for Shaun had never seen a boy more tall and lanky. He was black-skinned, something that his grandparents whispered as though it were some secret scandal, but Shaun never really understood what the problem was supposed to be. It was just too easy to like Skinny. He was friendly to everyone, even Shaun, though he and the rest of the gang were several years Shaun''s senior. None of the other boys would''ve paid Shaun''s sketch any mind, but here Skinny was, sitting beside him, watching closely. Shaun thought it no wonder that just about everyone thought Skinny was the coolest.

    "You gotta teach me how you draw so good sometime," Skinny said, and Shaun beamed. "But before that art lesson, we got important business to get to today. What''s got everyone else so late?"

    <center>* * *</center>

    Elsewhere in the woods of Boone, a short and stocky boy stood with triumph, finally holding fast to the treasure he carried.

    Wade managed about ten steps before a bag fell once again.

    He huffed, waddling a few steps backwards to the site of the crime, careful not to upset the rest of the stack. Carefully¡ªslowly¡ªhe bent down, stretching out his right hand until he felt contact with his index finger. He maneuvered his hand until he felt the foil lip between his index and middle finger, and then he squeezed those fingers together, grabbing the stranded snack bag. Then, with great exaggerated slowness, he stood back up to a straight-back posture.

    Six snack bags in his left, and again six in his right¡ªwell, five in his right and one dangling underneath. It would have to work.

    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Wade bravely extended one foot forward, and then the other, finding a steady walking rhythm that didn''t shake the bags loose. He made it about another dozen steps before twin *plops* on his left and right told him two bags of cheese-filled pretzels had escaped his grasp. Such was as it had been for the past 20 minutes of forest wandering¡ªand before that, the 15 minutes between grocer''s and forest. A boy made of weaker stuff might have gone home, might have gotten some sort of bag, but Wade was nothing if not persistent. His parents called him stubborn, but they didn''t acknowledge the creativity that stubbornness required. An idea came to Wade then, and he laughed aloud at its sheer brilliance. He dropped the carried snack bags and immediately began to tuck his shirt into his pants. He drew his belt tight, and then he gave a few experimental tugs to his shirt. Finding it satisfactory, he bent down for the snack bags, and he then began to stuff them under his shirt from the neckline, one at a time, tucked shirt holding them snugly and securely against his body. Wade roared in his victory.

    "You look ready to survive a hit from a car," said a new voice. Wade turned up the trail, still stuffing more snack bags under his shirt.

    "They''re filled with mostly air anyways¡­ Could make for some good armor," Wade said, rubbing a hand on his bulging shirt for comedic effect.

    Logan Kessler stepped into the clearing, expression caught between amusement and concern. "I can''t decide if you''d bounce off or roll away," he said. "Those all for you?"

    Wade huffed indignantly. "I brought lunch for us," he said. "All of us."

    Logan watched him stuff yet another bag of cheese-filled pretzels into his shirt. "Lunch," he repeated, watching as the final bag was packed away.

    "Two apiece," Wade said. "Twelve bags. My own money, too, so you guys owe me."

    "You know," Logan began, "I''ve got this backpack on my back¡­ Why don''t we get those snacks out of your shirt and put them somewhere less¡­ sweaty?"

    Wade thought for a moment, sad that his genius solution wouldn''t be put to the test¡­ but he finally relented, figuring that it wasn''t admitting defeat if someone else went and brought the bag. He''d persevered, and that was what mattered. He yanked his shirt up and let the snack bags clatter to the floor. Logan bent down to start collecting them.

    Logan was dark-haired and freckled, quiet around strangers and only slightly less quiet around friends. If Wade was being honest, Logan could sometimes be a bit too serious, but he supposed sometimes serious was just what a group needed to avoid getting too deep into trouble.

    "I only count ten," Logan said, shuffling the last into his backpack.

    Wade reached down and gave a cautionary prod. "Oh, feels like two may have fallen into my pants," he said. He immediately moved to grab them, but Logan raised a hand to stop him, zipping up the backpack.

    "Why don''t we just say those two are yours, instead of mixing them up with the rest?"

    Wade shrugged, not quite seeing the big deal.

    "Onwards, then?" Logan asked.

    "Onwards," Wade agreed.

    <center>* * *</center>

    "You think they''re all waiting for us already?" Parker Campbell picked his steps carefully, choosing the crunchiest sticks and leaves for each footfall. He was red-haired and pale, and a fair bit smaller than his walking companion¡ªbut, to be honest, almost everyone was smaller than Ronnie.

    "Probably," Ronnie supplied, walking with eyes fixed on the path ahead, clearly lost in thought. Ronnie was tall¡ªonly an inch shorter than Skinny, and the boys checked that fact almost every week¡ªbut while Skinny was all lank, Ronnie was stocky and sturdy. His straight blond hair fell in a neat bowl cut, and a frown creased his face as he thought on today''s business. "Do you think it can be true?" he asked Parker, feeling silly for even asking.

    Parker shrugged his shoulders, knowing immediately what he meant. "Probably not," he said. "It''d be really cool if it was, though," Parker added, hating to deflate spirits.

    "Exciting, even," Ronnie agreed, before he frowned again. "But dangerous, maybe. Impossible, probably."

    "Just because something''s never happened before doesn''t mean it can''t ever happen," Parker said, scratching at his head. Innately, he was always the optimistic sort, but sometimes words didn''t fit together the right way to express how he felt. "Like, the first time something happens, it never ever happened before¡ªand then it does," Parker continued. It was abundantly clear to the both that he was no philosopher.

    "I guess you''re right," Ronnie said, thinking he understood the smaller boy''s point. "You just don''t think things like that happen in Boone¡­ nothing interesting ever happens in Boone."

    "That''s not true¡ªremember last summer, when the library had to close down ''cause it had roaches?"

    Ronnie stared at Parker levelly.

    "Fine, fine, you''re right, boring old Boone. That''s why I, for one, welcome the bit of excitement," Parker said, sighting the creek and the rest of the boys ahead.

    Ronnie, not wanting to sound too dour, held his tongue. As they drew near to the other four, greetings were exchanged, bags of pretzels were tossed, "lunch" was had, and then six boys set off into the balmy woods on a great search. They were looking for the impossible; they were looking for a body. And though they didn''t know it yet at the time, they were looking for trouble, too.

    And ahead, trouble waited, packed neatly in a simple leather case, alight with the buzzing of flies and the wriggling of maggots.

 Chapter 2 - The Body

    The six found easy rhythm as they trudged through the winding forests of the Appalachian Mountains. Periodically, they''d pause at some recognized landmark, and the group would wait expectantly while small and timid Shaun stepped forward to appraise. Once he found his bearings, and could remember where he''d gone next, he''d point off in one direction or another, and so the group would continue. In-between such wayfinding stops, Skinny led the way, shepherding the group over fallen logs, across small streams, beneath craggy overhangs, and even past a dark and breezy cave.

    As they walked, idle chatter broke out in smaller groups, and occasionally all would come together while Skinny told a story in that boisterous manner of his. When Skinny told stories, everyone listened intently.

    ¡°And so get this," Skinny continued. "Brian Krenkshaw¡ªhe still wore those funny glasses at the time¡ªhe¡¯s tryin¡¯ to tell me that his hamster escaped while at the same time I¡¯m tryin¡¯ to talk to my Ma on the telephone, and so of course I get mixed up, and I tell¡ª¡°

    "Wait, did anyone else just hear that?" interrupted Shaun.

    "Hear what?" Logan asked.

    Shaun stood in silence, listening, but heard no further sounds. "Voices? Something? I don''t know¡­" He looked down, kicking his feet nervously, but then he noticed something about the ground and a perplexed look settled on his face. "It was really close to here¡­. I recognize this place."

    Skinny''s story was now entirely forgotten as everyone turned towards him¡­ a sudden serious mood prevailed.

    ¡°You¡­ you sure it was near here?¡± asked Ronnie.

    ¡°Yuh-huh. I had just passed that craggy cliff and was heading east when I saw it. It has to be around here," Shaun replied.

    The boys looked around and at each other, ready for their task. They then looked to Skinny, awaiting specific instruction.

    ¡°Well, let¡¯s get started then!" Skinny said. "We didn¡¯t walk all the way out here just for the hell of it¡­ let¡¯s split up and search the area. Logan, you take the north. Wade and myself will take the east. Parker, Shaun, you guys take south. And Ronnie, you got the west.¡±

    <center>* * *</center>

    While Shaun closed his eyes and tried to get his bearings, comparing the scene around him to one he held in his memory, Ronnie was the first to venture off. As the distance between him and the gang grew, he also felt a growing unease¡ªa hard-to-shake feeling that he was being watched. He turned an ear upwards, listening for sounds that seemed out-of-place, and he heard a gentle scuffling of dirt and leaves nearby¡­ was that a skittering squirrel? A gust of wind? Or something else?

    He turned uneasily to the source of the disturbance: it came from behind a large, gnarled tree that creaked in the gentle winds overhead. He momentarily considered retreating to the group, but quickly dismissed the thought¡ªhe''d been entrusted with the west. And so he approached the tree, mentally commanding himself to calm, and he ran inquisitive fingers along the dry bark. It felt perfectly ordinary. After summoning as much courage as he could muster, he began to trace a path along and behind the tree, expecting to find something waiting on the other side. It was a relief, and not all that surprising, when he found only more empty woods.

    <center>* * *</center>

    To the south, Shaun and Parker walked loose circles around a tall rock formation, heads swiveling left and right. To Shaun, all of this looked somewhat familiar from the original sighting, but not quite familiar enough. And then there had been that mysterious sound¡­ voices on the breeze? Maybe a higher vantage would help. As Shaun broke from the rock and picked his way up a sloping hill, Parker set off in a different direction.

    Parker thought then of his mother, how she did this sort of thing professionally. How might mom go about looking for clues? He pulled his pants up just a bit higher, put on his best, stern face, and then dropped to a low, crouching stance, moving forward with deliberate slowness. His eyes were glued to the forest floor, scanning for footprints or clues or even a broken stick out of place. In the movies, it was always a broken stick that alerted the sheriff to the criminals hiding in the woods. How was Parker supposed to know which sticks were broken by suspicious feet when the floor was covered with zillions of sticks in all manner of shapes? He picked one up, studying it closely. It was definitely a stick, there was no doubt about it. It had a bend, ish, and sorta looked like it might have been broken on one end¡ªbut didn''t all sticks have to break on one end to fall from the tree?

    He sighed and tossed the stick back to the floor. Deciding that the stick idea was a bust, he instead stood and looked for plausible hiding spots. There were a bunch of bushes, he noted, and they were plenty dense enough to hide inside¡­ and so, one at a time, he walked to the bushes and started pulling back their fronds, peeking inside for anything suspicious. The first one cleared, empty save for a panicky chipmunk, and the second, unsurprisingly, was also clear¡­ down and down the line he went, shaking each bush in turn and finding them empty.

    His fruitless search was interrupted as Shaun called him over.

    "Yeah, yeah, I''m coming," Parker said, knowing that the young boy must be uneasy left alone in the woods¡­ especially after what he said he''d allegedly seen here. He made his way towards the hill, deflating just a little bit that nothing extraordinary was found.

    <center>* * *</center>

    To the north, Logan wandered around with hands in pockets, kicking rocks and watching them roll and clank against the stones of the clearing. He spotted a large, rounded one jutting out on a tangled root¡­ big enough where kicking it would probably hurt. Instead, he ambled up to it, and then gently set his foot against it. He snapped his leg forward, nearly tossing the rock free, and he watched with satisfaction as it sailed through the air and struck a tree across the clearing. A game came to him: how many more kicks could he make before missing a tree? He looked around, and eventually spotted another suitable candidate: a large, oval-shaped stone with the smooth sheen of a river rock moved out of place. He moved towards it, but, before he could reach it, a branch snapped behind him. He paused mid-stride and peered over his shoulder, seeing only the waving greenery of the forest. There was nobody in sight, but no animals either¡­ what had made the sound?

    ¡°Guys, I really don¡¯t like this place. It gives me the creeps,¡± Logan shouted towards the group.

    ¡°Amen to that brother¡­ I¡¯m just about ready to get going,¡± came the faint, distant shout of Wade.

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    <center>* * *</center>

    To the east, Wade and Skinny inspected a toppled tree, its trunk half-rotted and covered with writhing insects. Strange mushrooms and funguses sprouted from its surface, and the whole of it was covered with a slimy sheen¡ªsap, or something worse.

    "Man, that is gross," Skinny said, stepping in close to watch the line of ants marching along its surface.

    "That is gnarly," Wade agreed. "Fifty cents if you lick it."

    "There is no chance in hell that I''m gonna lick it," Skinny said, pulling back. "But I''d give you a dime if you did it."

    Wade immediately leaned over the mossy log, and Skinny shielded his eyes. "It was a joke, just a joke!"

    After a few seconds of silence, he dared to peek through his fingers, and Wade was standing there, a wide grin on his face.

    Skinny dropped his hands in amazement. "Did you¡­ did you actually¡ª"

    "You owe me a dime," Wade said.

    "Man, you are nasty," Skinny said.

    "A dime''s a dime," Wade said, as if that explained it.

    Beyond the rotting log, the two found a picturesque clearing with rocks perfect for sitting. As they approached for a break, they heard the footsteps of the rest of the group milling in¡ªtheir searches had apparently been just as unsuccessful.

    ¡°Well maybe it¡¯s because I don¡¯t exactly know what an alien spaceship looks like, but I¡¯m pretty sure there¡¯s none over that way,¡± said Parker, finding a sitting spot in the middle of the clearing.

    ¡°I told you guys, it¡¯s not a space ship!" Shaun shouted, also entering the clearing. "Just a space traveler. Here." He reached into his backpack and removed a comic book. The rest of the group filed in around him.

    ¡°Like this guy," Shaun said, pointing at a figure on one of the pages. Skinny took the book for inspection as Shaun continued. "He appeared in a flash of light and looked around for a second. Maybe he wasn¡¯t accustomed to our atmosphere because he fell over right away, dead probably. And it was right¡­" Shaun trailed off, looking at the ground, eyes widening. "This is the clearing," he declared, before taking a few steps to his right. "It was kinda about here.¡±

    ¡°Wait wait wait," Wade began, "you mean we came all the way out here to look for comic book aliens that you thought you saw like almost 2 weeks ago, vaguely somewhere around here?¡±

    "What did you think we were looking for?" asked Skinny.

    "I thought you said it was some homeless guy," Wade said.

    "Why would we be out here looking for a homeless guy?" Ronnie asked.

    "I don''t know¡­ it still makes more sense than an alien that Shaun thought he saw out in the woods," Wade replied.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t think I saw, I know I saw it. And it was here,¡± said Shaun, stomping his foot for emphasis.

    ¡°You were here or it was here?¡± asked Wade.

    Shaun''s confidence began to wane. ¡°¡­I was here. Or somewhere close to here. The alien was like only 20 feet away¡­¡±

    Parker interjected next. ¡°20 feet? I thought you said you went up to a body and touched it¡­ That¡¯s how you knew it was aliens!¡±

    "Touched it?" Shaun balked. "I was far away and didn''t know if it was dangerous! In the comic books they''re almost never unarmed¡­ Why would i want to go touch it? And besides, it was dark."

    "Oh, perfect," Wade said, "so you couldn''t hardly see it and wouldn''t even touch it."

    "Guys¡­" Ronnie said, but the arguing pair didn''t seem to hear.

    "That''s the point of this here!" Shaun said, gesturing about him. "We''re here to go find it, and, if we do, touch it. As a group. Y''know, strength in numbers."

    "Guys!" Ronnie said again, louder this time.

    Wade barreled on. "Oh my God, so this whole things has been a waste of your and my¡ª"

    "Guys!" Ronnie shouted. The group paused and turned towards him. "I think I found it," he said. He pointed towards a dark mass on the ground about thirty feet away, partially covered by pine needles and leaves. All filed in to investigate.

    <center>* * *</center>

    As they drew near, the scent was the first thing they noticed, though it started as a mere hint hanging in the still summer air. As they closed the distance, it began to assert itself loudly until its presence was undeniable, bordering on unbearable. Young Shaun retched involuntarily. "Wow, now that''s rank," Wade replied, nearly seeming impressed at the stench. He pinched his nose and stepped closer to the mass on the ground. "Well, well, well, it looks like we found your man after all," he said. "Skinny, you wanna make that dime back?"

    "Man, I ain''t even gonna answer that," Skinny said.

    Ronnie was next to approach the thing on the ground, but he immediately shuffled backwards, eyes searching frantically for a clear space. He found one near Logan and immediately threw up his lunch. Logan could identify the pretzel pieces in the puke, a fact that made him almost as uneasy as the mass on the ground did. The pungent stench of vomit mixed and mingled in the air with the putrid scent of rot¡­ Skinny fanned the air in front of his face as he stooped lower to investigate.

    The corpse on the ground was partially-decayed and bloating, its surface covered with wriggling insects of uncountable types. It looked decidedly more human than extra-terrestrial, with all the right number of limbs¡­ the thing was even wearing a dirty plaid shirt, a green-and-black checkerboard pattern that nearly served as a rudimentary sort of camouflage. On the top of the body was a leather briefcase clutched in moldering hands. Its center was punctured with a single bullet hole, the fabric surrounding the hole peeling inwards towards the dark inside.

    "Well there he is," Skinny said.

    "I told you guys!" Shaun shouted in triumph, before frowning with the intense concentration required to not add to the vomit pile still-growing with each of Ronnie''s retches.

    "But I don''t know about this being no alien¡­" Skinny said. "He looks pretty human to me. Human shape, human clothes¡­ heck, I''m pretty sure I know somebody who owns that exact shirt. And that''s a pretty human briefcase he''s got right there¡­"

    "But¡ªbut¡ªI saw him appear. Out of nowhere! With the flash, and then he fell over¡­" Shaun said.

    Wade pointed at the case. "Lookie here. His case has a nice bullet hole on the front. What you saw must''ve been the flash of a gun, and then he keeled over after being shot. You, because you read too many comics, might have thought it was aliens, might have thought he just appeared, and because of that you never called the cops. You''re a real airhead, you know that?"

    Shaun was visibly crushed. He searched for the words to defend himself but none came to mind. Instead, he stood there with his chin raised high, the beginnings of tears welling in his eyes.

    "Hey guys, look at this," Logan said. The gang wheeled around to see him raising a hand up in the air. The hand was stained black. "Check out all the trees and everything around here¡­ it''s all covered in the stuff."

    Several among the gang started running their hands over trees and leaves of the shrubs in the area and as they pulled their hands back, they confirmed that the area was indeed coated in a fine layer of black something.

    "Now, I don''t know of no guns that put out that much smoke," Skinny said. Shaun''s eyes lit up.

    Wade wasn''t convinced. ¡°You guys are being ridiculous. It¡¯s clearly a murder scene."

    "¡­Maybe," Skinny said, stroking his chin and staining it black. "But I dunno. This ash suddenly changes things up."

    "It wasn''t anywhere else but here!" Shaun chimed in, his enthusiasm quickly returning.

    "Oh, come on guys," Wade said. "I''ll prove it right now. Let''s open the case and I''ll show you once and for all that this guy is human."

    "No, wait!" Shaun protested, stepping defensively between Wade and the corpse.

    "Why should I wait? Short of a forensics kit, this is the only way to tell what we''ve got here¡­"

    Shaun looked torn. ¡°I know! But in the comics, the only thing more dangerous than the alien is the alien¡¯s things! None of their gadgets or weapons are ever human-friendly.¡±

    Wade shook his head. "So the comic books warned me I shouldn''t? That''s all I needed to hear to open this thing¡­"

    He pushed back Shaun, and, with one hand over his nose, he bent down close to the body. He peeled a clutching hand backwards, which reluctantly moved with a sickening series of pops and crackles. Somewhere near the elbow, fluid began to leak down onto the shirt and mixed with the dirt to create a sticky, crimson mud. Wade stepped back for a moment and wiped his eyes with his arm before stooping back down again to tend to the second hand. He pried it free of the case one finger at a time and then, with a triumphant flourish, he lifted the case away from the body.

 Chapter 3 - The Briefcase

    Wade carried the briefcase reverently at arm''s length as the group followed in behind him. His eyes, and those of all the other boys, were glued to it as though he were carrying the nuclear football itself. Sure, he was convinced this was an ordinary briefcase, and Wade wasn''t one to let fear get to him, but the circumstances of finding the case had him as interested in its contents as any of the others were. As soon as he had lifted it, the contents shifted inside in a way that suggested the thing was almost empty. Just a few items in there, and he was intent on finding out what. Once he had walked out of range of the horrible smell, he set it down on the floor and popped open the twin latches on the case''s front. He then opened the thing, slowly, while the group stared into it.

    ¡°What¡­ what are they?¡± Parker asked.

    Inside the case sat six objects, each of them unlike the others. With a shrug, Wade grabbed one to examine it. The rest of the gang each grabbed their own and sat around in a circle, studying the strange items. Ronnie''s and Parker''s, at least, were easy enough to identify. Ronnie spun a small ring in his fingers, the surface of it marked with bands of what appeared to be copper and iron running around the length of the ring. The inside of the ring had a matte finish to it, which contrasted with the smooth-shiny exterior of polished metal. Parker''s seemed to be an ordinary sleek, metal watch. It shone like silver but was markedly still, neither ticking nor moving its hands.

    Shaun looked around at the other four, a smile of triumph creeping up onto his face. "See, aliens!" he declared, gesturing at the strange items the others held.

    "I don''t know if I''d say alien," Wade began, "just some high-tech strange devices I don''t think I''ve ever seen."

    "Because it''s alien!" Shaun said, excitedly investigating his device. His was a small cube of metal that featured no markings or engravings on the sides. It was unexpectedly cold to the touch, and heavier than he originally expected. As he rotated the box around in his hand, he found a small, flat button on one side of the cube. "I think mine has a button¡­ but I don''t think we should play with these things. Could be dangerous," he said.

    Logan investigated his device, a cylinder of black metal about the size of a toilet paper tube. On its bottom was a pad of some brighter, brushed metal, while on its back was an empty node of some kind, as though something was supposed to be loaded into the device. That node was currently empty.

    Skinny tossed his idly back and forth between his hands. It featured a small cylindrical base not unlike the shape of a large pen. That base connected to a three-inch telescoping neck of some flexible material that ended on a small outwards cone reminiscent of a satellite dish. "Mine''s¡­ a radio, maybe? Though I ain''t never seen a radio this tiny," Skinny said.

    Wade''s object was a small, lumpy thing with the shape of a ball of clay partially squished flat. Four smaller indentations lined the top surface of thing in a slight arc. As he moved it around in his hand, he found that the lumps and ridges made it perfectly suited to fit in a squeezing fist. As he squeezed it, the hair on his arms and legs stood up on end. "Whoa," he said. "Weird."

    Wade looked up at Shaun. "Yours had a button, right? Press it!"

    Shaun nodded his head in protest. "Nuh-uh," he said. "No way."

    ¡°Come on now. Don¡¯t be such a baby¡­ what¡¯s the worst that can happen?¡± Wade asked.

    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know, maybe it could kill us?!"

    "Tell you what, if it kills us all I¡¯ll give you five bucks as compensation.¡±

    ¡°But we¡¯ll be dead!¡± Shaun protested.

    ¡°I think that was the joke,¡± Ronnie interjected.

    Skinny approached the bickering two with his hands raised in a placating gesture. ¡°Alright, come on now, stop it you two," Skinny said. "This bickering isn¡¯t helping. Shaun, it looks like yours has a button right there. If you¡¯re too scared to press it I could take it off your hands and try it myself. I think I speak for us all here¡­ we just really wanna know what these things do.¡±

    Shaun reflexively pulled his device in close, clutching it close to his chest. ¡°No¡­. no, it¡¯s alright. I¡¯ll try it myself. Just stand back everyone.¡±

    <center>* * *</center>

    The group filed in to a wide half-circle around Shaun, who was holding his device up high above his head. He then lowered it and squinted at the button, fingers sliding over and off of it, looking for the courage to press it.

    Wade leaned over to Skinny with a smirk. "What if it''s some kind of alien grenade?" he whispered loud enough for the entire group to hear. Shaun''s eyes widened at the thought.

    Logan elbowed Wade. "Cut it out¡­ that''s not funny," Logan said.

    "I thought it was," Wade replied, an antagonizing grin still wide on his face.

    Shaun shook his head at Wade and once again readied himself to press the button. He took a deep breath, staring around at his friends. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his fingers tremble against the cold metal in his clammy hands. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh, trying to clear his mind. He wasn''t in the forest anymore, but instead he flashed back to the winter before, swimming with the very same group of friends at the Boone Community Center''s indoor pool. It was a moldy and dank thing with a heavily chlorinated scent that would sometimes linger for a full day after you''d climbed out of the pool. But sometimes, the invigorating water was the best place to be on a cold winter''s day, the kind where you were trapped inside the dreary indoors. On that day at the pool, Skinny had just leapt off from the high dive, managing a successful front flip before splashing into the blue far below. Shaun was peering down the ledge now, the 20 feet seeming to stretch into hundreds. Logan was up on the platform with him. He had gripped Shaun''s shoulder and told him "don''t think about it, just close your eyes and make the jump before you can even be scared by it. Just leap." That''s what he would do now, there in the forest. He squeezed his eyes tighter and tighter shut, feeling the tension rising in his body¡­ and then he pushed himself to act before the fear could stop him. He pressed the button.

    And with a whoosh!, Shaun disappeared instantly into empty air.

    Five faces stared at the empty spot where Shaun had been with expressions somewhere between amazement and shock. Skinny even let a single "hah!" escape before panic began to set in.

    "Shaun? Shaun!? Shaun, where are you?" Skinny shouted, surging forwards. The rest of the group seemed to be in a stupefied, silent shock.

    Suddenly Shaun rematerialized exactly where he had been, causing Skinny to bump into the brown-haired boy and the both spilled over onto the floor.

    "Did you guys see that?" Shaun asked with a look halfway between dazed and ecstatic.

    "No," Parker said, "no we didn''t. Did you go somewhere?"

    "I was right here!" Shaun said triumphantly. "The world went fuzzy and dark as soon as I held the switch, but once I let it go, I was right back!"

    "I gotta admit, I was kinda hoping for the grenade," Wade said with a smirk.

    "Still not funny," Logan said, elbowing Wade in the gut once again. Wade bent over, but he slowly raised himself back up with a perplexed look.

    "That didn''t hurt," Wade said matter-of-factly.

    "Oh, Mr. Tough Guy here can take an elbow," Logan said.

    "No, I mean¡­ That. Didn''t. Hurt."

    Logan stared at him, beginning to understand.

    "Quick! Hit me again!"

    Logan looked over to Skinny, who nodded his head. "Well, because you asked for it," he said. He slapped Wade across the face with an open palm, the clapping sound almost seeming to echo in the mountain valley.

    "Didn''t hurt," Wade said. "Again, harder."

    Logan looked to Skinny once more. Skinny nodded again. This time Logan stepped forwards and delivered a punch straight to Wade''s face, a right hook with his full bodyweight behind it. As soon as the punch connected, Logan''s stomach dropped, as he felt that surely he must have gone too far. He half expected Wade to collapse and cough out a tooth or two. Instead, Logan''s fist exploded with searing pain as Wade bent with the punch, staggered back a single step, and then straightened himself, all seemingly with no emotional reaction.

    "Didn''t hurt."

    Logan cradled his fist while Wade raised his lumpy, handheld object to get a better look at it. "It didn''t hurt! Did you guys see that? I didn''t feel a thing."

    "Absolutely nothing?" Skinny asked.

    "Ab-so-lutely nothing," Wade replied.

    Parker looked about the circle, surveying the strange scene unfolding. "How is any of this possible? What the hell are these things?" he asked.

    The rising excitement and fascination was like a great wave, about to swallow the group whole, but it lost all momentum and broke upon Shaun''s frightened shout.

    "Oh my God, Ronnie, are you alright?"

    Shaun ran over to Ronnie, who was seated just in front of a nearby tree. His expression was blank, with closed eyes flickering back and forth beneath their lids. His head rocked back and forth slightly and he was muttering something unintelligible to himself.

    "Is he having a seizure?" Logan asked. The rest of the group filed in close.

    Skinny knelt down and put a hand on Ronnie''s shoulder. "Hey Ronnie boy, you all right?" he asked.

    After another fitful five seconds, Ronnie''s muttering and twitching stopped.

    "Whoa," Ronnie said.

    His eyes fluttered open. They had been an azure blue only minutes ago; now, they were stormcloud grey. He struggled to his feet with Skinny and Shaun lending a hand. He steadied himself to the tree and looked around, fascinated by seemingly everything.

    ¡°So what was that? You sure you¡¯re good?¡± Skinny asked, concern clear on his face.

    Ronnie smiled reassuringly. He then gestured to the banded ring he now wore on his finger.

    "When I put this thing on it felt so strange and overwhelming¡­ But trust me when I say now that I¡¯ve never been better. This ring has somehow granted me¡­ clarity. In everything. My thoughts are running at a thousand miles per hour, but somehow, I can keep up. I don''t know¡­ for lack of a better term, it¡¯s granted me¡ª¡°

    ¡°¡­super intelligence,¡± Shaun said, cutting him off.

    ¡°Well yes, I guess, super intelligence is one way you could¡ª¡±

    Shaun gestured towards Wade.

    "And you, you''ve got some kind of pain resistance¡­ invincibility? And me, I''ve got invisibility. These things are superpowers, guys, don''t you see?" Excited chatter exploded across the group.

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    Skinny looked towards the three gadgets that remained untested: his, Parker''s, and Logan''s. He watched Logan heft the strange, dark cylinder, trying to divine its function.

    I feel like I got scammed, here; mine''s just a regular broken watch, said Parker''s voice.

    Skinny responded. ¡°Now hold up, Parker, I¡¯m sure yours isn¡¯t just a broken watch. We haven¡¯t even figured out what mine does either but you don¡¯t¡ª¡°

    Parker''s eyes widened. ¡°Wait, what did you just say?¡± he asked.

    ¡°I said yours isn¡¯t just a stupid watch," Skinny said. "I¡¯m sure it has some other kind of cool function that we just have to¡ª¡°

    Parker''s face split with a wide grin. ¡°But I didn¡¯t say that¡­ I thought it!¡±

    "No got-damn way," Skinny said, looking at his device. "You didn''t say that?"

    "I didn''t," Parker said.

    "I didn''t hear anything," Shaun confirmed.

    "And you¡­ you thought it?" Skinny asked.

    Parker nodded. Skinny¡¯s jaw dropped. "Ok, ok-ok-ok," he said, practically stumbling on his own words, "think something else."

    The group held their breaths and watched in dead silence. Parker stood there, totally unmoving, while Skinny adjusted the small satellite-dish-like end at the end of his device. He pointed it towards Parker. On some silent cue, they both busted out laughing at the same time and the two exchanged a high five.

    ¡°Mind reading! Oh yeah!¡± Skinny cried in triumph.

    ¡°Wait, really?¡± Shaun asked.

    ¡°Absolutely! Here, pick a number!¡±

    ¡°I got one!¡± Wade shouted.

    Skinny pointed the device at Wade. Then, matter-of-factly, he said "nineteen thousand four hundred and thirty-six."

    Wade''s expression confirmed guess''s accuracy. The group again exploded again into a buzz of excitement.

    "But what about mine?" Parker asked. "Mine''s the watch and the hands aren''t even moving. I can change the time and date with this dial but that''s about all I can do with it," he said.

    ¡°If I may?¡± Ronnie asked, extending his hand towards Parker.

    ¡°Oh, sure. I was setting it to today¡¯s date and time but without a real watch I had to estimate a little bit. The adjustment dial''s on the side¡­¡±

    Ronnie examined the watch, turning it about in his hands. He brought it up near his face and stared at the crystal from close-up, rotating it to get a thorough view of the interior. "Looks like you dialed it for 4:19," Ronnie observed.

    ¡°By the light, I''d say it''s half past four,¡± Shaun said.

    Skinny looked at his own watch. ¡°Wow, good eye Eagle Scout Shaun. 4:30 on the nose.¡±

    Still examining the watch, Ronnie frowned. ¡°Well, it looks like an ordinary wristwatch, but it¡¯s significantly heavier than any watch I¡¯ve ever held¡­ and there is one odd thing about it. On the edge, see that small bump? If you look closely, it''s actually a tiny spring. Odder still, It''s held at tension by the crystal display itself¡­ It seems like removing the crystal might trigger some kind of inside mechanism.¡±

    ¡°Remove the crystal? Does it just pop off?" Parker asked.

    Ronnie moved it around in his hand for an appriasing minute or two. "Hmm, well, no, there''s no latch that I can find. Maybe we, well, force the matter," Ronnie said.

    "You mean break it?¡± Parker asked defensively.

    ¡°No, not break. Disassemble.¡±

    ¡°If we don¡¯t even know what it does, how can you be sure you¡¯re not breaking it?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re right, I can¡¯t. But, if you don¡¯t let me take it apart, what you''ve got here is a lovely paperweight and nothing more. If it does have some secret functionality hidden inside, maybe I can discover what it does and we can get it working. And if it breaks in the process, at least you¡¯ve still got the paperweight option.¡±

    Parker frowned, not particularly fond of either course. ¡°So, what are you asking permission to do?¡±

    ¡°We just need to remove that crystal over the watch face and it should hopefully trigger whatever''s inside. If not, we''ll have better access to the components anyways and we''ll go from there.¡±

    ¡°So you wanna break the glass cover off?¡±

    Ronnie sighed in frustration. ¡°Again, not break. We are simply disassembling.¡±

    Parker weighed his options with clear, visible distress. ¡°Can¡¯t we at least wait until we go back home and we could get a jeweler or something to take it apart? No offense, Ronnie, but you''re no expert with these things.¡±

    Shaun shouted in protest immediately. ¡°No! Nobody else can know about these things. They might not understand, or they might try to take them. These have to stay total secrets.¡±

    The rest of the group all nodded and echoed "agreed" one after another.

    Parker chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking. Finally, with a sigh and quite visible disapproval, he handed over the watch. ¡°Fine. But if you ruin my superpower watch I¡¯ll disassemble your face, you got that?¡±

    Ronnie nodded and took the watch, placing it on a rock on the ground. He reached along the ground for a suitably-angled stone, lifted it above his head, and prepared to swing.

    ¡°Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" Parker protested. "You told me you were just taking off the glass!"

    ¡°I told you, the glass cover needed to go. One well placed hit here in the center should dislodge the whole assembly. No damage to the internal workings.¡±

    Parker squeezed his hands into fists, nearly unable to watch.

    Logan stepped forwards. ¡°Here, if it¡¯s only one hit to remove the glass, why not let Parker himself do it? It might help with the anxiety.¡±

    Ronnie offered the rock on open palms as though it were some ceremonial dagger of great importance. ¡°Would you prefer to do it yourself?¡±

    Parker hesitated for just a moment in deep thought before snatching the rock. He shooed Ronnie aside. "Well, boys, I¡¯m about to disassemble my superpower watch with this here rock. Disassemble it¡­ into a hundred little pieces. Now everyone stand back." It seemed that the group interpreted ''stand back'' to mean ''crowd in as closely as you possibly can,'' but Parker hardly noticed. He sighed. "Here goes nothing¡­¡±

    Parker shook his head and brought the rock down with sudden force. Upon striking the watch, a bright flash emitted with a horrible, loud screeching sound. There was a great wrenching, a momentary sensation of falling, and then all was still. The flash and sound quickly receded, leaving the group reeling from whatever traumatic event just took place. Groans and unhappy protests filled the air.

    ¡°Ow¡­ what happened?¡± Shaun asked, rubbing at his temples.

    ¡°My back¡­¡± Ronnie complained, prodding for pain across his body.

    ¡°Didn''t hurt¡­ I feel fine!¡± Wade said with glee, brandishing the strange stone in his hand.

    Logan and Parker both shouted their replies simultaneously: "Shut up!"

    Skinny stretched, his face darkening with the occasional twinge of pain. ¡°Ouch," he said, "well that certainly was unpleasant. Must be some kinda security mechanism of some sort. What happened to the watch?¡±

    Parker looks down to the time piece dejectedly. ¡°It¡¯s perfectly fine¡­ no damage to it at all. It¡¯s still not running and is just stuck at 4:19 PM today.¡±

    "This might sound crazy," Shaun began.

    "With what''s happened so far today, there''s no such thing as crazy," Skinny replied.

    "¡­but the light''s changed."

    "You think his watch changed the light?" Wade asked.

    "No," Shaun replied. "I think it''s earlier. I think it''s 4:19."

    "You expect us to believe your Eagle Scout Eyes somehow can tell the difference between 11 minutes of daylight?"

    Skinny laughed and looked to his own watch. "Well mine still says 4:31," he said while angling his wrist towards Shaun.

    Shaun wasn''t discouraged. "We still remember stuff from before that flash, so clearly the time travel¡ª"

    "Assuming time travel," Wade interjected.

    "So clearly the time travel didn''t rewind us, so-to-speak. It makes sense that it wouldn''t rewind your watch either."

    "I''m still not convinced," Wade replied, crossing his arms.

    It was Skinny who spoke next, and in a manner that finally settled the argument. No, it wasn''t the Skinny standing before the group looking at his watch¡­ it was instead a distant voice, drifting in on the wind, as a walking gang of boys drew their way near to the clearing: "And so get this¡­ Brian Krenkshaw¡ª he still wore those funny glasses at the time¡ªhe¡¯s tryin¡¯ to tell me that his hamster escaped¡­" Just around the bend out of sight, six boys¡ªSkinny, Logan, Wade, Shaun, Parker, and Ronnie¡ªmade their way towards the clearing, looking for an alien, a spaceship, a homeless person.

    "We got time travel, baby!" Skinny said, making a fist in that upturned-arm gesture of success. But the celebration was short-lived.

    It was Ronnie who first ran for cover. "Get down!" he commanded in as loud a whisper as he''d dare. The rest, curious at the sudden change in demeanor, ran in behind him and ducked behind a nearby outshoot of two intertwined trees which together offered a wide breadth of cover.

    Skinny looked confused. ¡°Wait, what are we hiding for? I wanna go up to our past selves and meet ¡®em! We can tell them what each of the devices do-"

    ¡°Still don¡¯t know what mine does,¡± Logan interjected.

    ¡°We can save us a lotta time,¡± Skinny finished.

    Ronnie''s eyes were wide with apprehension. ¡°Absolutely not! To do so could spell doom for us all¡­¡±

    "What do you mean?" Wade asked.

    "Time paradoxes," Ronnie said gravely.

    Shaun nodded his head knowingly. "Like in the comics," he added.

    "Time what now?" Logan asked, not understanding.

    Ronnie peered over the tree to track the arrival of the incoming group before returning to cover. ¡°Call the example extreme, but imagine if our interactions with ourselves over there resulted in the sudden death of Parker. Now, I¡¯m not saying one of us plans to kill him, but listen to the theoretical implications. Since we¡¯ve killed Parker in the past, he never picks up the watch and never sends us back in time, so, we, presently, don¡¯t exist.¡±

    Shaun nodded his head. ¡°And if we don¡¯t exist right here right now¡­¡±

    ¡°Exactly. Nobody is here to kill Parker. So Parker will retrieve the watch and send us back in time just as we remember. But, in sending us back in time, we¡¯re once again here and are bound to kill Parker.¡±

    ¡°But once we kill him we don¡¯t exist and don¡¯t kill Parker," Shaun continued.

    Wade waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ¡°Alright, alright, we get it. No talking to past selves.¡±

    Ronnie bowled on. ¡°No talking, no looking, no interaction of any sorts. To do so could mean-¡°

    This time it was Skinny who interrupted. ¡°Yeah, yeah, doom for us all. I¡¯m pretty sure they¡¯ve already split up and are probably roving this-a-ways. I advise we get moving.¡±

    The group slinked away from the voices in silence. Together, they made their way away from the clearing, moving towards a hill that offered a surveyor''s view over the area. From up there, they''d be a safe distance away from their past selves to avoid any run-ins but would still be close enough to peek down and watch them. The fascination and temptation were shared by all.

    Suddenly, past-Ronnie crossed the path in front of them about 100 feet away. His eyes were down on the ground, peering for clues to the whereabouts of the day''s alien. The group from 10 minutes into the future scattered wildly in random directions, ending up split in two separate groups. On the northern side of the path, Skinny and Wade were trapped alone. The other four were huddled together on the southern side.

    Past-Ronnie, whose eyes were still blue, began to traipse his way up the path towards the hiding boys. Present-Ronnie, grey-eyed and ring-wearing, whispered to the others hiding near him. "You guys head south. I''ve got to help those two," he said, pointing across the path at Skinny and Wade. "Rendezvous at Archer''s Pass."

    Three broke off and headed out south, keeping low to the ground and creeping as quietly as they could. Present-Ronnie then turned back towards Skinny and Wade, who had taken shelter behind a large, gnarled tree. Present-Ronnie waved his arms frantically, trying to silently get the pair''s attention. Past-Ronnie closed in closer and closer to their tree. Across the path, Wade noticed the waving and nudged Skinny, and the two watched as present-Ronnie gestured towards his head and then back to Skinny. He repeated the gesture three more times before realization dawned on Skinny. Triumphantly, Skinny squeezed his device in his hand and pointed the little satellite dish across the path towards present-Ronnie. Immediately, a new voice burst to life in his mind.

    "If my memory serves me, I heard a noise so I''m about to go investigate the very tree you two are hiding behind. Listen to me exactly. On my mark, you must slowly rotate about the tree, towards your left, as silently as you can. Travel so that you go about a quarter of the tree''s circumference in four seconds. Then, both, in unison, take one large step to your left. Nod if you understand."

    Skinny nodded and then turned to whisper to Wade, who, after a moment, nodded as well. Past-Ronnie approached the tree.

    * * *

    Logan, Shaun, and Parker crept over the damp dirt of the woods, lingering low to the ground. At the front, Logan chose his steps carefully, with each footfall tested softly for anything that might crackle or snap before he shifted his weight onto that leg. The two behind him did their best to place their feet in the exact same prints he left. Together, the three moved in near total silence, their shambling dance locomotion bringing them through the woods at a slow, if inexorable pace. Suddenly, their perfect strides were broken as a nearby set of footsteps approached. The three broke formation and stumbled to the nearest shrub, ducking inside and steadying it as the new arrival walked up. Parker peered through the leaves and felt a strange sense of voyeurism, silently watching his own self approach. "I think I actually remember this part," he breathed in a near-silent whisper. "In fact, I was about to look in this very shrub until Shaun called my name out."

    "But I never called your name," Shaun replied.

    "Yes, you did," Parker said, still whispering. "Then I turned around and said ''yeah, yeah, I''m coming.''"

    "But I definitely didn''t¡­ I never said a word until we all started grouping back together!"

    "Well there''s no use arguing. We''ll find out soon enough, now won''t we?" Logan added.

    Shaun stared at the device cradled in his hands. "That, or, I think I might have an idea."

    * * *

    Past-Ronnie walked up to the tree that Skinny and Wade were hiding behind. He placed his hand along the bark and began to trace a circle around the trunk of the tree.

    ¡°Mark,¡± present-Ronnie thought, and Skinny, listening in on his device, immediately set in motion. He and Wade rotated around the tree as instructed, staying perfectly obscured by the massive trunk. Then, after four seconds of moving, both Wade and Skinny took a large step to their left as past-Ronnie made a sudden peek behind the tree. He saw nothing, shrugged, and began to wind his way backwards towards the searching group. Wade and Skinny, both still huddled with their backs to the tree, exchanged a momentary look of relief.

    * * *

    Past-Parker bent over a shrub, pulling apart its leaves to see if anything hid inside. He was moving down a line of shrubs, currently only three away from the one where Logan and present-Parker currently hid. As he pulled back the leaves of the one before him, the rustling sound of its leaves masked the gentle pitter-patter of footsteps. If he''d turned around in that moment, he wouldn''t even have seen anything out-of-the-ordinary¡­ after all, who would notice footprints pressing into the ground without a body above them stamping them in place?

    The footprints without a body padded their way thirty paces or so up the trail. In that time, past-Parker had finished with one shrub and moved on to the next. Parker and Logan held their breath just one shrub beyond.

    Shaun, invisible and now a sufficient distance up the trail, turned towards the searching boy of the past and shouted his name. "Parker!"

    Past-Parker whirled around, thinking that the younger Shaun must be afraid out alone in the woods. He turned towards the way he had come, leaving the bush containing present-Parker and Logan unsearched.

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I¡¯m comin¡¯¡­¡± past-Parker said, walking back towards the rest of his group.

 Chapter 4 - The Sixth Device

    The hot, yellow-white light of midday gave way to softer, orange-hued sunbeams as dusk settled in over the valley. The gang walked with a very excited air, eagerly talking and joking amongst themselves. Skinny and Wade led the group, with Ronnie and Logan trailing a short distance behind the rest of the boys.

    After their near run-ins with past versions of the gang, the boys had all rendezvoused at Archer''s Pass and waited until a loud, crackling bang echoed over the valley. At that point, Shaun crept out, invisibly, and confirmed that the group of boys near the body had gone back in time, eliminating the risk of future encounters.

    Now on their way home, laughter mingled with their footsteps and the chirping of birds overhead.

    ¡°But what I don¡¯t get, then, is why didn¡¯t Shaun calling out my name cause one of them time-paradoxes?¡± Parker asked.

    Skinny scratched at his chin, thinking. ¡°And you said you remembered hearing your name called before we traveled back in time?¡±

    Parker nodded. ¡°Absolutely! That¡¯s why I turned around in the first place.¡±

    Skinny called to the back of the group. ¡°Hey Ronnie! What¡¯s your thoughts on all this?¡± The two were trailing so far behind, they didn''t even seem to hear Skinny''s question. ¡°Ronnie! Logan! What¡¯re you two doing?¡±

    The group stopped walking, giving Logan and Ronnie a chance to catch up.

    Ronnie handed the device back to Logan and addressed the group at large. ¡°I think we¡¯ve made a breakthrough in discovering the purpose of Logan¡¯s device.¡±

    ¡°So what¡¯s it do?¡± Wade asked.

    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t know quite yet, but I¡¯ve identified this port up top to be some kind of electrical terminal, and it looks like it might just fit standard AA batteries. Once we get an external power source in we might be able to figure out what it does,¡± Ronnie said.

    ¡°Well, does anyone have some batteries? Even dead ones?¡± Skinny asked, patting at his pockets. Shaun slipped his backpack over his shoulders and began rummaging through it.

    ¡°Why would anyone be carrying dead batteries?¡± Parker asked.

    One at a time, the members of the gang shook their heads no.

    ¡°Well, it was worth askin¡¯," Skinny said. "I guess the mystery¡¯ll remain until you get home and get yourself some batteries, Logan. Think your folks would mind if we stopped by on the way home so we could find out?¡±

    Parker eyed Skinny and began to shake his head in a gesture that said no, bad idea.

    "Come to think of it," Shaun began, "I don''t think I''ve ever met your folks, and would love to meet ''em."

    Logan looked down at his feet, a sour expression on his face. "That''s probably not so great an idea. They don''t much prefer having guests over," he said.

    "Well, you have to tell us what it does!" Wade said.

    "I''ll tell you what, then," Skinny began. "I promised my mamma I¡¯ll help with chores tomorrow morning, but I say we all meet back up by ¡®round four at my place. We can talk about all these¡­¡± Skinny trailed off, not sure what to call them.

    ¡°Thingies,¡± Wade offered.

    ¡°Gadgets!¡± said Parker.

    "Devices?" asked Ronnie.

    ¡°Artifacts,¡± said Shaun.

    Skinny shook his head. ¡°Well, we''ll talk about whatever they are, and we''ll figure out what we¡¯re gonna do with ¡®em.¡±

    <center>* * *</center>

    Out on East Ridge Drive, crickets chirped and insects buzzed in the balmy summer night''s air. The wind picked up slightly, and a moisture hung in the air heralding a not-so-distant rainstorm. A firefly took wing, pulsing its soft light on and off, looking for a mate to match its own glow. It saw one ahead, a bright light that called to it and drew it in with all the urgency its insect brain could muster. It flew closer and closer still, spiraling inwards towards the light, drawing close enough to feel the radiant heat and finally make its introduction¡ª

    Logan Kessler watched the bug zapper light up bright blue for an instant before the burnt husk of a hapless bug dropped to the porch. Through the grimy, screen-covered window, his view wasn''t particularly great, but there wasn''t a whole lot else to do while idly washing dishes. The ravenous bug zapper would have to suffice. He scrubbed at an old, stained steel pot with a stiff sponge and silently reflected back over the day''s events. Well, at least, until an incoming set of footsteps interrupted his reveries. His mother, Lisa, walked into the kitchen with an empty plate in one hand and a plate of food in the other. She placed the empty one in the sink, adding to the pile, and then set the other down on the counter.

    "Leave this for your father," she said. "He''ll want it when he gets back home."

    "Where is Dad?" Logan asked.

    Lisa''s face wrinkled with both disgust and a transparent weariness. "Out," she said, the one syllable tumbling from her lips like a dropped platter.

    "When''s he coming back?" Logan asked, not actually expecting an answer. His mother only shrugged.

    "Wish I knew," Lisa said, sighing as she walked out of the room.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Logan let his eyes trace over the kitchen. Dusty china sets collected dust on even dustier shelves of old, unpolished wood. Family photos were pressed to the fridge with magnets of every shape and size, though the photos of smiling faces in colorful places felt more like fairy tales than truth. At the center of the fridge, a photo of a seven-year-old Logan stood proudly next to a clipping of a report card. In the photo, Logan was holding a small guppy no bigger than two inches. His smile was infectious, eyes wide with pride and glee. Logan hadn''t felt a rush like that, or even happiness like that, in, well, years, so far as he could tell¡­ except for today, out there in the woods. That had been something exciting. That had been something new. That had been the break from his depressing home life that he had long needed.

    He folded up the dish towel and placed the pots and plates in their respective cabinets. With a spritz from a blue bottle, he gave one final wipe-down to the counter, covered Dad''s plate with foil, and then he practically raced towards his room in the back of the house. He locked the door behind him.

    Next, he bent down over his laundry hamper and reached in under the pile of clothes. Groping about blindly, he took a moment to find his prize, but eventually he removed the large sock from the hamper''s bottom. He turned it inside-out, spilling the black cylinder onto the carpeted floor of his room. A battery now sat in the back of the device, slotting in perfectly to its rear terminal. Logan examined the thing, rolling it around in his hand.

    "Now, what do you do," he whispered to himself.

    A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance as the pitter-patter of rain picked up in intensity against the room''s window. Before long, it was a bonafide storm outside, but Logan hardly noticed the rattle of rain. His room was an island against the turbulence outside, and even the rest of his room faded away and shrank down until it was just him and the device, whatever it truly was.

    He fingered a small button on the device''s cylinder. Ronnie had found it, subtle thing that it was, but it hadn''t seemed to do anything without the battery. Once Logan had loaded in the battery earlier that night, he expected the function to suddenly be obvious. It turned out he was sorely mistaken. Pressing the button now, Logan frowned as the device released its impotent fwush sound. The pathetic noise and lack of effect had been frustrating him all night long. Did I get the only dud in that damn briefcase?

    Logan''s room exploded in an instantaneous flash of white light and an massive bang rattled his ears. Well, that''s it, I''ve exploded myself with the damn thing, Logan thought. His heart was pounding in his chest. Wait, my heart¡­ so I''m still alive? At about this point, Logan realized he could still hear the roar of rain on his bedroom window. His eyes strained in the dark and began to make out the darkened-yet-familiar confines of his bedroom. Just a lightning strike that knocked out power, he thought to himself. His heart raced and he shook with adrenaline. Better find some light.

    Feeling around with his hands. he stumbled his way over to his desk and removed a flashlight from the top drawer. He propped it upwards towards the roof and pressed the button, but it stubbornly refused to light. He then walked across his room towards where the device sat near his hamper¡­ a pack of batteries sat nearby. Unscrewing the rear cap to the flashlight, Logan managed to insert four fresh ones and sealed the cap. He then pressed the button on the flashlight and a narrow, unfocused glare of yellow illuminated a small portion of his ceiling. Some flashlight, he thought. His window lit up bright white as another nearby lightning blast struck. The thunder rattled the window, but this strike was clearly further away.

    He propped the flashlight towards the ceiling using some books on his desk and, satisfied with the balance, he returned to his work. Logan sat down and looked at his device and the few scattered batteries nearby. He picked up a battery and noticed the flat, metal node on the battery''s bottom. He then glanced back over to his device. The back had a slot, sure, and they had already installed a battery there. But the bottom of the device also featured a flat, metal node of brushed metal.

    ¡°An electrode of sorts?¡± Logan asked to himself, running a finger along the bottom plate. He then pressed the node to his arm and held his finger poised over the button. He held it there for a full five seconds, vacillating internally. He then pulled it away. "Too dangerous alone," he whispered. He instead listened to the rain and stared at his device, remembering the glee in Shaun''s eyes when he had gone invisible. And how triumphantly Skinny had laughed when he realized he could read people''s minds. And that look when Wade realized he was invincible¡­ His hand still ached from that punch.

    "Screw the dangers," Logan said, grabbing the device and pressing it again to his arm. He closed his eyes, also imagining back to a certain high dive platform with Shaun. Practice what you preach, damn it, he thought to himself. His finger tightened on the button''s surface, just below the threshold of toggling it downwards.

    Just then, his flashlight''s mounting book stack slipped as the light itself toppled forwards. A book fell to the floor as the light rolled along the desk, striking a lamp, and then the both fell to the floor with a crashing sound of glass breaking. His room was dark once again.

    Logan didn''t get up to go tend to the broken light. He didn''t even flinch at the sound. He merely sat there panting in the darkness, collecting his composure. He pressed the button.

    This time, it was no pathetic fwush sound that issued from the device; the sound was something more akin to a hiss, and with it came the steady glow of a deep, purple light.

    Logan slowly raised the device to his face, curiosity forming deep lines. His heart rate beat steadily. The actual device itself seemed unchanged, but the battery sticking out the rear terminal was now glowing a fierce purple from within. Metal, glowing? he marveled. He removed it, finding that it was somehow now hot to the touch: too hot to hold in one place, in fact. He passed it back and forth between his hands, as though in a game of hot potato. "Curious," he said to himself.

    A light shone under his doorframe as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He quickly stashed the glowing battery in his pocket and slid the device under his bed. He then bolted upright and ran to the door, opening it before his mother could realize it had been locked. She stood out there in the hallway, flashlight in hand, evidently startled that Logan had opened the door just as she had been reaching for it.

    "Are you alright? I heard a bang all the way from my room," Lisa said.

    "The thunder?" Logan asked.

    "No, the whole city heard that one, and obviously that knocked out the power. I mean a smaller, glass-breaky kind of noise." She crossed her arms worriedly before frowning at how that pointed the light at the wall next to her instead of her son. She then uncrossed her arms and pointed the light at Logan, tracing the spotlight up and across his limbs tracing for injuries. "What happened?"

    "It''s nothing," Logan said. "I just dropped my flashlight. Thing sucked anyways."

    Lisa sighed in relief. "I heard the bang and knew the lights were off so maybe you hit your head or something, I don''t know¡­ maybe the window caved in."

    "I''m fine," Logan said reassuringly. "Don''t worry so much about me."

    ¡°Well someone''s gotta worry about you," she said. "And I can see you¡¯re fine now, but I couldn¡¯t rightly tell from across half the house¡­ just please hold on to things a little bit tighter? It doesn¡¯t take much more than a small bang to get an old woman like myself scared¡­¡±

    With those words, she trudged back down the hall towards her bedroom. Logan removed the glowing battery from his pocket and his whole room began to glow with its dim, puple light. "I was scared," he said quietly. Was, he thought, seizing on the word. The purple glow lit up his eyes as the wheels within began to turn.

 Chapter 5 - Random Acts of Heroism

    The rainstorms of the previous day had retreated to leave blue, open skies and a stifling heat. Despite the temperature, Logan again wore a backpack as he walked with the gang down a winding strip of road. Homes dotted the hill to their right, while their left opened up on a nice overlook of the downtown below.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, man, you can¡¯t do this to us," Wade said. "You gotta let us know.¡±

    ¡°Now now, I told you guys, I¡¯ll show you what it does after I buy myself a bite to eat," Logan replied. "I¡¯m starving.¡±

    Skinny turned around and stopped in place, arms crossed. ¡°Come on, you know what all of ours do. It¡¯s not fair to keep it secret, especially something like this.¡±

    The rest of the group echoed their agreement, unable to wait any longer. Logan looked around, checking for passers-by. "Not here, at least," he said, heading off down a private driveway to the right. The lengthy narrow road led to the Jacobson residence after about a quarter mile of switchbacks. The gang peeled off a short distance down the drive, entering the wooded hillside. After a minute''s walk, Logan felt satisfied that their place offered enough privacy from prying eyes. "So, you really wanna know?" he asked, fishing into his backpack. He removed the device, which had a non-glowing battery inserted into its rear terminal.

    "Do we really wanna know? Nope, we were just kidding, what a prank, let''s pack it up and go home," Wade said sarcastically.

    "Just stop teasing and come on, man!" Skinny said.

    Logan looked to the device and then eyed Skinny. Logan''s expression was mischievous, with just a hint of a challenge behind the smile he now issued.

    "Fine, since you asked, you get to be the demonstration."

    Logan passed the device into his left hand and walked towards Skinny. He put a hand up, as though going in for a high five, but then threw a sudden punch right at Skinny''s face. Logan held back this time compared to the punch thrown at Wade, but, still, it hit with all the impact of an unexpected strike. Skinny yelped and began to fall backwards, but Logan caught him and jabbed the device into Skinny''s side. He pressed the button and the device let out a hiss as Logan gently set Skinny onto the ground.

    The group swarmed in in protest, but Logan raised a single finger in a gesture that said wait. Skinny''s demeanor suddenly shifted as he picked himself up, cradling his head. The battery in the back of the device glowed a fierce and fiery red.

    "That was wild," Skinny said through a daze.

    "Wait, what happened?" Parker asked.

    "Now watch this," Logan said, stepping over to Shaun. The younger boy flinched away, but Logan raised his hands in a placating gesture. "I''m not gonna hit you," he said. He pressed the device to Shaun''s arm and pressed the button. With a hiss, the color drained from the battery. Shaun immediately closed his eyes and cradled his head, and in a sudden fury he punched Wade in the face. Wade bounded back instantly.

    "That didn''t hurt!" Wade declared proudly.

    "Logan, what the hell?" Parker asked.

    "Ohmygosh Wade, I''m so sorry," Shaun stammered, on the verge of tears and cradling his hand.

    "And now, let me help," Logan said. He walked up to Shaun and pressed the base of his device to Shaun''s arm. With a push of the button, the device hissed and the attached battery turned a deep ocean blue.

    "Better?" Logan asked, with a hint of a smile at play.

    "¡­Strangely, yes." Shaun said with an unexpected sudden measure of composure. "What is that thing?''

    "I think I understand," Ronnie said, shaking his head.

    Logan ejected the blue battery with a smooth, practiced motion and flicked it into his backpack. He reached in for a fresh one and added it into the machine. "This thing right here? It can withdraw and store himan emotions into batteries, and then inject them back into humans¡­ probably animals, too, though I have''t tried that yet. I call it The Empathizer. Kinda neat, huh?"

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    "Neat is one way to put it," Skinny said, "but I don''t know how I feel about that little stunt there and this here gadget."

    Logan pressed the Empathizer to Skinny and then pressed the button. He then held up the green glowing battery for all to see.

    "From the looks of it, I guess jealousy is the answer!" Logan said. Wade and Parker snickered at the exchange.

    ¡°Hey, cut it out man!" Skinny protested. "Now you¡¯re just starting to piss me off.¡±

    Popping the green battery out and slotting in a new one with a gunslinger''s reloading finesse, Logan placed the Empathizer once again to Skinny''s arm and pressed the button. The battery began to glow red.

    "All better!" Logan said with a bow of feigned magnanimity. "You are hereby released of your anger, my child," he said.

    Skinny''s reply was even, but determined. ¡°C¡¯mon. Stop messing with us. I don¡¯t go prodding around all y¡¯all¡¯s heads, so I expect you to leave our emotions be. I''m sure there''s a good and non-invasive use for that thing.¡±

    Logan''s smile faded a bit. ¡°Eh, fine. You asked to see what it did anyways. But, now, more importantly: this thing can¡¯t extract hunger. Let¡¯s go get a bite to eat before I starve to death, pretty please?¡±

    ¡°That does sound pretty great right about now,¡± Ronnie said, patting at his own rumbling stomach.

    ¡°Yeah yeah, I gotcha," Skinny said. "We¡¯ll head over to Clawson-Burnley Park, and hit Nelson¡¯s on the way there. Nobody makes a turkey sandwich like Nelson¡¯s¡­ Last one there is buyin¡¯!¡±

    With that, Skinny gave Logan a playful shove and took off running, all of the others running past Logan in good-natured pursuit. With a chuckle, Logan donned his backpack and took off running behind them.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Clawson-Burnley Park was a community-favorite open space with picnic pavilions, athletic fields, and a great variety of forest trails. The nearby woods were teeming with secret alcoves and nooks to find and explore, making it a common fallback location for the gang while the weather was tolerable. They marched through the park now, sandwiches and drinks in hand, seeking an open pavilion in the shade. Finding one, the group plopped down onto the benches and began to much their ways through their lunches. The gentle breeze in the shade carried the scents of roast turkey and freshly baked bread.

    While munching on a particularly sizeable bite, Skinny spoke up. "So, guys, I''m sure¡ª" he paused to swallow some food. "¡ªyou''ve all thought of it by now, so why aren''t we doing it?"

    "Thought of what?" Parker asked.

    "Using these things. Helping people. Saving lives¡­ if we put the six of us together there''s probably little we couldn''t do," Skinny said.

    "You mean like superheroes?" Shaun asked, ever the comic-book lover.

    Skinny took another massive bite of his sandwich and nodded his head. He spoke up through mouthfuls of food. "Pretty much. I mean, we have the power to do some real good here! I mean, look: I dunno where these things came from, but I like to think we found them for a reason. Six gadgets, and six friends, you can only pass off so much to coincidence."

    "It was destiny," Parker said with reverence.

    Shaun came alight with excitement. "We could make cool costumes and everything!"

    "We could!" Skinny agreed.

    "And where do you propose we get said costumes?" Ronnie asked.

    "Hmm?" Skinny asked, still chewing.

    "Where or how would we get these costumes?" Ronnie repeated.

    "Uh, I dunno. Shaun! How did Spider-Man get his costume?" Skinny asked, deferring.

    "Uh, I think he stitched it himself," Shaun answered.

    "How on Earth does a newspaper boy know how to stitch a whole costume together?" Wade asked.

    "Spiders can make webs," Shaun replied. "Maybe it rubbed off on him!"

    Skinny washed down a mouthful of sandwich and spoke up. "Guys, that doesn''t matter. No costumes, then. It''s all the same."

    "I don''t know if I agree," Ronnie said. "We''d be swallowed by mobs of supporters and envious onlookers both who might just want to take these things for their own ends."

    A temporary stillness fell across the table as the boys reckoned with the fear of losing their newfound gadgets for the first time. To imagine someone taking them and stealing their powers? It was simply unthinkable.

    Skinny finally broke the silence. "Okay, fine, costumes it is again. We could keep it simple for now, even just a paper bag over the head with eye holes. We could get cool matching costumes later. It doesn¡¯t really matter. All I know is this: when we picked up these objects yesterday in the woods, we were guided by a higher power. We¡¯ve been granted the ability to do some great things, and to waste that ability would be criminal. I don¡¯t care about the details of costumes or not, or if we should do this or that, but all I know is we gotta do something. Who¡¯s with me?¡±

    The boys lost themselves in the fantasy of heroism, imagining saving patrons from a burning movie theater or preventing a bus from falling off of a bridge. Their eyes lit up as their hands crawled to pockets and felt the devices within for reassurance, feeding the fantasies further. Skinny placed a mustard-stained hand on the table at its center.

    "I''m in," Shaun said, placing his hand on top of Skinny''s.

    "Me too," Logan said, reaching towards the others. And one by one, the boys piled their hands together.

    "Let''s go do some random acts of heroism," Skinny said.

 Chapter 6 - Fireside Chats

    The dark of night was staved off by a crackling fire at the center of a grassy field. Shaun tended to the flames with a lengthy stick, poking at the burning branches. He frowned, looking about, and walked a short distance to grab a large, flattened stone. He then added it to the ring of stones around the fire and placed his hands on his hips, satisfied with the work. To his left, Wade held two hot dogs skewered over the firepit. He pulled them back and sniffed one before scrutinizing it in the firelight. Satisfied, he handed one to Shaun, who immediately bit into his dog. He then flinched back, eyes squeezed in pain, fanning at his mouth.

    "Too hot!" Shaun gasped.

    Wade took his free hand and dug through his pocket for the device stashed within. He then took a large bite, savoring the flavor as he chewed. "Felt noffin," Wade mumbled through a mouthful of food. His eyes then went wide, lighting up with an idea.

    Nearby, Parker and Ronnie sat together on stumps, using a fold-up stool as a makeshift table. Ronnie was tinkering with some exposed wire on a partially-disassembled radio while Parker held a flashlight and a tool kit.

    "Pliers, please?" Ronnie asked.

    Parker handed a pair of pliers to Ronnie, who handed back a screwdriver to return to the kit.

    "Move the light to your left, please?" Ronnie asked. The light adjusted. Ronnie then isolated a small metal piece, and, using the pliers, twisted it several times.

    "There. Now that that''s tightened, we should be able to pick up police frequencies," he said, wiping at his brow. Without bothering to place all the components back in their plastic shell, he reached down and pressed the power button. The small speaker began to squawk static and garbled sounds, but Ronnie turned a dial and it resolved into intelligible chatter.

    Parker, clicking off the flashlight, turned to call the rest of the group, but his jaw dropped at what he saw. There, by the fire, Wade hoisted up a burning branch overhead with his bare hands as though it were some glorious, flaming sword of justice. "I¡­ HAVE¡­ THE POWER!" Wade roared in the deepest heroic voice he could muster. Several laughed as Skinny rose to his feet.

    "Gather round, boys, radio''s fixed," Skinny said. "That includes you, He-Man."

    Wade tossed the branch back into the fire, sending off a rising cascade of orange-red sparks. He dusted his hands off, scraping the soot onto his pants, and shuffled over to the rest of the group.

    As they filed around the small fold-up chair, a pair of bored-sounding voices spoke back and forth, largely in code.

    "Well what are they saying?" Shaun asked, clearly not understanding much from the exchange.

    "Nothing yet. It sounds like¡­ just sounds like patrols reporting in or something," Wade answered.

    "Yeah," Skinny affirmed, "it doesn''t sound like anything exciting is happening right now. Hopefully that''ll change soon. Do we have the costumes?"

    "If you mean ski masks, then check!" Parker said, gesturing to a bag near the fire.

    "Excellent, sounds like we''re all set then."

    Six sets of excited eyes stared at the radio, expecting something unexpected to happen. The enthusiasm on their faces slowly dimmed as patrols continued their mundane, coded check-ins.

    "Hmm," Skinny began, "I guess maybe hero stuff is a lot of waiting to get a little lucky."

    Still, the six sat, eyes glued to the tiny radio. Wide eyes gradually unwidened, hands started fidgeting, feet started tapping, and arms were crossed and uncrossed. The coded check-ins continued unceasingly.

    Skinny finally spoke up. "OK, correction: maybe hero stuff can get pretty boring. Why don''t you guys all go back to the fire? I''ll let you guys know if anything comes up."

    Wade, eager to prod more burning objects with his bare hands, bounded back almost immediately. Parker and Shaun followed.

    "No need for you to stay listening on your own," Ronnie said.

    "Actually, I''d kinda prefer it," Skinny replied. "I have some figuring out I need to do and could use the time to think."

    Logan tapped Ronnie on the knee. "Let''s go. He''ll keep a good guard on the radio," Logan said.

    Ronnie shrugged. "If you insist."

    The two got up and began to leave, Skinny watching with a torn look. He suddenly changed his mind. "Hey, actually, Logan, could you head back here for a sec? There''s something I meant to talk to you about. If you don''t mind, Ronnie¡­"

    Ronnie shrugged while walking backwards towards the rest of the group. "Not at all," he said with a bow of the head. He then continued on his way towards the fire while Logan returned to the radio, sitting on the stump next to Skinny.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Over by the fire, Ronnie picked up a folded chess board and gently tossed it in the air, a move that unfolded it with flourish. He then set it down on the grass near the flame and began setting up the pieces from a small bag near the board. "Anyone care for a match?" Ronnie asked, grey eyes twinkling mischievously in the firelight.

    "Unfair advantage!" Wade protested with feigned indignation.

    "Says the guy who let me burn my tongue on a hotdog while he went unscathed," Shaun retorted.

    "I''ll bite," Parker said, squatting near the board.

    "I hardly know how to play," Shaun added, sitting in prime spectator position.

    "To be honest, I didn''t either until last night," Ronnie said.

    "Well I''ve been playing since I was six," Parker said, looking at the board and deciding on his first move.

    "In that case, it''s the professional versus the novice¡­ care for a wager?" Ronnie asked, summoning his best innocent smile.

    While those two prepared for their fireside matchup, over by the radio, a sparring match of a different sort was also in its setup phase. There, Skinny and Logan sat in silence, listening intently to the police chatter. After some hesitation, Skinny spoke up.

    "So, uh, that was quite the show this morning, wasn''t it?"

    Logan was momentarily flustered. "Oh, yeah. Sorry if I kinda went overboard there, I really should''a just explained it. I took the anger out but probably not the hurt. I really should¡ª"

    "No, hey, the demo was fine. Got the point across fairly well, I''d say. But that''s not what I wanted to talk to you about."

    "No?" Logan asked.

    "It was something I noticed during the demo that I wanted to bring up." Skinny said.

    While Ronnie moved pawns and advanced his bishops, pushing the attack, so, too, did Skinny.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    "Your arm," Skinny said. "The one you hit me with. It was just a flash, but I saw it¡­ It was bruised."

    "Oh yeah, I fell out of my bed last night. It doesn''t hurt too bad," Logan said, scratching at his neck.

    By the fire, Ronnie''s bishops and surviving knight chewed through a pathetic defensive line of pawns.

    "C''mon, man, you can be honest with me¡­ we''re friends, and friends can be open. Like, what about your face?" Skinny asked. "You''ve got makeup on to cover it, that much I can tell, but you''re sporting a shiner on your right eye as well. You fell on that too?"

    Logan''s face flared with momentary shame, which was quickly swallowed up by indignation. He removed his gadget from his pocket and pressed the bottom''s smooth terminal to his leg. With a hiss, the battery in the device''s rear turned a fierce, fiery red, which Logan expertly ejected and slipped into his backpack.

    "Just cut the crap with me, I know something''s up. Just look," Skinny said, removing his device from his pocket and openly placing it in his lap so Logan could see it. "I only wanna help you. Just please let me know what you''re hidin''?"

    Logan''s face twisted and Skinny saw the glimmer of dampness welling up in his eyes. Logan slotted a fresh battery in The Empathizer and prepared to fire it into his leg.

    "No, no, c''mon, there''s no need for that," Skinny said. "Just let it out. It''s healthier that way." He watched his friend fight back tears, Logan''s thumb quivering over the button. "You don''t even need to say anything," Skinny added. "I can just use this, with your permission, and see for myse¡ª"

    "Don''t¡ªpoint that thing at me!" Logan choked out, his voice unexpectedly shrill and desperate. His cry split the night''s calm wide open, momentarily stunning even the chirping insects nearby. The boys by the fire turned away from their already-concluding chess match to see what had happened. Skinny''s frown only deepened.

    "The hell are you all looking at?" he called over. "Go back to what you were doing!" Motion quickly resumed by the chessboard.

    Logan looked Skinny squarely in the eye as he removed a battery glowing a faint yellow and shot it into his leg. He then smiled, significantly calmer now. "Just please afford me some privacy with my own thoughts," he said.

    "Fair enough, but listen here. I can see all the signs clearly enough, and with or without this thing it''s pretty easy to read what''s going on here. It''s your old man again, isn''t it?"

    Logan hesitated, thinking. "I don''t want to talk about it," he said at last.

    Skinny looked him up and down, trying to figure out another way in. Here was someone in need of help, but Skinny was totally and completely shut out.

    It was while Skinny was still trying to pick the most diplomatic way to try again that the radio suddenly burst to life. "All units, be advised: this is an APB. Fire in Coffee Street warehouses started under suspicious circumstances. BOLO for caucasian teen, age estimated about 16, seen in close viscinity fleeing the blaze."

    Skinny looked torn between the radio bulletin and wanting to continue his line of questioning, but the urgency of the moment won out. "Boys," he called, "we got us an emergency¡­ burning warehouses, maybe an arsonist or two. We ready?"

    Skinny tossed the radio and its associated tools into his pack while Wade dumped a small bucket of water over the fire. It sizzled out, leaving the boys with only flashlights to see and the faint, white light of the moon hanging low overhead. As Logan looked up towards that white orb in the sky, he noted the soot-black smudge of smoke rising up in front of it. Excitement hung in the air over the group, and within moments, they were in motion. They ran to the edge of the field where their bikes sat parked against a collapsing wooden fence. Switching on their mounted headlights, they took off into the night, barreling towards the warehouses and smoke trail on the far side of town.

    As they drew nearer to the fire, a red glow gradually filled the air and soon dominated the view ahead. Logan was momentarily reminded of the insects flying into the bug zapper on his porch¡­ drawing close didn''t end so great for them. They rounded the final corner and finally saw the flames with their own eyes¡­ the grand, blazing inferno looked a genuine terror compared to the romanticized images of heroism they''d each conjured up in their minds. Adding to the crushing arrival of realism, a police perimeter fully surrounded the burning building, making discreet entry to the site seem an impossibility. The gang pulled over in the dark beneath the trees a short distance from the police line.

    "Now what?" Logan asked.

    Skinny pursed his lips, deep in thought.

    "I could go, invisibly," Shaun ventured.

    "I think I''ve got a better idea," Ronnie said, looking towards the police line. "Parker, isn''t that your mother''s car?"

    <center>* * *</center>

    Parker and Skinny walked up to the police perimeter. Two officers leaning on their cars stood upright and moved to intercept. "You can''t go past here," one of them said. "Not only for fire safety, but forensics will be making a pass once the fire''s out. Can''t risk scene contamination."

    "Oh, no, it''s not like that. I''m Parker Campbell."

    "Parker, that you? Christ it''s hard to see in this damn firelight. Go on ahead, but respect the perimeter, yeah? Wouldn''t want you booked for burning the place just because you left a hair where you shouldn''t." He and his partner stepped aside, letting Skinny and Parker past. Even from a distance, the two boys could feel the intense heat of the place radiating outwards, giving them the impression of leaning over a hot stovetop. They continued forwards until they arrived at the frontmost squad car, where a woman with a small frame and short hair was silhouetted against the blazing flames beyond. She turned around.

    "Officers Hanes and Gutierrez just radioed me, saying they were sending two suspects my way," she said. "Don''t suppose that''s you two?"

    "Hey mom," Parker said.

    "Hey Parker," Officer Nora Campbell replied. "And Jackson Trent¡­ haven''t seen you over in a while."

    "Hey ma''am," Skinny replied. "It''s good to see you¡­ present circumstances of the town burnin'' down notwithstanding."

    "Parker, you told me you and the boys would be out camping tonight over by Hannison''s."

    "Well, we were¡ªare¡ªbut then we saw the smoke and wanted to come investigate."

    "You biked halfway across town just to investigate?"

    "Just seemed interesting," Parker said lamely. Nora frowned.

    "Well, honey, you leave the investigating of dangerous scenes to me. This thing could come down any second, making it not a very safe place to be near."

    "Is there anyone inside?" Parker asked, looking over at the building as Ronnie had instructed. His mother followed his gaze, turning her back to Skinny. Skinny took that as his cue to silently point the satellite end of his device towards her and he squeezed the grip of the device.

    "You know I''m not supposed to talk work with you," she said. "But I can say that they think some teenager did this¡­ set it to burn. Witness saw at least one kid fleeing this site. You two keep your eyes and ears open for me, okay?"

    Parker and Skinny both nodded their heads.

    "And if you see anyone suspicious," she continued, "don''t approach them, but let me know as soon as you can. I''m in charge of the case personally." Nora then turned to Parker. "Now, with this all burning down, now really isn''t the best time to chat¡­ I''ve got Fire and Rescue coming in any minute now and I have to coordinate with them. I''ll save you a plate of dinner tonight¡­ and Jackson, it was good to see you." She walked back to her squad car and grabbed her radio. "Curtis, a handful of boys on bicycles just beat your trucks to the fire¡­ where the hell are you guys?"

    Skinny and Parker returned to the rest of the gang beyond the police perimeter. There, they watched wailing firetrucks arrive and squeeze their way through the perimeter towards the burning building, beginning to spray the warehouse blaze into submission.

    "Well, it worked," Skinny said, "though peering without permission still feels skeevy."

    "And?" Wade asked eagerly. "Do I get to run into a burning building?"

    "Nobody''s inside," Skinny said.

    "Awww," Wade said, deflating a little.

    "And that''s a good thing," Skinny reminded him. "People not burning to death is a good thing."

    "But think of how awesome that could''ve been!" Wade argued. "Me, running in there to save the day¡­ rescuing the orphans or whoever is trapped in that horrible, burning warehouse¡­"

    "Yeah, and then even though you don''t burn your clothing still does, and you run out into a line of police buck naked," Shaun suggested.

    "Assuming, that is, that your device doesn''t melt or overload in all that heat, leading to you melting in that warehouse," Ronnie added.

    "You guys are no fun," grumbled Wade.

    "There was this one thing," Skinny said, "about a suspect¡­ apparently some teen was fleeing on foot just after the burn started. They almost got a glimpse. Miss Campbell asked that we keep our eyes open."

    "I could go back in time," Parker volunteered, "and we could look for whoever flees the burning building!"

    "If you go back in time to right before a burning building catches fire, then you could be the person they saw fleeing," Logan said.

    The group sat in silence for a moment, thinking on the implications.

    "And with your moms being a cop, we really don''t need all that confusion," Skinny said.

    "But if we agree I shouldn''t go back," Parker began, "then the person wasn''t me! So I can!"

    "But, paradoxically, using that logic to go back in time, you then thus could be the suspect they''re after," Ronnie countered.

    Logan made a shooing gesture. "This is all too confusing¡­ how about this: the best part about time travel is we don''t need to decide right now. Let''s wait and see if this arsonist strikes again, and if we want to, later on, we can send Parker back to tonight to see for himself."

    The group nodded in assent.

    "Besides, we gotta figure out the limits of what exactly these things can do," added Skinny. "Like, whether Wade''s could survive that much heat. Or if Parker''s got a limit to how far he can go back."

    The boys set off back towards their fire, excitedly buzzing about the different tests they''d run. Ronnie paused just behind the others and looked back, hesitating for a moment. The woods were dark and impenetrable, an unsettling silence cloaking them as thoroughly as the absence of light. Try as he might, Ronnie couldn''t shake the feeling that he was being watched by something or someone deep in those woods. With a shiver, he set off behind the others, mounting his bike and riding away into the sleepy Boone streets beyond.

 Chapter 7 - Pacify

    The night insects sang their droning song at full volume as Logan closed in on the familiar row of houses. Moments later, he dismounted and leaned his bike against the yard''s fence. No lights were on, but he knew this fence with all of the cultivated memory of years of latching it and unlatching it in the dark. His hands found the metal in moments, and then he swung the gate open.

    As the gate carried forward on its own momentum, Logan grabbed his bike and wheeled it into the yard. The gate swung back shut behind him.

    With his bike now leaned against the tree, Logan crept in silence towards his bedroom window. His parents would be asleep by now¡ªor so he hoped¡ªso slipping back inside stealthily was probably his best call. Dad couldn''t be angry if he didn''t know what time Logan got back home¡­

    Logan placed his hands on the window and pulled it upwards. It didn''t budge. He tried again, wedging his fingers underneath the window''s cross frame¡­ still, it didn''t move. Locked, even though he hadn''t left it that way.

    Shaking his head, he instead made his way towards the back door, reaching instinctively for the potted plant hanging overhead that held the spare key. After a few moments of struggling with the keyslot in the dark, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The interior was dark, quiet, asleep. Logan breathed a trembling sigh of relief.

    He stepped into the house and pulled the door gingerly shut behind him, locking it as quietly as the rusted lock would permit. He then wheeled back towards his room and¡ª

    "I could''ve shot you," said Dad.

    Logan jumped, heart nearly lurching into his throat. He turned towards the source of the voice: the darkened dining room deeper into the house. If seeing by moonlight outdoors had been difficult, seeing inside the shady home was next to impossible. A sliver of moonlight spilled in from the window to illuminate half of the table, and, though Logan couldn''t see Dad sitting beyond that island of light, he could see Dad''s silver revolver sitting there, glittering in the moonlight.

    "Gates swinging in the dark, a bedroom window rattling¡­ then fiddling with the keys, like a creeping thief with a lockpick¡­ what''s a homeowner to think?"

    Logan swallowed, hearing the soft slurring behind the older man''s words. Dad rose to his feet, and Logan thought he could see his silhouette now. At five foot four, Dad was a short man, and he always had his revolver nearby when he felt his most small¡­ Logan suspected he liked the way it made others respect him, or fear him¡ªif there was even a real difference between the two. The revolver was a war trophy, as Mom had called it, something he brought home instead of the pieces of him that never left Cambodia. He kept it meticulously oiled, brushed, and cleaned, even while the rest of his house sagged into disrepair. Now he picked it up, placing it into the holster he wore, shaking his head.

    "No son of mine should be creeping home this late¡­ come here, boy."

    His words brokered no argument, and so Logan did, crossing his arms in tight to his body. He felt powerless¡ªwith Dad, he always felt powerless¡ªbut the holder of the revolver held all the power in the world. So Logan approached the table, and there he stood, chin raised, staring eye-to-eye with the man he hated most. From this close, the reek of alcohol was unmistakable. His muscles tensed up, both ready for and dreading the first punch Dad would surely throw.

    "You startled me is all," Dad said, pulling Logan in for a hug. Logan let himself be hugged stiffly, surprised to find that perhaps tonight was melancholic drunk rather than the angry drunk they saw far more often. Logan thought of darker reasons his father might have been sitting with his revolver in the dark, but he wouldn''t dare vocalize them¡­ once the hug was through, Logan would scurry off to his bedroom, and he would lock the door and not open it until sobriety was¡ª

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    Dad breathed in sharply. "Is that smoke I smell?" The dynamic of the hug suddenly shifted. Logan released Dad, but Dad didn''t release Logan. Instead, Dad breathed in again, and mere inches from his face, Logan could see his eyes widen.

    "Snooping around in the dark, creeping back into the house stinking of smoke," Dad said. "Not my boy, no sir."

    "It was a campfire," Logan said meekly, but Dad hardly heard him. The older man''s arms locked around Logan, no longer holding him so much as restraining him. His eyes continued to bulge with barely-restrained rage; it never stayed restrained for long.

    "Already they talk about that queer Kessler boy, ''real quiet-like,'' they say. Folks at the bar are always asking ''what''s wrong with him?'' Do you have any idea how embarassin'' that sort of question is? How that makes me look as a father?"

    Logan tried to pry Dad''s arms off of him, but the man was as strong as iron, rusted or not.

    "And now Reefer? Think of what everyone''ll say. My boy, a drug addict?" Dad balked, arms latching even tighter to Logan. He felt Dad''s nails start to dig into the skin on his sides.

    "It was the warehouse fire¡ªnow let me go," Logan protested, still trying to lever his father''s arms away. Dad''s eyes flickered left and right, stumbling through drunken leaps of logic.

    "It''s that Trent boy," he declared, hot beer breath making Logan''s eyes water. "A no good sort, making my boy turn sour."

    Logan finally had an idea¡ªdesperate, but last resorts always were.

    "A whole family of degenerates," Dad seethed. "That crippled no-work father, that two-faced half-smile mother¡­ I oughta go get some boys from the bar, and we teach ''em the¡ª"

    There was a brief flash of light, and Dad slumped, his angry look suddenly washed away. Furious grappling had turned into a drunken smothering, and so Dad quickly stepped back, feeling strange in the sudden flight of his fury. There they stood, a few paces apart, each still panting and looking closely at the other.

    "Huh," Dad stumbled, "I lost my train¡ª"

    "You''re tired," Logan said, offering a reassuring smile.

    Dad sighed. Words like that might have ordinarily set him off¡ªwould have definitely set him off¡ªbut there was no fight left in him. "That I am," he agreed uncertainly. "The warehouse fire?"

    "Yes sir," Logan said.

    Dad appraised him, still skeptical. He''d heard of the warehouse burning down¡ªby now, most of the town had¡ªand he supposed that that maybe explained the strange chemical smell on Logan''s clothes. The Trent boy surely made more sense, bad influence that he was, but he couldn''t be sure, and the anger, the urgency, had somehow already passed.

    "Tomorrow, you''re explaining everything to me¡ªwhy my boy was at a burning warehouse and lied about it. If I''m not satisfied, or if any details aren''t crystal clear, there''ll be hell to pay," Dad said. He then stalked from the room, cradling his head in his hands, clearly confused.

    Logan returned to his own bedroom and finally removed the device from his pocket, staring gratefully at the battery that almost seemed to swirl with purple and red. There had been a momentary flash of light when Logan used it on the older man''s back, but the light had been brief, behind him, and at the exact same instant that Dad experienced an instant quelling of so much rage and sadness¡­ small wonder he''d hardly registered the light.

    Logan remembered the revolver in the holster having been so close to his reach, but he couldn''t bring himself to grab it¡­ what might have happened if he did? It was a foolish thought, conjured only because of Logan''s own feelings¡­ proof that he was emotionally compromised. Logan reloaded and pressed the device to his own side, pulling out a red battery¡ªlikely the loathing he felt for his father, pathetic and drunk coward that he was. With his mind emptied of distracting emotion, clear thought prevailed. He set himself down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He watched the way the popcorn pattern shifted as he tossed the red battery from hand to hand, the beginnings of an idea solidifying in his mind. What if I¡­ but no, of course not. He shrugged off his idea. Foolish, impossible, and yet equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

    And yet¡­ terror? That was an emotion, and those judgment-clouding biases didn''t belong in a time like this. He used the device on his side again, pulling away a battery of yellow, and then a third of blue. Now, head truly clear, was the time for careful, neutral analysis¡­ as a totally hypothetical thought experiment, and only with the right, detailed planning, might it even be possible?

    Logan got to thinking, and think he surely did, until sleep finally found him nearing 4:00 in the morning. Though he had been playing scenes of violence in his mind, calculating¡ªno, perhaps nearly fantasizing about¡ªthe ways his next encounter with his father might be different, he passed into sleep with a mask of perfect neutrality still placid on his face.

 Chapter 8 - Tests

    Logan closed his eyes, listening intently. He heard the pounding of his own heart and the static of the radio behind. He heard the wind lazily sighing through the trees above, and the distant rattle of leaves kicked along the ground in its wake. He heard the steady susurrous presence of the small creek nearby, water gently flowing past over turbulent pebbles and stones. He heard the crinkle of the bag of flour in his hands as it moved gently with the rise and fall of his chest. But, then, and most critically, he heard the giveaway snap of a small branch on the ground just four feet away. Logan''s eyes burst open as he chucked the bag towards the sound, where it collided with empty air and released a puff of white. That puff of airborne flour began to form the silhouette of a human¡ªone, which, immediately thereafter, collapsed to the ground in a laughing fit.

    The floury apparition rematerialized into Shaun, now covered with a thorough dusting of flour.

    "Powder test 1 was an abject failure," Ronnie replied, writing something down on a clipboard he carried. "If that failed, we can scratch powder tests 2-4¡­ they''re on the same principle."

    "I just wanna get to the eating one," Parker said.

    Logan tossed a small chocolate through the air towards Shaun, who caught it deftly. He then toggled his device again, turning invisible, but this time the layer of flour and the chocolate piece both vanished with him.

    "Wait!" Ronnie shouted, moving in close to where his friend had been. "The chocolate and flour have gone invisible with you¡­ the device is treating them how it usually treats your clothes. Interesting. Here, throw the chocolate to me, gently."

    Suddenly, a small piece of chocolate seemed to materialize out of empty air, flying towards Ronnie. His hand shot out to catch the candy effortlessly.

    "Good reflexes, Tex," Wade remarked with a whistle.

    Ronnie smiled at the compliment. "Now, Shaun, I''m gonna toss you the chocolate again. Try to catch it." He tossed the candy towards the empty spot on the ground, and it suddenly vanished. It then rematerialized, floating in the air.

    "Curious," Ronnie trailed, watching it. "Now it''s visible to us¡­ maybe your throwing it broke its connection to you, and now it''s no longer seen as a part of your person. Go ahead and eat it now."

    The chocolate moved a short distance towards an invisible mouth. It then began squishing and deforming in open air, melting away into small chunks and a semi-melted slurry while toothmarks dented into its surface. Eventually it faded away out of apparent existence.

    "That was¡­ disgusting," Wade said with a sour look. "I''d never like to see that again, please."

    "Well, to sum up so far," Ronnie said with a look at his clipboard, "We''ve got Skinny''s range estimated to about 30 feet¡­"

    "He also won 8 back-to-back games of hangman without a single wrong letter," Skinny added triumphantly.

    "Yes, that he did," Ronnie confirmed. "Can identify music pieces, imagined images, and even abstract concepts¡­ but cannot read things beyond what the subject is currently thinking about."

    "Hey, hey, hey Skinny¡­" Wade said while pointing at his head. "Check this out." Skinny angled the device at Wade''s head and immediately recoiled with a disgusted laugh.

    "Aww, that''s nasty!" he said.

    Ronnie loudly cleared his throat. "Moving on, we''ve determined that Shaun''s invisibility extends to objects worn or carried at the time he goes invisible, but not to objects he picks up after that moment."

    "Think of the prank potential there," Logan added.

    "For Parker, we''ve learned three things: A, that travel forwards is impossible, and B, since travel forwards is impossible, we don''t want to send him back very far to test his backwards limit. The watch seems to wind backwards as far as we want it to¡­"

    "I gotta say," Wade interjected, "it''s a good thing we didn''t begin with sending him back to 1800 as a test."

    "The third thing we learned, C," continued Ronnie, "is that the watch brings back people with the wearer based on two factors. First, people touching him tend to go back automatically. Second, Parker seems to be able to will others to come along too, so long as they''re exceptionally close."

    "Like the watch can read his mind on who he wants to bring?" Shaun asked.

    "Well, yeah," Ronnie said. "One of the devices literally reads minds so that''s not too crazy a notion¡­ that the watch can read intention. Logan is working on cataloging emotions and their corresponding colors for his Empathizer. And Wade refused to have his gadget burned for a heat check¡­"

    "Hey, would you replace it if it broke?" Wade said.

    Ronnie continued. "¡­but the BB gun pellets bounced off of him harmlessly. Furthermore, so far we''ve managed to break a baseball bat against his arm with no pain or injury. Knives don''t seem to break the skin either."

    "I want swords next!" Wade called.

    "My own ring is hard to quantify, but I think I can intuit things better than I ever could before¡­. what''s more, my memory has become near-photographic, I can read most books in less than an hour, and I''m pretty sure my reflexes have gotten faster."

    Logan chucked another chocolate right for Ronnie''s head, this time at high speed, but Ronnie caught it in a closed fist and popped it into his mouth in a single, smooth motion.

    "Verified," Logan said with eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

    "Have you cracked world peace yet, brainiac?" Wade asked.

    "Getting there," Ronnie replied, peering down at his clipboard. "Are there any more tests we think would be worthwhile out here today?"

    "We gotta figure out what to call each of these," Wade said. "It''s no fair only Logan''s has a cool name."

    Shaun nodded his head. "I agree¡ª"

    Suddenly, the radio burst to life once again. Ronnie increased the volume until a dispatcher''s voice filled the small clearing.

    "Attention all units, this is dispatch¡­ there''s been a reported robbery-in-progress at Johnson''s General on 4th¡­ all units in the area, please respond immediately."

    "Robbery-in-progress!" Logan repeated.

    "This is unit 019," a voice from the radio said. "Right now myself and several others are helping run the Founder''s Day Parade, it''ll be at least 15 before we can get down to 4th."

    This time it was Shaun who piped up in excitement. "Fifteen minutes!" he exclaimed. The rest all shushed him, trying to hear the static-warbled exchange.

    "I''m sorry, could you repeat?" dispatch asked.

    "Several squad cars are boxed in by parade-watchers. We''re trying to leave now, but it might take up to 015 minutes before we can arrive."

    "Roger that, please make every attempt to expedite your arrival."

    Skinny turned down the radio and the kids sat in an excited silence for a moment.

    "We''re probably not gonna get an opportunity that perfect again," Parker said.

    "Johnson''s is only a five minute bike ride away," added Shaun.

    Skinny burst into life, getting up and packing his belongings. "All right. Let''s move it, people! On your bikes, pack up your bags, let''s get going! We''ve got us a robbery to stop!"

    <center>* * *</center>

    Six bikes careened down the streets in a tight formation. Car horns blared in protest as they raced through turns and eventually peeled off the street entirely, closing the final distance on the grass. They then hopped off their bikes and donned the ski masks each now carried, walking up to the general store from its rear.

    "So do we have an actual plan?" asked Parker in a hushed whisper.

    "I do," Ronnie replied. "Here''s how this is going to work. What we need right now is intel."

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    "I can provide intel!" Shaun said, proffering his invisibility device.

    "Yes you can, but I''d rather not risk anyone''s lives until we know exactly what we''re up against here."

    "They could be armed with flour!" Logan teased.

    "That''s why the only person safe to send in is Wade."

    "Agreed," Skinny said. "For all we know, this guy has bombs or something."

    "So, Wade," continued Ronnie, "once you enter the store and find the robber, comply with exactly what he says. Skinny will be listening in on your thoughts, so just think aloud any and every detail we might need to hear."

    "With this thing in my hand, why can''t I just charge the guy and take him out myself?" Wade asked. "No need for you guys to ever even enter the store."

    "The only issue is that he might have hostages, or customers could be harmed in the crossfire; we don''t want to make him fire, period."

    "Okay, fine, no charging. I''m going in now, I guess," Wade said, looking at the door with a look that betrayed apprehension. Logan jammed the Empathizer into Wade''s neck and its battery began to glow a deep, purple-pink hue.

    "Thanks, I think I needed that. Here goes nothing," he said, as he started towards the front entrance. The automatic door slid open and Wade marched in without looking back. Skinny pointed his device through the door into the store and began to listen in.

    "Well, what''s he thinking?" Shaun asked, wringing his hands.

    "Huh, right now he''s just noticing some sale on Captain Crunch that they have¡­ now he says he hears something¡­ and¡­. there''s only one hostile. Armed, and¡­ attractive?"

    "Pardon?" Ronnie asked, perplexed.

    "There''s a confrontation now," Skinny said.

    * * *

    Inside Johnson''s General, 50''s ballads played on a crackling PA system across the store. Beyond the music, the place was eerily still, tension hanging thick in the air. A large poster advertised "Captain Crunch, 30% off at Johnson''s!" with a poor drawing of the Captain himself offering a proud salute. A small avalanche of soup cans upset a display near the front register, and a man lay facedown among the cans with his hands on his head. Wade looked from the cans to the man and then to the feet of the figure in front of him, tracing her hostile posture upwards until his eyes settled on the focal point of her threatening body language: the silver pistol thrust forwards in her hands, aimed levelly at Wade''s chest. The woman wore a plastic mask and seemed not much older than the rest of the gang. Despite her apparent youth, the gun in her hands was held steady and unshaking: this was no amateur robber, but someone calm, collected, and likely with previous experience. Behind her, the clerk stood by the register with his hands on his head, eyes downcast demurely.

    The woman looked at Wade''s ski mask stretched over his head and chuckled to herself. "This store''s already being robbed. Get your own," she said curtly.

    Wade raised his own hands above his head, still clutching his device. "I''m only here to buy cereal," he said with his best air of feigned innocence.

    "Somehow the masks gives me doubts," she said. "But, if you don''t want to leave, fair enough. Wallet, keys, anything you have, give it here. Now."

    "Oh, you see, I actually was just on my way¡ª"

    "Now!" she shouted, pointing her gun forwards to punctuate the demand.

    * * *

    "Ok we gotta get someone in there. Shaun, I guess that''s your cue."

    Logan offered his device to Shaun, but Shaun pushed it aside.

    "I think I''ll be alright without it. I''m going in," he said, stepping forwards. He toggled his device and immediately vanished from view. He was starting to get used to the funny way it distorted his vision while he was under, so-to-speak. It was like donning a pair of particularly dark sunglasses, which was fine during the day but a little problematic at night. Good thing this robber chose a sunny afternoon.

    As he stepped forwards, his mind was racing with all the exciting comic books he''d read only weeks before. Fantastic heroes swooping in to save the day¡­ who would''ve thought that it''d be Shaun himself triumphantly saving the day. He imagined the front cover of the comics they''d write about him. The Amazing Invisible Boy! Adventure Comics No. 19, Special Issue! He was still imagining that cover when his face contacted the glass with a ''thunk!''

    The rest of the boys, standing a short distance away from the door, watched it shutter gently from an invisible collision. If they had been capable of seeing below even the infrared end of the spectrum, they would have seen Shaun waving his invisible hands about in wide, frantic circles. They could not, and so they only saw an unmoving door. They then heard a voice from nowhere in particular whisper frustratedly:

    "Guys! I need help with the automatic door."

    The remaining four exchanged worried glances, realizing they''d overlooked such a simple part of their hastily conceived plan.

    "Uh, uh," Logan began, "quick! Someone throw something at it."

    * * *

    Wade rummaged through his pockets, removing his wallet and a small key ring. He then turned his emptied pockets inside-out and dropped to his knees, where he slid the objects forwards to the robber. She dropped down, keeping the gun aimed towards Wade with her right hand, and used her left to add Wade''s belongings to her loot bag. She then stood and slid a step closer to Wade. "You got something in that left hand of yours¡­ mind telling me what it is?"

    "Oh, it''s just a rock. Of little to no value."

    "Still mine. Hand it over."

    "Don''t think I can," Wade said, tightening his fist around the item.

    The robber''s smile wiped away and again, the gun was thrust forwards towards Wade''s chest.

    "What kind of rock could be worth dying over?"

    * * *

    Outside, Parker hefted a small stone from the ground.

    "What if I hit Shaun?" he asked, worry in his voice.

    "Just aim high towards the motion sensor," Ronnie said.

    "In fact," Skinny began before shouting towards the door, "Shaun, back away for a moment."

    "Okay!" said the voice from nowhere, now sounding to be a few feet away from the door. Parker chucked it towards the door.

    * * *

    Inside, Wade crept forwards slowly towards the woman, his mind racing for the right move to pull. Could he reach the gun in time and disarm her? Would she even really shoot him? Just then, a sharp ''crack!'' broke the tense silence as both Wade and robber turned towards the front door. A rock tumbled from the glass to the floor just outside.

    "What the hell was that?" she asked, anger rising in her voice.

    "Beats me," Wade said with a shrug.

    Accusation rose in the robber. "You brought a goddamn accomplice, didn''tcha?"

    * * *

    The small stone sat on the floor just outside the general store. The great, impenetrable glass barrier that was its automatic sliding door entrance remained unmoved by the stone''s feeble attempt.

    "It still didn''t open!" came Shaun''s originless voice.

    "And Wade''s in trouble," Skinny added, still following along with the drama inside.

    "Just wave the rock around, or something," Parker shouted to Shaun. The rock lifted from the ground by an unseen hand and began to wave about in the air frantically.

    * * *

    The robber momentarily let her gun drop as she squinted at the floating rock. "What the shit?" she murmured, eyes following it as it spun in circles in the air near the automatic door. The door, however, remained shut. Wade noticed her momentary distraction and began to move in even closer to the robber, angling his body sideways to narrow the shooting target if things exploded into chaos.

    * * *

    Outside, Skinny''s frown deepened. "She noticed the rock. We gotta move in!" The remaining three moved for the door.

    * * *

    The robber snapped her weapon back towards Wade, holding him pressed just outside of arm''s length. "I know you''ve got something to do with that because you have one of those goddamn rocks in your hand! Explain to me exactly what''s going on, right now. Is that a weapon?"

    "Come on, let''s put the gun down," Wade said, testing a step forwards to enter reaching distance of the weapon.

    "Stop it right now! I mean it! I will not hesitate to shoot you!" the robber said, hesitating.

    "You''re not gonna shoot me," he said with yet another step, lowering his hands towards the gun. "I''m just gonna take a few more steps and grab this¡ª"

    Wade was interrupted by a world-shaking bang as he was abruptly knocked backwards, stumbling and falling over flat onto his back. The automatic door opened, and the robber watched as three new masked figures poured in through the main entrance.

    She pointed her gun at Skinny, who stood in the front, before alternating between aiming at the others. Her voice now cracked with near-hysteria.

    "Don''t any of you take another step, or I''ll shoot you guys like I shot your friend here!"

    Wade groaned on the floor and began to pick himself up slowly and laboriously. The robber hesitated for a moment, torn emotionally, and then she pointed the gun down at Wade again. She discharged the weapon, acrid smoke and the scent of cordite now filling the air. Wade''s body jerked back to the floor with the second shot, and as his hand contacted the tile, the device he was clutching popped from his hand and skittered along the floor. The boys all noticed this, and all put their hands above their heads in surrender. Even Wade, stunned on the floor, felt his hair stand up on the back of his neck. At war within him were two voices: the first shouted holy smokes, you just survived a real gunshot! How awesome is that! The second, and, at the moment, the louder, shouted shield is gone, shield is gone, shield is GONE! He knew he couldn''t reach for it without risking his life. He stayed as still as he could.

    The robber returned her aim to Skinny. "You, the tall one: see that rock right there? I don''t know what it was, but that guy wouldn''t give it up, so it must be valuable. Walk towards it, slowly, and kick it here."

    Skinny was grateful that the mask covered his face, or else the worried look he now wore would give him all away. He tried his best to mask his apprehension before he spoke up. "Why would you want a dumb rock?"

    "Now." she commanded, patience clearly running thin.

    Skinny began to slowly inch towards Wade while the robber tensely waited. He desperately looked for a way out, some way to safely grab the thing before she had a chance to shoot. As his mind raced for a lifeline, he watched as a wine bottle behind the robber silently lifted into the air, semmingly all on its own. It then swung in a wide, overhead arch and connected with her head, crumpling her to the floor instantly as it broke and set a wash of wine down over her and onto the floor. Her gun suddenly launched away, kicked by an unseen force.

    Skinny chuckled an exasperated laugh through his mask, scratching at his head. "You son of a bitch¡­ waited until the very last moment, huh?" he said.

    Shaun uncloaked triumphantly and moved in for the high-five. Wade began dancing near the unconscious robber.

    "Guys, I hate to interrupt, but bear in mind the police are probably already en route and we''d best be running off right about now, if not sooner," Ronnie reminded.

    "Yeah, yeah, I guess we''ll get going then," Skinny said. He then turned to the stunned cashier. "Think you can keep an eye on this one? ''Til the police get here?"

    "Y-yeah¡­ I think so," he stammered.

    "In that case, we gotta fly," Skinny said, ushering the group towards the door. "Now, young sir, we may have saved your life but you owe us no debt, as we''re a new group of heroes in town! Dedicated to fighting crime and combating evil, we unite in the¡ª"

    Ronnie elbows Skinny, interrupting him. "As in, like now. No time for speeches."

    "Sorry, carried away," Skinny said.

    The group rushed out of the store, and the automatic door slowly slid shut behind them. The stunned store clerk looked around to the unconscious robber, who had been knocked out by a levitating bottle before an invisible boy in a mask materialized. He laughed at the absurdity of it all, a good, thorough, chest-heaving laugh. Then the door slid open, a new form in a stained hoodie and a ski mask running in.

    "Nobody move, this is a hold up!" the new arrival shouted.

    The clerk nearly fainted.

 Chapter 9 - Retcon

    The blue light of dusk crept over the valley, bringing cooler temperatures and temperaments with it. The adrenaline shakes had finally wound down for the boys, something that even Logan''s Empathizer couldn''t help them with. Adrenaline, it seemed, tended to stay adrenaline, battery charging or not.

    Their masks now packed away in their bags, the gang rode leisurely towards an open clearing in the woods, one of their more favorite haunts. They parked their bikes against a tree to the south side of the clearing and began to plop down, one-by-one, by the circle of stones that would serve as their firepit while night slowly set.

    "Man, I can''t believe that all worked so well. I mean, we saved the day and everything!" Skinny pulled his mask from his bag and looked at it, thinking. "I mean, it''s almost a shame we had to wear these things¡­ can you imagine all the babes we could get if we came out as superheroes?"

    Ronnie shook his head. "I''m sure that would all be lovely, right up until the bad guys begin going after your families and loved ones," he said grimly.

    "Hey, maybe they could finally set my dad in line," Logan said with a laugh. Skinny laughed right along with him, but that laugh tapered out into a concerned look directed at Logan. Logan shrugged it off.

    "Yeah, I guess secrecy''s a good thing sometimes," Skinny agreed, clearly somewhat deflated.

    "And in our case, absolutely," Ronnie said. "Although the life of a hero certainly seems¡­. glamorous, the anonymity we wear as a shield is to protect more than just ourselves. I really don''t think this can be stressed quite enough. Keeping this, secret, is and ought to be our utmost concern."

    Wade suddenly turned pale, patting at his legs. "Yeah, uh, on the topic of secret identities and utmost concerns, we might just have a bit of an issue here¡­"

    * * *

    Six bikes frantically raced through the streets, speeding back up and through the twisting roads towards Johnson''s General.

    "How could you forget your ID?" Shaun asked over the wind of their desperate ride.

    "Wallet with ID, and, oh, I don''t know, maybe because I was robbed?!"

    "If the police get that," Skinny shouted, "theyll know you were there¡­ oh this is not good."

    The gang pulled up to an alleyway and dismounted from their bikes, covering the final distance to the store on foot. As they drew near, they were once again greeted by a police perimeter, this one surrounded with yellow crime scene tape flickering in the breeze. They stopped a good distance away, unwanting to be recognized.

    Skinny took command. "Shaun, go survey the scene."

    "Can do!" he shouted, ducking behind a tree to transition to invisibility.

    Skinny placed a hand on Wade''s shoulder, worry clear in his eyes. "Man, if the cops get hold of you, can you imagine what they''d do if they found that?" he asked, gesturing at Wade''s device.

    "Relax, it won''t come to that. And even if they find the ID, so what?"

    "Well, it places you at the crime scene, for starters," Ronnie said. "Then, the clerk could certainly confirm that you weren''t the guy lying among the soup cans. There weren''t any other patrons in the store, meaning you''d be placed among us masked vigilantes."

    "And is that such a bad thing?" he asked.

    "Not exactly,¡ª" Skinny began.

    "Legally standing, yes," Ronnie interjected.

    ¡°But you know they¡¯d come after you all the same," Skinny continued, "and maybe even search up your house, too, with a warrant if they can get one.¡±

    "Why would they get a warrant?" Wade asked, incredulous.

    "I don''t know, but it doesn''t matter! Bottom line is, we¡ª"

    Shawn suddenly rematerialized off to the side. "Well, the cops seem to have set up a full perimeter, and our robber has already been taken into police custody."

    "So we''re too late?" Logan asked, distraught.

    It was Parker who stepped forwards, face alight with sudden clarity. "We don''t have to be."

    "Oh, wait, you mean to¡­?" Skinny asked, trailing off.

    "Yuh-huh. I can get it before the cops even show up!"

    Ronnie now interjected. "Realize, of course, that the clerk isn''t gonna just let you take a wallet from the robber''s unconscious body¡­"

    Skinny nodded. "He''s right, muddling with the crime scene and all. You''ve gotta take it somehow."

    "Heroes don''t steal wallets from unconscious criminals," Shaun said.

    "Which is why he won''t go in as no hero," Skinny said.

    * * *

    A few doors down from Johnson''s General stood Trade-In Tom''s, a dusty clothing consignment shop where the strangest and ugliest garments across town would pool together like water in a well. Most of it was oversized, sagging and stretched beyond public wearability, but it was there for sale all the same, as Tom''s famously accepted any clothing piece presented. Now, the strange assortment of rags was an artist''s palette, Parker the canvas, and a small-town thief today''s chosen subject. The kids shuffled through the store searching out the perfect thief costume, the grimier the better. Shaun found a hoodie with slight brown staining near the neck and a scratchy, horrid fabric that gave the impression of draping a stiff rug across the shoulders. Wade found a pair of pants that was still all in one piece, its dark blue length wrinkled and smelling slightly of salt. They experimented with different hats before deciding to go hatless, concluding that placing any hat on top of a ski mask would look ridiculous.

    At the register, the store owner, Tom himself, declined payment for the clothing. "Those things were close to going in the donation bin, truth be told¡­ Say, whatcha need that stained old clothing for anyways?"

    "Repainting!" Parker exclaimed reflexively. "Wouldn''t want to stain my best sunday dress."

    "No, that you wouldn''t," Tom agreed, packing the clothing into a small plastic bag. "Glad at least somebody''s getting use out of ''em¡­ You boys take care now!"

    Back outside, the group split up for their final acquisitions. Parker, Ronnie, and Shaun biked over to Odds and Ends, where they bought a plastic toy gun. Simultaneously, Logan, Skinny, and Wade biked to Skinny''s house, raiding the garage for a can of black spray paint. They then all met up at the predetermined forest clearing, immediately spraypainting the gun a solid black. Parker quickly changed off his current clothing for the items bought at Tom''s, face wrinkling at the unpleasant smell.

    "You set?" Skinny asked, putting a hand on Parker''s shoulder.

    "As ready as I will be," Parker replied with an earnest smile.

    "What if the clerk tries to fight him off," Logan began, "or the first robber wakes and gets to her gun?"

    "Here," Wade said, stepping forwards, "I can loan you this. Just promise you''ll bring it right back." Wade handed over his device to Parker, who swiftly pocketed it in the new hoodie.

    "Alright, you set now? You got the right time and everything?" Skinny asked, hands behind his back like some imperious military commander.

    "Yessir," Parker affirmed with a mock salute.

    "Alright, and remember, when the deed is done, meet us back right here in ten minutes, 6:55. You got that?"

    "Got it. Here goes nothing!"

    The group backed away from Parker, giving him plenty of space. Parker gripped a stone in his hand and double-checked that the watch was dialed in for the correct time. He then brought the stone down onto the crystal and squeezed shut his eyes, waiting for the bang. When it came, and the flash settled, he was still in the exact same clearing, but the blue-purple evening light of dusk had swapped out for the grey-blue light of a slightly overcast day. Nobody was there in the clearing with him now. He tucked the fake, painted gun into his waistband, covered the grip with his hoodie, and began to jog towards the general store.

    Once he saw the gang run their way out the store, buzzing with the excitement of a job well done, Parker wasted no time and immediately ran through the automatic door. He pulled his fake gun out and waved it around, shouting "nobody move, this is a hold up!" He turned to the clerk, who wavered in place and then sank back against his counter, laughing to himself at some unspoken joke. Then Parker looked to the unconscious, slumping form of the actual robber, her shirt stained with wine. Seeing no threat from either party, he tucked the gun back into his waistband and bent over the woman, rummaging through her bag.

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    * * *

    Back at the clearing, in the darkening light of dusk, the rest of the gang sat in a nervous sort of stillness. "I hope he''s alright," Shaun said. "What if the police got him first?"

    ¡°Relax, he¡¯ll be fine," Wade said. "He¡¯s even got the Protectionizer to save the day, if need be!¡±

    "Hah, what''d you call it?" Skinny asked, ears perking up.

    "The Protectionizer!" Wade responded, with just a note of pride in his voice.

    "I do like the name," Skinny said. "Sure beats saying the thingy or the device. Got any fancy names for mine?"

    "Yeah, uh, sure! The Thought¡­" Wade began, trailing off in thought. "The thought¡­"

    "Annunciator?" Ronnie offered.

    "Not bad, not bad," Wade said. "Yours can be the Intelligence Ring!"

    "Simple, yet classy," Skinny agreed.

    "Parker, he''s got the Time Watch," Wade said.

    "Why not the Timepiece?" Shaun suggested.

    "Naw, the Time Watch! The Timepiece sounds to much like a gun if you ask me," Wade argued.

    "I like the Timepiece," Skinny said.

    "Well, fine, mine''s the Invisibility Plug, then!"

    "That doesn''t even make sense," Wade argued. "How is ''plug'' related in context?"

    "I kinda like the sound to it," Skinny replied.

    "And Logan, what''d you call yours?" Skinny asked.

    "The Empathizer," he answered, looking at his device reverently.

    "I don''t like it," Wade said, "that''s too close to mine!"

    "Too bad," Logan said, "I named mine first and I''m not changing it."

    A natural silence fell across the group. In the distance, they heard the rising rumble of crickets and the hoot of an owl somewhere near.

    "But yeah," Skinny said, "he''ll be fine. More than fine. With two of these things, ain''t nothin'' gonna hurt him."

    A few more seconds of silence passed, each boy''s mind going to the same place.

    "You know," Shaun began, "Parker running off with two devices got me thinking: what could someone do if they had all of them?"

    Ronnie piped in. "Seeing as they''re all hand-operated and we each only have two of those, not any more than we can accomplish as a team."

    "But I''m just saying," Shaun continued, "imagine having all of them within easy reach. You could use whichever the moment called for, and¡ª"

    Wade bowled right over Shaun, excitement rising in his voice. "I mean, yeah, can you imagine? Having the ability to go invisible when needed, time traveling powers to fix mistakes, super-intelligence to outsmart your enemies, and invincibility so you don''t even have to, and, to top it all off, the ability to read someone''s intentions from miles away? Man, you could really change things."

    Logan pursed his lips and sighed. He then pressed the Empathizer to his side, which, with a hiss, charged a battery to a bright, glowing green. He stared at it with blank eyes before stashing it away to his pocket. Skinny noticed the maneuver and, ever the politician, immediately stepped forwards.

    "That''s not to say, Logan, that yours isn''t cool, too," he tried. "You know we''d never lone-wolf it, and as long as we''re a team, we need you to hold things together! Your thingy right there gives us motivation, and that''s¡ª"

    "Yeah, hey, I get it," Logan replied. "Really." He slid a yellow battery out from his other pocket and loaded it into the device''s rear terminal. He then pressed it to his side and discharged it, the yellow color vanishing as Logan''s face pulled back in a deep smile. "It was just a stupid reaction. I know my role and I''m happy to fill it."

    Skinny watched him uneasily, still not convinced, but he then wiped his doubt away and tried his best to sound genuine. "Yeah, okay man, whatever you say. You really¡ª"

    "Guys!" shouted a voice at the edge of the clearing. The boys wheeled around to see their thief walking back into the clearing, triumphantly waving a wallet in his hand.

    "Parker''s back!" Ronnie called out.

    Skinny held Logan''s gaze for a few seconds longer, breaking it only when Logan managed a sincere, reassuring smile. The two then joined the rest of the gang crowding around Parker.

    "So, you have something for me?" Wade asked, eager. Parker tossed the wallet to Wade. "Thanks, but not what I meant."

    With a sigh, Parker tossed the Protectionizer high above Wade''s head. Wade leapt into the air, arms outstretched, and managed to catch the device as he toppled over onto his back. "Didn''t hurt," he said from the ground, rising and dusting himself off.

    "Man, I cannot believe we pulled that off!" Skinny said, clapping Parker on the back.

    "Yeah, saving the day and robbing a convenience store is definitely an impressive feat for today," Logan added.

    "Hey, I didn''t rob the store, only the robber; besides, she already broke the law so it was okay," Parker said, face still glowing from the excitement of the encounter.

    "And it wasn''t even her stuff to begin with!" Wade said. "Taking what''s mine is certainly no crime."

    A momentary, thoughtful silence fell over the group. Shaun proffered his Invisibility Plug and examined it closely.

    "Don''t you think someone has to be after these, then? Like, from wherever they came from?"

    "Whoever it was, they''re dead!" Wade suggested, remembering the corpse in the woods.

    "But the bullet-riddled suitcase?" Ronnie countered, stepping forwards. "Who shot at the person whose corpse we found? They probably knew, which explains the violence, and when you combine that with the fact¡ª"

    Skinny silenced Ronnie with a stern look. Ronnie looked down at his feet, realizing only now that his words had set deep lines of worry on most of the boys'' faces.

    Skinny stepped to the center of the group. "To be honest, we just don''t know. All we can do is hope for the best. By no means should we put our guards down¡­. when we''re not doing hero-work, these things have to stay secret. But if anyone comes for them, as long as we''re ready, we''re a pretty able team, if you ask me." He smiled the warmest smile he could manage and looked around, watching some of the worry disappear from the others'' faces. That is, until Shaun spoke next:

    "The body in the woods," he said with distant eyes, eyes revisiting that macabre forest scene, "he was clutching the case. Trying to keep it safe. I can''t help but feel like he was keeping it from someone. Or something."

    Skinny felt the mood slipping back downwards and tried his best to stave off the gloom. "Come on, now, that line of thinking won''t do anyone here any good."

    "I know, but I''m scared. I just can''t help it."

    Logan stepped forwards hesitantly. "I can¡­ may I?" He held up the Empathizer.

    Shaun debated internally for a few seconds before finally relenting. "Yeah. Yes please, go ahead."

    Logan pressed the device to Shaun''s neck and pressed the button on its side. The empty battery in its rear charged to a deep, purple glow. Logan methodically ejected the battery, tossed it into his pocket, and reloaded a new one into the device.

    "Better," Shaun said, now visibly calmer.

    "It''s a scary thought," Skinny said, "sure. But I can promise you, we''ll be alright. If anyone is after these, we''ve got them. That makes us stronger than whoever they might be. Now, I don''t know about you guys, but my momma''s gonna kill me if I don''t get back home, stat."

    "My mom wanted me home for dinner tonight," Parker said.

    "yeah, my dad''s practically gonna beat me already," Wade began, the words triggering an involuntary frown on Logan''s face. Logan pressed the Empathizer to his own side as subtly as he could and pressed the button, charging another battery a deep purple. He was pretty sneaky with the thing; beyond Skinny, none of the others seemed to see it. Skinny made a mental note to bring it up again with Logan. Clearly the trouble was worse than he''d thought.

    "He told me if I was back any later than 9, he''d totally kill¡ª" Wade continued, but Skinny butted in to change the subject.

    "Yeah, yeah, yeah, we all gotta get going," he said, meeting eyes with Logan yet again. He then collected himself and put on his best, charismatic smile. "Why don''t we meed up tomorrow at the pavilion, say, around 4?"

    "Sounds good! I''m out," Wade said, waving as he walked backwards towards the edge of the clearing.

    "Me too!" Parker said, exchanging fist bumps with the others.

    "Ditto," Ronnie said, trudging off towards his bike.

    Logan started to head towards his own bike, but Skinny tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, man, can we talk?"

    Logan''s voice was collected, yet aloof. "What about?"

    Skinny crossed his arms. "You know what about."

    "Oh?" Logan replied, offering Skinny an eyes-raised expression.

    "The bruises," Skinny said, before looking around and suddenly quieting his voice.

    "The bruises, that reaction¡­ he''s getting violent again, isn''t he?"

    "Come on, Skinny, not now."

    "Yes now! I''m your friend here, and I want you to be¡ª"

    "Damn it, I don''t want to talk about it!" Logan said sharply. Skinny retreated back a step and surveyed his friend. The two were now the only ones in the clearing, and as dusk settled its cloak firmly over the woods, he felt clouds rolling in through both the chill wind rising and the gulf that was rapidly spreading between the two boys.

    "Man, what''s gotten into you lately?" he asked, eyes searching.

    "I''m fine, and I can certainly handle myself!" Logan replied, exasperation rising in his voice. He pressed the Empathizer to his side and closed his eyes expectantly. The device hissed its familiar hiss and the empty battery in its rear began to glow red. His voice was then considerably calmer. "With this thing, I''ll manage." He then bent down and began rummaging through his backpack.

    "So, what, you think that thing can just pull all your troubles away?"

    "It certainly can''t pull you away," he retorted, still searching through his bag.

    "Oh ha ha, very funny," Skinny replied sarcastically.

    Logan scowled at his bag. "Damn it, I''m out of happy."

    "See what I mean? You can''t just hide behind a forced apathy and expect problems to vanish!"

    "Why does it even matter if they vanish when I can choose to not care?"

    Skinny exhaled sharply, disbelieving. "Did you really just ask that?" Skinny asked with a shiver. The winds whipped at his hair. Leaves flew through the air, their rustling in the trees almost a dread chant egging on the confrontation. Skinny felt his own temper rising and saw it mirrored in Logan''s eyes.

    "Yeah, I did," Logan replied, rising from his backpack on the ground. He loaded another empty battery into his device. "Who says emotions are always a good thing?"

    "It''s kinda what makes us human," Skinny said exasperatedly.

    "Well maybe this, right here, makes me something better then!"

    Logan once again pressed the Empathizer to his side, charging another battery its deep, fiery red-orange. Skinny stood there, beyond words, and only stared while Logan ejected the new red battery and dumped it into his backpack with all the others. He then spoke up with the total disconnectedness granted by emotional discharge. "I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But the ability to read people doesn''t give you the right to invade their lives. I''m asking nicely: leave me be."

    Skinny''s eyes cast downwards, clearly hurt. He scratched at his neck, looking for the right words. Finally, he spoke up. "Fine. Consider the topic dropped. Never again will I poke my head where it doesn''t belong. Now, you had somewhere to go?"

    Logan packed up his belongings without another word and walked away, turning back briefly to Skinny for a parting glance. Once he turned around again and continued his way, an internal war broke out in Skinny. Do I do it? Is it worth the invasion? Do I owe it to him to help him? After some deliberation, and with a guilty look, Skinny fingered the Thought Enunciator in his pocket and began to angle the little dish towards Logan''s retreating form. It was hard to aim inconspicuously from his pocket, but he didn''t want to risk being spotted if Logan decided to turn around again. As he flicked the dish side to side, he heard the sound go in and out in momentary snippets. Finally, Skinny managed to hear a few consecutive words: watches the problem.

    The signal then cut off, and despite Skinny''s best attempts, he was unable to re-link with Logan''s mind¡­ he''d finally walked out of range. As the rain began to patter its way into the clearing, Skinny stood there, paralyzed.

    "Who watches what problem?" he asked out loud to the empty clearing, feeling powerless. "I need more info, dammit!"

    The rain picked up from drizzle to steady downpour, and Skinny could do nothing but continue to stand there, unsure of what to do next.

 Chapter 10 - Larceny

    The interrogation room had a moldy scent and a stifling stillness to the air, the type that tended to arise in scarcely used spaces: small towns and violent crime so seldom mixed. Department Chief of Police Clyde Pemberton believed in (and strove for) a high standard of work, but budgetary shortfalls and a lack of officer effort usually wound up with something less-than-stellar. The dank air was all the proof needed. Now, inhaling that air, Officer Nora Campbell rubbed at her temples and sighed, hoping that the deep breath would expel the rising stress she felt creeping in. It didn''t.

    The week was young, and it somehow felt different already. First was arson, and now a double armed robbery, both in the span of two days. At this rate, Nora mused that President Reagan might just be shot on the library steps by Friday evening. And knowing her luck, she''d be stuck with the paperwork in the aftermath.

    "Something funny?" asked the young woman seated across from Nora, still handcuffed to the coffee-stained table.

    "Oh, it''s nothing¡­ just thinking about how quickly things have turned upside-down around here."

    The young woman was quiet, waiting.

    "So, let''s get to it. Valerie Delacroix," Nora said officiously, "date of birth October 11th, 1963. Can I call you Valerie?"

    "Val to my friends," the young woman replied.

    "Are we friends?"

    "Well, certainly closer than the last guy who was in here¡­ he was an awfully boring sort. Nearly had me asleep confessing my own crimes."

    Nora chuckled, shaking her head. She felt the exact same way about Coulter. "Well, Val, help me to understand a few things and we can end all the tiresome interrogations. I promised my kid I''d be home for dinner and I''m sure you''d like to get out of this room just as much as I would."

    "Am I invited to dinner too?"

    "I''ll have the boys make you something nice for your holding cell while charges process," Nora offered, not even sure how seriously she''d meant it. She was starting to warm to this Valerie.

    "Well look, I told¡­"

    "Officer Coulter?"

    "Yeah, Coulter. I told him everything that happened. Came clean. It was real cathartic and all that."

    Nora nodded and glanced down at the signed statement in front of her, as well as the rest of Delacroix''s file. "He told me you were very forthcoming."

    "So why the extra interrogations? I''m no police but it seems pretty open-and-shut to me."

    "Well, Val, I''ve got some more questions about the masked men. Walk me through it again."

    "Well, it''s like I said on the paper there. I was robbing the place when another crew burst in through the door. First the one, and then four more later on. Young, I think. No gun, as far as I saw."

    "Bats? Knives?"

    "No weapons at all that I could see," Val said.

    "Strange that a whole gang would run in without a single weapon on them," Nora commented.

    "Well¡­" Valerie began before trailing off. "Nah, nevermind."

    "No, go on, what were you going to say?"

    "Well, I know this sounds ridiculous-like, which is why I didn''t mention it to the last guy¡­ they had these rocks."

    "Well that''d definitely qualify as an improvised weapon," Nora said, adding that newest detail to her notebook.

    "Well, see, they weren''t ordinary rocks. One of them was flying."

    "Like, they threw it?" Nora asked with a raised eyebrow.

    "No, flyin'' around back and forth by the door."

    "Uh-huh," Nora said, writing. "So they didn''t hold the rocks, brandishing them as weapons?"

    "Well, one of them did¡­ the one I, you know,"

    "Shot twice," Nora finished. "The one you think you killed. Did Coulter tell you that we didn''t see any body or even a single drop of blood on scene beyond a bit of yours?"

    Val looked confused, tracing backwards through memories of the failed robbery. "That can''t be. I shot him twice in the chest."

    "Yeah, we got that. Still, no body, no blood¡­ in fact, beyond two spent casings, no evidence that you hurt anybody at all."

    "Why would I lie about shootin'' someone?"

    "You tell me," Nora challenged.

    Val was silent for a moment. "The clerk! You can ask him. He definitely saw me kill the guy¡­ maybe the rest dragged out the body and mopped up the blood while I was out."

    "That''s a serious cleaning job," Nora countered. "Kind of them to cover up for you like that. Either way, we''ve already got an officer bringing the clerk in. We''ll corroborate your story. Now, Before we call this thing wrapped, I gotta ask you: what were you up to last night, July 12th?"

    Val seemed caught momentarily off-guard. "I was visiting with my parents near Blowing Rock. Had dinner, spaghetti and meatballs. You can call ''em and confirm."

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    "What time, roughly?"

    "Got there some time around 5, and left close to 10?" Val said hesitantly.

    "How certain are you on that endtime?"

    "Not exactly certain. Give or take a half hour, I guess, but it was somewhere close to 10. My parents might remember better."

    "We''ll be sure to ask them," Nora said, while mentally scratching Valerie off her arsonist suspect list. Timeline wouldn''t work out if she''d left anywhere after 9, but Nora would of course double-check with the parents and verify the alibi.

    There was a knock at the door to the small interrogation room. From behind that door, a muffled voice spoke: "We got the clerk in B."

    "Perfect timing. We''ll be speaking soon, Valerie," Nora said as she pushed herself up from the creaking chair and made her way to the door.

    "Wait!" Valerie called out, hesitant. "Ask him about the flying rock," she said, an earnest interest on her face.

    * * *

    "The rock," the man repeated, his lips in a line.

    "Yes, the rock. Valerie Delacroix, the woman who robbed the store, said that there was a rock doing some strange things. What did you see?"

    Jack Cooper, the clerk at Johnson''s General, had never had so strange a day in his life. He shook his head to himself, something that he''d been doing near reflexively for the past three hours. "I saw a lot of strange things, Miss. Feel like I''m losing my mind."

    "Well, let me get you started then. The robber said that a rock outside the door was doing something strange. What did you see?"

    "It, well," Cooper began, before trailing off and staring at the desk. "Can we do this off the record?"

    Nora sighed. "Sure. Off the record. What was it doing?"

    "Well, it was flyin'' about like a bat out of hell. Waggling around near the door like it was tryin to get in."

    Nora felt a chill run across her arms and back. "Was it on a string, maybe?"

    "Don''t think so¡­ none that I saw, at least. And nobody was there to be holding it," he added.

    Nora underlined the word rock in her notebook and added several question marks in the margins. She had no idea what the hell kind of lead this was, but for two people to corroborate such a strange detail of the scene¡­ it felt significant somehow. "Back on the record, if that''s fine with you¡­ where was this in the timeline of events?"

    "Just before the first group of masked folks after Valerie run in."

    "Wait, there were multiple groups after Valerie?" Nora asked, leaning in and immediately writing "more robbers???" in her book. "As in, more than the five we already knew about? Why didn''t you tell our agents that on-scene?"

    "I did, but I think they misunderstood me. After all, who''d automatically think of a place being robbed three or four times at once?"

    "Ok, I need you to walk me back through the whole thing in as much detail as you can."

    "Well, the girl had us in there at gunpoint. Took our wallets, keys, the like. Then in came the first extra masked guy. He was alone, but definitely no friend of hers. She took his wallet, I think." At this, Nora began scribbling furiously. Check bag for wallet of perp. Cooper continued: "then in run like four more of them. They were friends of the second guy, I think. Not friends with her at least. The leader, he was tall; black, I think. Tried to de-escalate the situation. Then she shot masked man number two, twice." Cooper looked down towards his lap. "I was terrified, so I ducked down behind my counter, but I think he must''ve been wearing a bulletproof vest. Got right back up after she was subdued."

    "And how was she subdued?"

    "Like I said, I ducked down behind my counter. But¡­ we got one of those convex mirrors. I watched the scene unfold through that tiny round mirror. You''re not gonna like this¡­"

    "Go on, just tell me what you saw. No need for embarrassment."

    "Well¡­ from the mirror, it looked like one of the wine bottles off the shelf¡­ it just went on and leapt right off into her head, knocking her out."

    "On its own?" Nora asked.

    "On its goddamn own," Cooper replied.

    Silence fell over the room. "Is it ok if I have a smoke?" Cooper asked, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. Nora nodded.

    A few clicks of a lighter later and tendrils of smoke drifted up lazily around Cooper''s face. He rubbed at his temples and sighed out a deep lungful of smoke. "So, then, I see the girl who had a weapon is down, so I rise back to my feet. While I''m doing that, I see another one materialize out of thin air."

    Nora raised her eyebrows. "You definitely didn''t mention that one," she said, pen in hand. She writes check mental health next to Cooper''s name.

    "Of course I didn''t, who''d believe it? But it''s what I saw, swear to God. He goddamn teleported in, like out of a science fiction film or something. Then one of the new arrivals, he starts going off on this heroic speech about how they saved the day, but the others are hushing him along. They tell me to watch the girl and then they run out of the store."

    "They didn''t take anything?"

    Cooper exhaled another puff of smoke and shook his head. "No, not them at least. But then in walks the next robber."

    Nora perked up, leaning in. She knew the entire testimony of this man was in question after the materializing phantom, but this new part of the story still interested her. Another possible angle of approach to this bizarre case? "So, the new guy¡­ what''s he do?"

    "Well, he''s got a gun, unlike the last group. He comes in and runs straight for the girl, who''s still out, and he goes rifling through her bag for just one wallet. He takes it and leaves."

    Nora frowned. Did he come back for the wallet of the first masked man? She puzzled over it for a moment. "The newcomer, he wasn''t in the store before?"

    "No. Well, I don''t think so. Dressed totally different, at least. In fact, speaking of his dress¡­ sometimes after work I go over to Trade-In Tom''s, since it''s just a couple doors down. Shop for the kids and such. The ratty hoodie the robber was wearing? Pretty sure it''s the stained old thing Tom''s been trying to sell for near on two months now."

    "Could you describe the hoodie in as much detail as you can remember?"

    * * *

    "Yeah, I know the hoodie," Tom Krischer said, his face suddenly pale.

    Nora read Tom''s sudden change in demeanor and leaned in. "Tom, what''s wrong? You look like you''ve just seen a ghost."

    "I''ve got something to tell you about that hoodie, but you won''t like it¡­"

    "Truth over comfort," Nora said.

    "Well, Nora, I parted with that hoodie just today, minutes before closing. It was to your own boy, and his friends with him."

    Nora''s stomach dropped. Suddenly the room felt tiny and far too chilly. "You sold it to Parker?" her voice asked, though she wasn''t even aware she''d meant to speak out loud. "When?"

    "Must''ve been five ''till six," Tom replied. "I''m sorry."

    Nora furrowed her brow. "Wait," she said, gripping the table for stability. "You said five ''till six? As in, 5:55 p.m."

    "Yes''m. Was about to close."

    The room still spun about Nora, but she felt a sense of composure returning as the unease burned away and cool relief crystalized in its wake. The robbery had been at roughly 5:20. Parker didn''t buy the hoodie until after the robbery.

    "That was¡­ about a half hour after the robbery. Did he tell you why he was buying a stained old hoodie?"

    "Why not ask him yourself?"

    Nora wiped her hands on her lap, trying to clear the sweat before she returned to her writing pad. "We just like to double-check to corroborate stories."

    "Said he was painting, or something."

    "Did anyone else enter the store between 5:20 and closing? Someone that could''ve dropped the hoodie off after stealing it at some point earlier?"

    "A couple people, sure, but none walking in carrying a hoodie¡­ running a clothing consignment shop, you notice that stuff. Who''s coming in to buy and who''s looking to sell."

    "Any back doors to the building, where someone could have snuck in and out?"

    "We''ve got a back door, sure, but it''s kept locked all the time. It''s also got a noisy bell on it¡­ wasn''t opened."

    Nora clicked her pen and wrote stained hoodie - dead end. She then clicked at the pen nervously as an internal debate played out. Finally, she sighed and scratched out dead end. Beneath it, with pen trailing slowly as though it were made of lead, she begrudgingly added a single word to the page: Parker.

 Chapter 11- Home

    Night fell for Boone, a moonless and quiet warm blanket of dark. Somewhere in the woods, a wolf pulled at the spoiled meat of a corpse left unattended. Finding the flesh to be far too rotten to be worth the meal, it relinquished the arm and padded onwards into the black, leaving behind the hand that once clutched a briefcase and now clutched only air. The wolf saw the orange glow of town in the distance, and dared not approach the land the light held. Streetlights were few and far between, each surrounded by a small maelstrom of moths and flies. Street by street, porch lights flickered off like the fireflies drifting through the air. Of the houses that still remained lit, six of them saw boys grappling questions of destiny and their places in the world¡ªplaces that were undergoing renegotiation. They saw questions of heroism pondered alongside questions of danger, questions of saving others and helping one''s self¡­ questions left unanswered as sleep inevitably closed in.

    In one of those houses, Wade sat on his bed, idly tossing the Protectionizer back and forth between his hands. He shot it like a basketball overhand and it flew right into a trashbin across his room with a clang! He then got up and walked across the room, grabbing the bin and shaking it. Trash shifted and settled over the device until Wade smiled, satisfied that the thing was hidden well enough.

    In another, Ronnie removed his ring and began to chew a wad of chewing gum. As his eyes reverted from their grey color to vibrant blue, he shut the book he''d been reading, "A People''s History of the United States," and spat the wad of gum back into his hands. He combined ring and gum, sticking it to the underside of the desk in his room before climbing towards his bed.

    In yet a third home, Shaun approached his bed and stashed his Invisibility Plug under the mattress. After climbing into his bed, he decided he should check on it again, just to make sure it was secure. Thirty seconds later, he felt he should check it once more¡ªin case it had slipped out. After five miuntes of back-and-forth, he got back up, took the device, and went to sleep with it clutched in his hand beneath his pillow.

    In a fourth, Skinny absent-mindedly stashed his Thought-Encunciator in his closet, eyes distant. He replayed the conversations with his friend over and over again in his head, simultaneously feeling the need to help but knowing that he was beginning to lose influence¡­ if he had ever truly had any to begin with.

    In a fifth, Logan sat in his bedroom, cross-legged, tending to a bloodied nose with his left hand while writing with his right. His face was marked by no emotion at all, instead showing only a fresh bruise that stained his cheek a sensitive purple-blue. Near his feet sat three glowing batteries. The first was orange, the second, brown, and the third, green. His pen traced precise letters on the page:

    Orange - Rage

    Brown - Resentment

    Green -

    Logan paused for a moment, before updating the final line.

    Green - Ambition

    He then sat back and scratched at his chin, deep in thought. The watch is the problem, he reminded himself, racking his mind for creative solutions before shutting his book and preparing to turn in for the evening. Just then, an idea ocurred to him. He slipped on his shoes and tread outwards into the dark, flashlight in hand. He journeyed into the woods behind his house, a wolf howl in the distance sending goosebumps rippling up along the back of his neck. Bugs nipped at his neck. Skittering feet nearby set Logan jumping back and swinging his flashlight around, searching for the source. He knew the trail he walked well enough to navigate by dark, but it was transformed into something terrifying under the cloak of night. He decided he''d push his luck no further and finally arrived to a sufficiently-distinct-looking tree. He paused before it and closed his eyes. It''ll be here. Right here. On the other side of this tree. That''s where it''ll be. Each repetition granted him more and more certainty, more and more confidence in his idea. Anticipation hanging heavily over him, he then opened his eyes and began to creep his way around the tree, tracing his flashlight along the ground. His breath caught as his beam, traveling along the dirt, suddenly lit up the side of a box stashed behind the tree. He knelt to open it, suddenly no longer caring about the dark woods surrounding him. He opened the lid and gasped, for there had been a thousand objects he expected, and one he did not.

    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    In the sixth and final home, Parker took off his watch and placed it in a drawer with a few other similar-looking watches. He then took out an old and worn copy of H.G. Wells''s "The Time Machine" and switched off the room''s light, reading by way of a small reading light hanging off the book. It was a book he''d read when he was too young to understand most of it, but, when he rediscovered it sitting in his closet last night, he knew he would simply have to revisit it.

    In the dim light of the hallway, Nora Campbell frowned at the door to her son''s room, seeing the faint glow under the doorframe. Her fist hovered in front of the door, preparing to knock, but she simply couldn''t drive herself to commit to it. She had a lot to mull over tonight and figured that the extra questions could wait until tomorrow.

    She returned to the kitchen where she saw a plate of food left for her¡­ she was supposed to have been home in time for dinner tonight. With a sigh, she threw it in the microwave and watched it cook in the dim yellow light. As the chicken breast and rice spun hypnotically, Nora planned how to best confront her son about the hoodie. Sure, it was purchased after the robbery, but a few details felt sour to Nora. First, the Campbells weren''t doing any repainting at all¡­ bothered by that fact, Nora had even called up the parents of Parker''s closest friends. She''d gotten the answer she feared most: none had any sort of repainting going on. So why had Parker lied to Tom? Second, ignoring the hard-to-accept fact of one person teleporting out of thin air, the group size of the people who interrupted the robbery, six, lined up with Parker''s usual hangout crew. Their apparent age also lined up. Cooper had later recollected that one of those newcomers had been black, just like Parker''s friend Jackson. Nora''s frown deepened. She felt a sense of connection to the food, trapped and heating up in its small confining space. She felt like she needed some fresh air.

    She opened a window in the kitchen and started rummaging around the drawers there, trying to find her stash of cigarettes. "I moved them," said a voice from behind. Nora wheeled around to find Parker standing in the kitchen, holding an empty glass. He refilled it with water at the fridge. "We missed you at dinner," he said as he took ice cubes from the freezer and set them down in his glass. The microwave beeped as it shut off, leaving the two in silence. The ice cubes clanked softly in his glass.

    "Something came up at work," Nora said. "A robbery. I need a smoke. Where are they?"

    "I thought you quit?" Parker said.

    "I did. I just need them in¡­ special circumstances. I''m not going to ask you again, where''d you put them?"

    Parker sighed. "Under the sink, behind the box of trash bags."

    As she rummaged under the sink, she spoke. "Have a seat? There''s something I''d want to talk to you about."

    Parker sat at the kitchen table and sipped at his water, watching his mother smoke out the open kitchen window. "Earlier today, you were at Tom''s," she began. "What for?"

    Parker''s eyes fell to his lap and he drew his hands in. He swallowed, momentarily silent. Nora''s eyes had been watching him like a mother would, but suddenly the police officer''s gaze took over, analyzing body language and posture. His was drawin in, reticent. Guilt? She shook off the cold, analytical view and let some softness return.

    "We were gonna play paintball in the woods," Parker said. "I know you hate us playing with guns of any kind and figured word might get back to you if we told him so we lied to Tom."

    "The hoodie you bought¡­ did you know it was worn by a robber at Johnson''s General not even a half hour before you got it?"

    Parker''s eyes flashed wide. "No ma''am¡­"

    "Ma''am?" Nora asked, eyebrows raised.

    "Mom," Parker corrected.

    "Do you still have it?"

    "Have what?"

    "The hoodie?"

    Parker nodded, biting his lip. Nora exhaled another puff of smoke out the window and shut it, ashing out her cigarette in the sink. She then reached under the sink to find a rubber glove and a plastic bag.

    "Do me a favor, go bag it up for me? Forensics will want it for evidence."

    Parker nodded and headed off towards his bedroom, Nora watching him go. She suddenly didn''t feel all that hungry. She still had no idea what really happened out there in that general store, but one thing was clear. It didn''t even take the interrogator in her to see it¡­ it was the mother''s gaze that knew her son was lying. She''d seen those same tells throughout his young life, and it pained her to see them resurface again on this nightmare of a day. The paintball was a clever excuse, admittedly, but it wasn''t the truth. For some reason, even though he''d bought it after the robbery, Parker was lying about the hoodie. The question was, why?

 Chapter 12 - The River

    The picnic pavilion of Clawson-Burnley featured spacious wooden tables and a flat roof to keep the sun at bay¡ªnot to mention the occasional lazy breeze to break the summer''s heat. Poker was the game du jour, and a game was nearing its final stages as the boys chatted on. Shaun controlled a meager stack of chips, his stake in the game barely hanging on by a thread. Wade and Parker each held only a small amount more, roughly tied with each other. Skinny''s stack stood taller than the previous three at a respectable third place, but his was dwarfed by the stacks of Ronnie and Logan, both of whom clearly controlled the largest portion of wealth in the game. They were the only two in this round, everyone else having already folded.

    Ronnie frowned as he inspected his two cards, trying his best to guard his expression. He held an ace of hearts and a queen of hearts, a statistically strong hand on its own. The flop on the table only made things better: near the waterbottles glistening with condensation and the wrapper of a fast-food burger polished off, there sat an ace of spades, a nine of clubs, and the ace of diamonds. Ronnie held three of a kind of aces with queen high, an excellent hand. Logan''s pre-flop betting suggested he held a pair of some kind, sure, but he couldn''t be holding aces, as three were already accounted for, and Ronnie could stand to beat any other pairs.

    Ronnie''s fingers flicked about methodically, sliding imaginary abacus beads as he ran some mental calculations. He then slid his stack of chips towards the center of the table, where they toppled and spilled to the floor between the cracks on the planks of wood. "All in," he said embarassedly, the collapse stealing from much of the moment''s gravity.

    Logan thought for a moment, lips pursed. "I fold," he finally said, sliding his cards face-down towards the rest of the deck. Parker gathered them up and began shuffling while Skinny helped Ronnie tend to the chips scattered across the pavilion floor.

    "Just putting it out there," Wade began, "isn''t it a tiny bit unfair letting Ronnie wear his ring while playing?"

    Parker began dealing out cards to each of the players. "I mean, if Skinny were to take his out, it''d be game over for everyone," Parker added. He then flipped three cards over into the table''s center: an ace of spades, an eight of clubs, and a three of hearts.

    "Now that would be somethin''," Skinny agreed. "I''ve got in my pocket here the fanciest poker strategy guide the world has ever known. If I took this baby out, ain''t nobody here gonna stand a chance."

    "Betting is to you, Logan," Parker said.

    Logan smiled, an idea forming. "Well hold up just a moment, what do you say we have you put your money where your mouth is?"

    "What do you mean?" Skinny asked.

    Logan carefully slid his chip stack forwards, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "I''m all in." He then took the Empathizer and pressed it to his side, toggling the button to charge a battery a blue-ish color none of the boys had seen before. His face was the image of absolute neutrality, expressionless and still as though rendered in marble. The boys folded, one at a time, until the bet passed to Skinny.

    "Go on, lift your device," Logan challenged. "Let''s see how much good it does you."

    "Nah, come on man, can''t we just play the game normally?" Skinny asked, shaking his head.

    "Come on¡­ I''m curious," Logan said levelly.

    With a sigh, Skinny removed the Thought-Enunciator from his bag and pointed it towards Logan. He squeezed the grip and waited for the familiar stream of sound to his ears that were the target''s unfiltered thoughts. His face fell to a look of confusion and then concern as the device only returned gentle static, as though listening to a radio between station tunings. He pointed it towards Ronnie and immediately heard the boy''s thoughts clearly in his mind as though spoken softly right into his ears: what''s going on here? Are they having some kind of mental conversation? Then, knowing that the device was still working, Skinny pointed the device back at Logan. Again, soft static¡ªno help with the cards.

    Skinny squirmed for a few seconds, knowing that he couldn''t spend all day deliberating or waiting for a lifeline¡­ he decided to go with his gut. He slid his chips forwards with newfound confidence. "I''ll call your bluff," he said, leaning back with a triumphant cross of the arms. Excited buzzing broke out across the table as the last players folded, leaving just Skinny and Logan in for the round.

    "Alright, boys, flip," Parker said, picking up the deck. Anticipation hung thick over the group.

    Skinny flipped over his two cards first, revealing an eight of spades and an ace of clubs. He triumphantly pushed them forwards. "Two pair, aces and eights," he declared.

    Logan, with a deadpan expression, turned over his two cards: the two red eights. The group erupted into a stunned, excited buzzing.

    "Three of a kind beats two pair," Parker said, picking up the cards. "And all four eights are on the board. Let''s see the turn and the river."

    "Come on!" Skinny shouted, leaning in.

    Parker flipped over the fourth card on the table, revealing a seven of diamonds.

    "Come on¡­. gimme an ace, gimme an ace," Skinny chanted, rubbing his hands together.

    Parker flipped over the last card, revealing a six of clubs. All the boys exhaled and slumped back with a tremendous, shared shout of aww!

    "Logan wins with three of a kind, triple eights," Parker said, collecting the cards. Logan scooped up the spilled chips scattered across the table into one massive treasure hoard and began sorting them into stacks.

    Skinny only shook his head. "Man, I really thought you were bluffing."

    "Don''t take it too personally¡­ it''s all in the Empathizer."

    "Dude, you were right," Wade said, shaking his head in awe. "That thing is the best for a poker game."

    "He was literally in your head and couldn''t figure out what you had!" Shaun piped in, clapping Logan on the back.

    The excitement gradually slipped away from Skinny''s eyes as he watched his friends surge around Logan and buzz about the exchange. The static he heard had been unsettling, to put it lightly. It wasn''t just the noise, but a sensation that had come in with it like an uninvited wind. Skinny had felt something similar just last summer when he had been heading through the Blue Ridge mountains with his family. His pops''s health had improved, so they all decided to take a roadtrip to celebrate. Somewhere on the road at night winding through the mountains, the car had started making a strange buzzing sound under the hood¡­ the kind that spelled trouble. So his moms had pulled over at a scenic overlook to take a look at the engine. It would take a while, so Skinny was restless. There were no lights on that cloudy, moonless night, leaving Skinny to stumble through the dark with only the faint starlight to guide. He had made his way to the overlook and sat there on a wall at the edge, letting his feet dangle into the black. He heard the sound of the empty yawing open in front of him, felt the unsettling, clammy grip of void and heat. It set him to shivering on that wall in the warm summer''s night, feeling the massive impenetrable dark swallowing the whole world just beyond the ledge he sat on.

    He didn''t sit there long.

    Back in the present, he shifted uneasily as he watched Logan round up the last of his chips. Something about that memory itched its way back into the present¡­ the pang of empty, the unsettling sheer magnitude of the void. He felt a touch of that sensation when he read into Logan. He felt an expansiveness nothingness, and found that the echo of the place set his skin positively crawling with unease.

    "You ok?" Parker asked, jolting him back into the moment.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    "Yeah," Skinny said, shaking his head free of the memory. "Just a bad beat is all."

    * * *

    Shadows lengthened as the day marched on. Ronnie watched a leaf detach from a high branch as a breeze stirred the trees. The leaf meandered as it fell, flipping and flitting lackadaisically. It landed softly onto the table, where Ronnie brushed it off with an open hand. He and Parker were clearing off the table, collecting chips into color-sorted stacks and gathering up all the loose cards. The rest of the boys were off in the distance, tossing a football back and forth.

    "Logan with that machine is just insane at poker," Shaun mused, shaking his head.

    "You know, until that four came up, I had a 95% chance of winning the hand," Ronnie replied.

    "I''d never go all in on a 95% chance. Knowing my luck, I''d lose to the 5% every time."

    "That''s¡­ not quite how statistics work."

    "Well, like, what are the chances we''d have found these things? I''d say it''s definitely higher than a 95% chance the average person would live without ever hearing of these things¡ªand yet, here I am."

    Ronnie smirked to himself, imagining the ''Shaun Valdez Postulate'' making quite the splash in the mathematics world. Entire decades¡ªno, centuries¡ªof mathematical understanding would be suddenly overturned on that fateful day where mathematicians discovered the more unlikely a thing was, the more likely it was to happen. "One lucky happenstance doesn''t make you statistically immune," he responded. "Pardon the morbidity, but there''s a 100% chance we''ll die some day in the future. Those are odds nobody can cheat."

    "Oh, you just watch me. You say 100%, but all I hear is a challenge," Shaun replied.

    At that point, Wade sauntered over to the table. "What are you two ladies talking about here?"

    "Shaun here is apparently immortal¡­ or, so I''ve been told," Ronnie said.

    Wade flaunted his Protectionizer and pointed a finger at Shaun. "Hey, now, you stay out of my domain or I might just have to prove your mortality, if you know what I mean," he said with a laugh.

    "We''ve still never tested you against a nuke," Shaun said. "I might just know a guy."

    "I''m quaking in my literally-invincible boots," Wade retorted. "Who''s your guy?"

    Shaun cracked a mischievous smile. "Hey Ronnie, you brilliant physicist you, what''s the status on our bomb? On our Manhattan Project¡­ the Boone Project?"

    "Going great," Ronnie played along, "until the sleeper Soviet agents stole my notes, which puts us a few months behind schedule."

    At this point, Parker also joined the table. "I heard Ronnie''s pissed off the Soviets again?" he asked, having a seat at the table. "What, they want their stylish jewelry back?"

    On the other side of the field, Skinny and Logan continued tossing the football back and forth in long, wide arcs. It was a fair distance, making casual conversation between the two impossible without practically shouting to the whole of the park. Skinny thought that was very much intentional on Logan''s part, which is why he was surprised to see the boy begein to close in that distance as Skinny stepped to the left for a nearly missed catch. Logan raised his hand and again Skinny threw the ball with a clean spiral, aiming a little behind him as a test. Logan backed up to catch it and then once again continued forwards¡­ so he''s trying to close the distance, Skinny though. Olive branch? Over the next few tosses, Logan continually advanced until the two were hardly ten feet apart.

    "So, I''ve been thinking a lot about what you said and what I said yesterday," Logan began. "I wanted the chance to apologize and talk to you about all of that. Everything. Think you could stop over my place tonight for a couple''a hours?"

    "Wouldn''t your pops get real sore about guests being over late?"

    "Oh, he won''t be any trouble. My parents are headed out to some kinda dinner thing. Won''t be back ''till nearly midnight."

    "In that case, I''d love to stop by. What time did you have in mind?"

    "Oh, say, 8 o''clock?"

    "That sounds good to me, man."

    Logan tossed the ball again to Skinny, but, before he could catch it, Wade sprinted by at full throttle and snagged the ball mid-air, barely keeping his footing as he stumbled out further into the field.

    "Interception!" Wade shouted over his shoulder, carrying onwards. "Ladies and gentlemen, he''s runnning past the 20, the 10, and TOUCHDOWN!" Skinny laughed and watched Wade spike the football into the ground, beginning some strange kind of victory dance. Skinny watched, amused, before turning back to Logan. The boy watched Wade''s dance as well, but Logan''s expression was fixed neutral: no half-smile of amusement, no eyes widened in surprise, no anything to be seen at all.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Nora pulled her squad car off to the side of the road and parked it just behind Coulter''s. She switched it off and withdrew the key, gathering her thoughts for a moment. She then grabbed her notebook, one of the myriad pens in her glovebox, and stepped out into the summer heat.

    She stepped over the low rail as Coulter had instructed and began to wind her way downwards on a thinly defined trail, dipping into the buzzing swarms of gnats and making her way towards the babbling of water just beyond. A bug flew into her face, leaving Nora swatting at her lips and spitting onto the dirt trail. Once she''d recovered, she started counting off the months until winter''s temperatures drove them out and made the outdoors tolerable again. She was still trying to remember the average temperatures of mid-October when the trail leveled off towards a bank of the South Fork New River. The river was never a particularly formidable thing, especially in dryer portions of the year, but at this particular bank the river temporarily widened out and sputtered along pathetically shallow depths. By the water''s edge, Jim Coulter picked his way through waterlogged garbage using a handkerchief.

    "So this is what I had to come see? Garbage? I never pegged you for an environmentalist," Nora said.

    "Believe you me, when I was sent here to check out a littering complaint, I was none too excited neither," Coulter said. "Family out here by the name of Landry owns this plot, and they were complaining that someone''s been illegally dumping waste into the river." He gestured down at the soggy cardboard at his feet. "River here is flowing out of town, so he figured it was someone closer in to main that''s doing the dumping."

    "On the radio, you said you think this connects to one of my cases?" Nora asked.

    "You have no appreciation for the dramatic¡­ I was getting there, but fine, Nora ''straight-to-the-chase'' Campbell. I was picking through the shit when I found that box over yonder," he said, gesturing to a wet box that was dragged onto the shore nearby. "Go take a look."

    Nora walked over and bent down over the wet remains of the box. It had no branding or design on the plain cardboard beyond a white label still taped to the top of the box. She walked around the box to read that label rightside-up. Water had let most of the ink run out into unintelligible stains, but an address line remained readable at the top. "That''s the address for the Coffee Street warehouses, isn''t it?"

    "The very one and same that was set on fire, yes''m."

    "And this, is this a serial number? Shipping number?" Nora asked while reading a string of digits that ended in an indecipherable blur. It started 060100, but beyond that the remaining four or five digits were anyone''s guess.

    "Yeah, they use those to track what''s in what box. I just hung up with the owner minutes before you showed up. Says he had boxes in the warehouse that night with numbers starting just like this one, 060100, but depending on how it ends that could be anything from radio sets to flashlights. But, and here''s the kicker, most of the boxes with that number will still in warehouse. Unsold. Meaning¡­"

    "You think these were stolen some time before the fire?" Nora finished.

    "Right before. As of close of business the night of the fire, they were still acknowledged and registered in stock. Then the place burns down, and then we find this¡­"

    "You think the fire was started to disguise the theft? To hope nobody can tell something''s missing in the ashes?" Nora asked, puzzling her way towards an explanation.

    "Conjecture, currently, but it''d be a damn sneaky way to get away with theft, that''s for sure."

    "Was it just the one box here?"

    "None of the other labels are readable, and the boxes are frustratingly nondescript, but we''ve got two more boxes of similar dimensions and the same grade of cardboard right over there," Coulter said, pointing at two boxes comprised of mushy panels of dirt-stained cardboard.

    "I gotta admit, it''s weird," Nora said, surveying all the scattered junk at the shallow riverbank. "But something''s still not adding up. It''s that big question: why? Why go through all the trouble of burning the place down for a few boxes?"

    "Was wondering the same thing¡­ I asked the owner how much money one could make disappearing three or so boxes that started with 060100. Owner said that if it was the radio sets, a thief could''ve made out with five or six hundred bucks, all tallied."

    "That''s no small payday," Nora said, frowning. "But is that enough to warrant burning the place down?"

    "Harder to sell stolen radios if the police know a box of ''em just vanished," he replied.

    "Are there any other good guesses to what they might have stolen?"

    "I mean, they were storing electronics. Just about every item on that list is desirable to steal, if you''ve got the inclination¡­"

    "We''ll want a list of all products in boxes starting with those numbers. Did you write them all down?" Coulter nodded, so Nora continued on. "I''ll put word out with pawn brokers and resellers to keep an eye out for suspicious amounts of anything on that list." Nora then frowned, thinking. "Our witness to the possible suspect after the warehouse fire¡­ he didn''t see the teen carrying any boxes, did he? It''d be hard to make a getaway carrying three of those," she said, gesturing to the box by their feet.

    Coulter thought, scratching at his nose. "Maybe our perp stashed them in the woods nearby, then set the blaze, and then fled in a different direction, returning sometime after the fact to retrieve the goods?"

    Nora fished out her notebook and began writing all the relevant facts down. "It seems like a longshot, but let''s entertain the possibility. I don''t know how much info forensics can get from wet cardboard days after a dunk in the river, but we''ll see what they can find. I''m gonna go head over to the warehouse site and try casing the nearby woods for anything suspicious at all. Do you have a lot on your plate right now, or can you help out with this?"

    Jim Coulter spat a wad of tobacco onto the ground and offered a wide smile. "For you, ma''am, I will make some time in my exceptionally busy schedule. What do you need me to do?"

 Chapter 13 - Trails

    Nora Campbell set her key in the ignition and turned over the engine without any conscious thought at all. Her mind was circling back towards her son, and what rationale he could possibly have for lying about acquiring a hoodie used in a crime after that crime had already taken place. She automatically set her car into reverse, backed from Coulter''s car, and was on her way towards the warehouses while her mind played through the details of the general store robbery. What crucial detail was she missing?

    The engine''s hum and the road''s soft vibrations felt relaxing on her hands. She then reached for a compartment on her center console that had long been empty but now housed the pack of cigarettes she stashed there this morning. She deftly removed one and pressed it towards the car''s cigarette lighter, waiting a few seconds as it began to glow red-hot. She then brought it back to her lips and took a long drag, running through possible explanations in her mind.

    First theory: Parker and his friends were the first group of masked bandits to arrive after Valerie Delacroix. Support for that theory: the group size was right, and one being black would fit for Jackson Trent. Undermining facts: Valerie claims to have shot one of the intruders, but the boys are all okay; none have ever acted out like this previously; all six of the boys are confirmed to have been at Trade-in Tom''s just after the robbery¡­ why not run away?

    She took another drag and ashed it against the tray in the door. She then replayed her conversation last night with her son, trying to peel it apart for any kind of clue. Finding none, she continued her mental interrogation of the facts.

    Second theory: Parker wasn''t at the scene, but he knew whomever was and is helping to cover it up. Support for that theory: Parker trying to buy the hoodie used at the crime after the fact¡­ maybe the robber abandoned it at Trade-in Tom''s. Parker, fearing forensic evidence undoing his friend, purchased the hoodie and then discarded it. Undermining facts: Tom said that he saw no foul play related to that hoodie, believing it accounted for up until the boys bought it. Which, itself, is problematic, because that timeline overlaps with the robbery, where we know the hoodie was seen. In fact, the curious case of the impossible timeline leads us to

    Third theory: The duplicate garment. Somehow, there are two nearly-identical ratty hoodies that both wound up very close to each other in both location and time. An unknown robber used one to take items from an active crime scene, and then, shortly after, Parker and his friends buy its twin just up the road. Support for that theory: it''s the only way to accept Tom''s testimony at face value and also respect the timeline of events. It also fits in better with how I know Parker¡ªand his friends¡ªact. Undermining evidence: it''s all a little convenient, fact-wise, to ascribe it to perfect coincidence. The shopkeeper''s description was very specific, and Tom''s own description of the hoodie was nearly a perfect match.

    She frowned, not liking the taste of that particular theory either. She hated that catch-all bandage for sloppy detective work, the willfully-worn blindfold to patterns that was the all-encompassing label of ''coincidence.'' It felt lazy. It felt like giving up. Nora felt too invested to shrug her shoulders and call it dumb chance¡­ but at the same time, she dragged her feet in bringing these latest developments to the Chief. Clyde Pemberton was a fine man and a good cop, but he was the kind of person who believed in the sanctity of the office nearly to a fault. He''d have Nora recuse herself from the case due to potential personal involvement, and Nora didn''t want anyone else at the department managing her son. That is, not until the picture was just a little bit clearer.

    Shaking her head free of all three unsatisfactory theories, Nora looked up at the looming, blackened husk of the Coffee Street Warehouses. Fire crews had taken hours to fully subdue the blaze, leaving the warehouse a mausoleum of ashes and melted electonics. The place still stank of burned plastic, a scent that unfortunately was already winding its way into Nora''s car as she parked near the structure''s front. The business owner milled about, pulling at his hair, while an entourage of followers stayed close at his heel. One of them held a clipboard and was glancing back and forth between document and building. Some insurance agent, perhaps?

    Nora didn''t much want to get into any conversations with the owner right now, so she did her best to seem busy as she stepped out of her squad car. She waved at the owner across the lot and he waved back cordially before turning again to the men he spoke with. Good, she thought. Looks like he wants to talk about as much as I do right now.

    The air hanging over the place held the weight of a graveyard''s, lending a disquieting stillness that fit the gloomy clouds overhead. In a way, perhaps it was a graveyard: instead of loved ones, it was melted television sets being laid to rest, and instead of teary-eyed family members looking on, it was a group of stoic men with clipboards that oversaw the burial. For a moment, Nora watched the pacing owner. Could this be an insurance fraud thing? Overstating the value of lost goods? Her gut said no, but she added a note to her book just in case: Follow up on building insurance. As far as she knew, the fire department''s team was still investigating possible causes of the fire¡­ in fact, there might just be a crew inside there right now, poking around. Nora figured she''d wait for their report before chasing that thread.

    For now, Nora was operating under two assumptions. First, that the boxes they''d found by the river were stolen from here the night of the fire. That one was relatively safe, all things considered. The second assumption, and the one that was just a little more tenuous, was that the theif was also the nondescript teen seen fleeing the burning building without boxes. For those two pieces to click together, the boxes had to have been hidden nearby and returned to later. Nora surveyed the scene around her, looking for where might be an appealing choice. The warehouse complex was surrounded by a chain-link fence which seemed to be intact throughout its entire length. Barbed wire ran along the top of the fence in twisted tangles, making climbing the fence seem an unappealing option. Climbing back out to escape with bulky boxes? There was simply no way. What if the thief chucked them over the fence first? Well, since electronics were likely the stolen goods, that wouldn''t be a logical choice either¡­ hard to pawn off radios that are dented to hell and won''t turn on.

    Nora began to walk the length of the fence, looking closely at the barbed wire as she did. Perhaps it had been cut somewhere along its length, and then carefully twisted back together? If the work was done well, it might have slipped past their first check of the perimeter. After all, at that point, they were only surveying details of the scene, not actively seeking out a point of entry for a would-be arsonist-theif. Her meticulous observation payed off after twenty minutes of close scrutiny. With a smile, she stepped in towards her prize: hanging from the barbed wire waved a small torn strip of blue denim no larger than a leaf.

    Though she couldn''t put a specific time on it, the strip seemed relatively clean, meaning it likely hadn''t been here for all that long. Its presence meant that someone had tried climbing the fence before, and people climbing barbed-wire fences rarely held good intent. She returned to the owner and asked if he''d had any known instances of theft or vandalism on the property in the months leading up to the fire. When he answered no, Nora smiled. Got ya, she thought.

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    Returning to the hanging strip, Nora carefully removed it with a gloved hand and placed it in a baggie. Evidence would want to get their hands on it and see what they can find, especially looking out for any blood samples that might have accompanied the snagged piece of clothing. After all, barbed wire wasn''t known for its gentle touch. Nora then hung a small strip of police tape from the barb that had formerly held the denim strip, marking its place. She then walked back to the guarded entrance gate and stepped outside the perimeter, walking its length around the outside until she saw the strip of police tape. She removed her book from her pocket and thought.

    OK, so, I''ve got the boxes. I decided to climb over barbed wire to enter and, presumably, exit. That would shred up my clothing and skin, but I don''t seem to have any other choice. Maybe I laid something down over the barbed wire before I climbed it? Either way, I must have picked off most of the strips of clothing that get torn off by the wires¡­ did I miss one in the dark? Nora looked at the ground near the fence and the nearby wire and confirmed that no other strips of cloth were there to be discovered.

    So, I now have to toss the boxes over the fence to this side before I can climb over. Do I have an accomplice here to catch them? Nora bent down, surveying the ground. The dirt was dry and flat, offering no clear footprints or tracks. A branch lay broken nearby, but whether that was because a person had stepped on it, a box had landed on it, or it had simply broken on its fall to the ground was impossible to say. Too much time had passed, the wind carrying leaves and twigs and obscuring whatever might have transpired here two nights previous.

    At this point, Nora frowned. The accomplice angle hadn''t been something she considered before, primarily because they only had eyewitnesses reporting one fleeing teen and an accomplice hadn''t been operationally necessary until the tossing over the fence became likely. Stashing the boxes and then returning to claim them felt needlessly convoluted when a second party could have simply carried them off in a different direction. She pulled out her notebook. Check nearby homes and businesses. Anyone see person carrying boxes away from warehouse? Anyone see boxes being loaded or unloaded into vehicle around same time? Then, anyways, to sate her curiosity, Nora began to journey into the woods that stood just beyond the fence.

    She trudged through the carpet of leaves and twigs, eyes searching for anything out-of-place. I''m a thief, and I don''t have an accomplice. I know police might search the woods for me, so I walk as far as I can, but I''m eventually spotted near the warehouse around the time the fire is reported. So, either I deposit the boxes here and then go back over the chain link fence to start the fire, which is nondesirable, or I started it indoors with the confidence it''d eventually grow to burn the whole place down.

    A squirrel scrambled past along the ground, fleeing from Nora''s footfalls. She watched it run as it darted into a mound of leaves that immediately seemed out of place. Around her, the leaves were flat along the ground, more-or-less evenly spread in a thin layer. Here, they were massed together, almost as though raked into place. She approached and poked at it with her flashlight until the squirrel scurried out and began to climb a nearby tree. Nora then examined the pile. Was this used to cover something? She felt a little like a child seeing patterns in clouds, but she couldn''t shake the suspicion. A lump of leaves in a forest should hardly raise any suspicion, but something about the mound''s placement felt off. There was nothing else like it around her, and it was situated against a tree such that someone walking from the warehouse might have missed it. Nora only saw it herself because of the fleeing squirrel. So, pushing back the sensation of being ridiculous in following her suspicion, she put on gloves and began to spread the leaves about, looking for anything that might have been covered by the mound. Finding nothing, she shrugged and took a handful of leaves, scrutinizing them. Some had a few splotches of dark on their side. Nora couldn''t tell if it was blood or mud, but she placed it in a plastic bag. If our guy leapt the barbed-wire fence, he probably was bleeding from the hands or arms¡­ maybe we''ll luck out and have a blood sample somewhere on these. Or maybe they''ll find some cardboard fragments? Nora clumped even more leaves into the bag and then zipped it up, tucking it away.

    At that moment, her radio crackled with Coulter''s flat voice. "Nora? Radio check, can you hear me?"

    "I''m reading you loud and clear. Go ahead."

    "Just got back from chatting with pawn brokers¡­ heard word from two separate shops that a stranger was trying to sell off a dozen radios the same type as the ones housed at Coffee Street. Want me to pursue? Over."

    "That''s an affirmative, try and track the guy down and find out where he got the radios from. Check receipts and store records if it''s resale," she added.

    "Roger so far," Coulter said, waiting.

    "I might have found some evidence relating to the fire¡­ a strip of denim cloth. Taking it in to forensics. Think the suspect climbed over barbed wire. If you find the radio salesman, check his arms and hands for scratch marks, over."

    "Wilco. Anything else?"

    "That''ll be all. Thanks, Coulter¡­. Over and out."

    She sighed and turned around, deciding that it was more important to get the cloth strip to Forensics than it was to chase out a miracle clue deep in the woods. Just for the hell of it, she switched her flashlight on and walked with it trained along the ground, hoping it would cause any out-of-place metal objects to shine. A weapon, a can of paint thinner, anything related would be nice right about now, she thought, eyes scanning the floor. Half-way back to the warehouse, she stopped. A small object glowed at the base of a tree, alone. Its surroundings seemed undisturbed, but there it sat, shiny clean in the dirty woods. She picked up the small battery using a handkerchief and examined it. It was AA, and, like the denim, it seemed far too impeccably clean to have been in the woods for very long. Were you stolen? she asked the battery, rotating it around to look for anything strange. Finding nothing odd beyond its position in the woods, she placed it in yet another evidence bag and continued her sweep, eyes scanning the floor until they settled on the base of the chain link fence where police tape hung, swaying gently in the breeze.

    Nora walked over to the warehouse owner before she got back into her car. He was sitting alone now on the curb, his back to the ruins of his warehouse.

    "I''m sorry to bother you again, but I''ve just got one more question for you right now."

    He looked up at Nora and nodded his head. "Go ahead, officer."

    "Do you recognize this brand of battery?" Nora asked, proffering the evidence bag with the lone battery inside.

    The man frowned at the bag. "Yeah, we store and sell those in the warehouse. Stored, sold, I guess."

    "My partner would''ve asked you about certain ID numbers on boxes we found. Could these batteries have been in those boxes?"

    "Yes, it''s in the right department. You think thieves did this, all to get some batteries? If you''re gonna steal from my warehouse, you could do a hell of a lot better," he said.

    "We''re not ruling anything out yet," Nora replied. "Crows sometimes like to pick up shiny objects¡­ could be as simple as a battery that came loose during shipping was nabbed by a bird. Either way, thanks for your cooperation so far. We''ll contact you if anything comes up." Nora began to walk to her car.

    "If they think it''s arson," the man shouted after her, "they won''t give me a dime. The insurance companies, that is."

    Nora turned, noticing the deep worry lines now on the man''s face. "I''m not gonna tell you how to do your job, miss. But if you guys are saying arson¡­ just please, be damn sure it''s arson first."

    "When the fire department finishes its report, you''ll be one of the first to hear. Best of luck in the recovery," Nora said, turning back to her car.

    "What recovery?" he asked as she shut the door and slotted the key. She wasn''t sure how to comfort the man, nor did she think it was her responsibility to do, but she did feel a pang of sadness for him. She watched him get up and begin to shuffle towards his own car. She let her mind pushed him out as new questions began to swirl. Why might a thief want a box of batteries? They weren''t all that valuable, especially compared to other goods housed in the same warehouse. Do people even resell batteries? And why would batteries be something worth burning down a warehouse to hide?

 Chapter 14 - The Glow

    The wooden door that marked the entrance to Logan''s house was painted a bright, garish green that chipped and cracked at its edges. A small bronze knocker was bolted to its front, and Skinny reached for it. He hesitated, not wanting to disturb Logan''s parents, but then remembered that they were supposed to be out of the house tonight. He knocked and waited, watching a small swarm of flies dance around a bug lamp on the porch. One bug seemed bolder than the rest¡ªa fact that was unfortunate, given the circumstances. It flew straight into the lamp and erupted in a flash, falling down to the porch fried and motionless. The chirping of crickets continued, oblivious to the tiny tragedy that had just occurred, and a distant owl hooted in the night from a perch on high.

    The door''s locks clicked and then it swung open. Logan stood there with a warm smile, arms out in a wide, welcoming gesture. "Skinny! Good to see you, man. Come on in, make yourself at home," he said, exchanging a quick and casual clap of a handshake with Skinny.

    Skinny walked in and looked around the place. He hadn''t been over Logan''s house in months, but it felt like years. "Whoa, man, I''m digging the new dining room table," he said, gesturing at a wide table of polished amber wood.

    "Thanks, it''s much more spacious than the last," Logan replied, running a hand along its surface.

    "What''d y''all wind up doing with the old one? It was quite the piece, wasn''t it? An antique?"

    "Yeah, 1890''s I think. My mom inherited it from her dead uncle, or something, and I tried my best to keep it up meticulously¡­ I could keep it looking nice, but full structural repairs were a little out of my skillset."

    "Well I''m sorry to hear it broke, then¡­ age finally caught up to it?"

    "Nope, but my father did," Logan said. Logan still had that warm smile on his face, but Skinny''s face darkened somewhat as he realized he brushed against a topic he probably shouldn''t have.

    "Hey man, I''m real sorry for asking about it, then. It was never my business¡ª"

    "No, no, don''t sweat it. Like I said, it''s more spacious than the last," Logan said. He then removed the Empathizer from his pocket and pressed it to his side, charging a red-orange battery with a hiss. He watched Skinny''s face fall even further and immediately moved to assuage his concerns. "Oh, no, don''t worry about this. Its anger, yeah, but directed at my father, not you. Anyways, why don''t you come on into my room and we can chew the fat for a little while, before we delve into that more serious business?"

    "Sure thing," Skinny replied, allowing Logan to lead him deeper into the house. They came to Logan''s room and settled down inside on a pair of beanbag chairs near the corner. The walls overhead were cluttered with creased posters to Alien, Jaws, The Godfather, and Rocky, among others. Model cars and the occasional train sat still on his desk and the bookshelves, meticulously kept and occasionally repainted using a small toolkit Logan kept nearer to his bed. Near the corner was an abandoned sketchbook, its front page covered with a few furtive doodles of mountains, a forest, and a cabin obscured by pines. The place felt warm or cozy to Skinny in a way that even his own room did not.

    "Sorry about the mess," Logan said, sweeping loose scraps of paper into a wastebin and stashing a small journal into a desk drawer.

    "It''s all fine, man, I was just thinking how cozy the place feels. I was aboutta tell you something before we moved rooms¡­ what was it. Oh yeah! You know who I ran into this morning?"

    "Who?"

    "Well, there I was, at the supermarket with my folks, when I bumped into some lady carryin'' a bunch of paper towels. She drops them, but, as I''m handing them back to her, helping her up, who do you think I see browsing the meats?"

    "Oh, I don''t know¡­ Krenkshaw?"

    "Nope!" Skinny leans in conspiratorially. "It was the cashier. From the convenience store we saved. I swear, the man was still white as a ghost."

    "Oh my God, did he recognize you?"

    "He actually stared at me for a second or two and asked if we''d met, but I told him that I just knew him from the store and¡ª"

    Suddenly, with a low, whirring sound, the lights dropped out, leaving the boys in pitch-black darkness.

    "What happened?" Skinny asked, beginning to feel around with a probing hand for the nearby wall.

    "Ah, it''s that fuse outside. It''s been giving us trouble recently," Logan replied, fumbling with a lighter from his pocket. "Ever since that storm a couple days ago it''s been all over the place." With a click, Logan set the lighter glowing, casting their faces and the surrounding room in a faint and flickering orange glow. "I''m gonna go fix it. You sit tight," Logan said, rising to his feet.

    "Sure thing, I''ll be here," Skinny said, leaning back on his bean bag chair. As Logan left, the shadows in the room danced and leapt with the transit of the lighter. Skinny watched them stretch and wind across the film posters and model cars of the cozy space, feeling some of his worries flicker away with them. He fished for a lighter of his own from his pocket and set it alight, watching the small flame dance in the dark. He then turned his attention back to the room itself, noting the overwhelmingly organized feeling of the place. Posters were hung in perfect gridlines, instead of the canted angles and sometimes overlapping lines of other friends'' rooms. The model cars were arranged in perfect rows, each one pointing to the right. The bed was neatly made, sheets folded in crisp lines. The wastebasket near his desk was emptied, save for the scraps Logan had just brushed in. Skinny was even surprised to notice that the books on his shelf were alphabetized by author name, something that Skinny could never see himself going through the effort to set up and maintain. He was mentally admiring the boy''s commitment to organized space when his lighter flickered out, again returning the room to darkness. Skinny had his finger on the wheel, about to set it sparking back to light, when something unexpected caught his eye in the darkness. There, on the other side of the room, a soft, red glow seemed to emenate from beneath the closet door.

    Skinny''s first thought was that it was some sort of fire, but the glow was far too steady, far too red. He moved towards the glow in the darkness and pulled the closet door open. There, he saw the silhouette of hanging shirts, pants, and jackets. What caught his eye, however, was not hanging with the clothing. It was bundled up in the corner, glowing at its fringes like a curtain keeping a dark room hidden from a sunny window. Reaching for it, Skinny felt its soft fabric and confirmed that it was some sort of blanket. But over what, exactly? A lantern? His curiosity getting the better of him, he pulled the blanket back.

    Someone outside the home looking at the window to Logan''s room might have thought a bomb went off indoors. The bloom of red-orange light was intense, sudden, and eerily silent. The closet erupted in its bright glow and Skinny fell to his knees, dumbstruck by the sight. "My God," he whispered, reaching a hand into the box he uncovered. In it, countless hundreds¡ªperhaps thousands¡ªof batteries glowed their deep, violent red-orange that the gang had come to realize represented anger, rage, wrath. Scattered among the masses of red-glowing batteries was the occasional green or purple battery, but their faint glows were drowned out by the ocean of hate that surrounded them.

    Skinny pored through the box, digging around with his hand to see if even the ones at the bottom were glowing. Much to his distress, they were. Whom was all this anger directed at? Himself? His father? The Gang? How could he have filled so many batteries in so little time? Where the hell did he even get so many batteries?

    Before Skinny could even begin to consider answers to those questions, the lights flicked on as suddenly as they had gone out. Skinny snapped back to the present moment, realizing that Logan would be on his way back into the room any second now. He threw the blanket back over the box and started to shuffle out the closet, before turning around and darting back in to adjust the blanket again. After fiddling with it until it resembled its original configuration closely enough, he slipped out the closet, quietly shut its door, and turned around to sneak back to his beanbag chair. At that moment, with Skinny''s back still to the closet door, Logan walked in.

    "All fixed?" Skinny asked, doing his best to seem nonchalant about being caught out-of-place.

    Logan eyed him with mild confusion but no obvious suspicion. "Yeah, all fixed," he replied. A momentary quiet settled between the two.

    "The dark just made me uneasy, is all, so I started pacing around a bit," Skinny said, trying to fill the quiet with an excuse that felt a little too unnecessary and a little too guilty the moment it left his lips.

    "Ah, I getcha," Logan replied, smiling casually now. "Anyways, whenever I gotta reset the breaker, the AC takes forever to kick back on. It''s gonna get real uncomfortably warm in here pretty soon. What do you say we head out and walk for a bit, and we can talk? I''ve also got something I wanted to show you, related to all this."

    Skinny offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but the doubt and worry was beginning to stir in his mind stronger than ever before. He knew it was only a matter of time before it began to show, despite his best efforts. "Yeah, sure thing. Lead the way," he said, gesturing for Logan to leave the room first. As Logan walked past, Skinny reached into his pocket and discreetly angled the Thought-Enunciator at Logan.

    Skinny would''ve been fine hearing mental chantings of hatred, rage against Logan''s situation or those around him. Skinny would''ve been fine hearing the ramblings of envy or jealousy, perhaps intent to take the others'' devices. Skinny would''ve been fine hearing plans of violence, some sort of outlet for that rage. In fact, he''d have been fine hearing anything at all, as at least he''d have some ability to defuse the situation or plan to work through it or seek outside help. But Skinny would be afforded no such options. While he listened, his heart sank only deeper and his frustrations mounted as just that disquieting static returned. And behind it, he felt that stomach-churning sensation of void, of a profound emptiness like a hole in the human soul. With a rising feeling of dread, Skinny trudged after his friend out of the quiet home. The night was balmy, and though he couldn''t see the darkened sky, it again carried the feeling of gathering stormclouds high overhead.

    <center>* * *</center>

    The wind rustled the canopy of trees as Skinny and Logan walked through the emptied, orange-lit winding streets of Boone. Insects buzzed about the streetlights in small swarms. The occasional car meandered by, but the streets were largely empty. So empty, in fact, that Skinny and Logan walked down the very center of the residential roads, Logan with his arms outstretched to feel the gusting wind. In one hand, Logan held a lantern he''d taken from his home.

    "So, where is it we''re going again?" Skinny asked, checking his mental map for points of interest on the road ahead. He could think of none.

    "You know how Superman had that Fortress of Solitude? I like to think of this place as my one spot I can get away from everything," Logan replied.

    "Is this where you kept disappearing to when we were in, what, 6th grade?"

    "Mmm-hmm. After my dad''s worst nights, I''d always run off to the shack and sometimes spend the night there. Almost nobody knew it even existed," he said, pointing to the woods just off the side of the road. "It''s this way," he said, leading the two off the road and into the woods beyond. He turned the gas valve on his lantern and lit it to a mild glow as they stepped into the woods. Immediately Skinny felt the temperature drop significantly as they entered air that was damp and still. The leaves rustled overhead, but little wind made it through the cover of the canopy above.

    "You said almost nobody knew?" Skinny asked.

    "One day, a couple years back, Parker trailed me while I was walking here. Said the townsfolk were getting pretty concerned for my ''emotional wellbeing'' and whatnot. I explained to him how this place was the only thing keeping my emotional wellbeing intact, and he seemed to understand."

    "Wait, so Parker''s known about you and your pops?"

    "No, I didn''t tell him everything, but enough for him to know this place was important. He swore to take its secret to the grave, and I''m pretty sure he''s kept true to his word."

    "Where is it, exactly?"

    "It''ll just be another couple minutes this way. It might look like we''re in the middle of nowhere, but I got pretty good at finding this place in the dark."

    "I think I got a decent idea of where we are," Skinny said, trying to find his bearings in the dark. "If we headed out that-a-ways for a short while, we''d hit¡­"

    "New Creek, the small spot we helped Wade with his Lord of the Flies project."

    "I still remember that damn beer bottle we called the conch shell," Skinny reminisced. "Of course Wade kept tossing it over Shaun''s head and then would tease him when he complained, saying¡ª"

    "You can''t complain unless you have the speaking conch," Logan said in his best Wade impression. The two shared a laugh in the dark woods.

    "I still think back on that every now and again," Skinny said. "We had some good times overall."

    "That we did," Logan agreed.

    A thoughtful silence slipped between the two. Skinny felt a compulsion to break that silence.

    "So, the things we got. Alien artifacts? Secret government Men in Black tools? What are your theories?"

    Logan rubbed at his chin with his free hand, thinking. "You know, I haven''t really thought on it for all that long. The way I see it, the origin isn''t all that important¡­ we got ''em now, and that''s that," he said.

    "Except you gotta consider the chance that wherever they came from, someone''s missing them right now, and probably searching up and down the state to find ''em," Skinny replied. "I''d imagine there are some dangerous people in search of these things."

    "Eh, you and Shaun read too many comic books or watch too many bad movies. I think we already know who owned these things¡­ we found their body out in the woods, and they''re not in much condition to be hunting us down. If someone else were after the devices, they''d have found us by now," Logan reasoned.

    "I''m just saying, word travels slow sometimes. Maybe it''ll take some time, but as soon as somebody hears about a robbery with an invisible boy and a kid who got shot and walked it off¡­ it might bring in the wrong kind of attention, is all," Skinny said. "I was thinking about bringing it up with the group tomorrow¡­ maybe we need to be even quieter with these things. I know we''ve barely done anything, but I feel like it''s the wrong kind of invitation. It''s like waving your arms around and yelling in the middle of the jungle when you''re not even sure if there''s any hungry tigers nearby," he added, before looking around uneasily at the dark woods. "Poor spot for that metaphor, I guess."

    Returning his eyes to the trail ahead, he saw the outline of a structure take shape in the dark. "That it?" he asked Logan.

    "Yeah, that''s the place," Logan answered, holding up the lantern so that it could better illuminate the side. The small, squat shack stood alone in the woods, dilapidated but not totally beyond function¡­ its roof still seemed to hold, and the windows and doors were still intact. Logan pulled a key from his pocket and slotted it into a padlock on the door. After disengaging the lock, he handed the lantern to Skinny and gestured in. "Take this and go inside; I''ll go start up the generator."

    Skinny walked into the shack''s single room and whistled, impressed with the space. Though the floor was still dirt, the whole thing being more a set of walls with a roof than an enclosed, sealed living space, there was a certain sophistication to the way it was furnished. He surveyed the odd decor by lantern light: posters of musicians of every genre littered the walls and the occasional antique stood proudly. A gently rusted fire ax sat on pegs drilled to the wall as though it were a sacred relic, while a first aid supply kit and emergency matches were placed just below it. Overall, it felt lived-in. An engine sputtered to life beyond the walls and overhead lights buzzed to life, illuminating the place with an earthy, pale orange.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    "And God said, let there be light!" Logan called from outside the cabin, appearing in the doorway moments later.

    "I gotta say, I''m pretty impressed. When I was imagining a shack in the woods, I wasn''t expecting electric lighting and a place this comfy."

    "Speaking of, want anything to drink?" Logan opened a dilapidated and clearly broken fridge, the hinges squeaking and squawking as it opened. Inside stood a number of unopened bottles of soda and a large jug of water.

    "Don''t mind if I do," Skinny said, reaching for one with a bright label he didn''t recognize. Logan passed him a bottle opener, which Skinny used to pop the bottle open and took a swig. The warm temperature did it no favors. It was borderline saccharine, its flavor nearly reminding him of Lucky Charms. That was a cereal he''d never thought he''d needed to drink.

    "Hits the spot," Skinny lied, taking another swig. "This place is surprisingly well-kept¡­ how long has it been since you were here?"

    "Well, it had been years since I was here, but then when we found these things¡­ I came out here with it to experiment, I guess you could say. Journaled all the stuff I was able to figure out."

    "What kinda stuff didja find?"

    "For starters, it works on animals. See this?" Logan raised his hand and showed a small, mostly-healed red gash on his arm. "Hamster did this after I hit him with some red. I managed to pin down the little wolverine and got it with a yellow, and it instantly returned to its happy, playful self. Mellowed it right down in no time."

    "Logan Kessler, Animal Control," Skinny teased, eyeing the bitemarks. "That still looks painful."

    "You''ve got no idea," Logan replied.

    "Well, hey, get this: my gramma''s cat, Frosty¡­ you put a bowl of tuna down in front of her, and there''s no happier cat on this planet. Do you think you could use animals to charge those things with happy emotions? Animals are a lot easier to please than humans," Skinny said.

    "Oh, I tried. As It''d turn out, though, the charges I get from a hamster were hardly enough to feel. You couldn''t hardly even tell the difference between a charged battery and an empty one," Logan said.

    "Maybe it don''t work so well through fur?"

    "Or maybe some things feel less than others," Logan replied, before a momentary stillness fell again across the duo. Logan let it hang there a moment, and then broke it. "He escaped the small cage I set up during one of my trips home."

    "A brave little hamster journeying out into the big, bad woods. Hope you don''t miss him too much¡­"

    "I don''t have to, actually. I find more uses for the Empathizer every day," Logan replied, shrugging casually.

    Skinny frowned at that, the high spirits of the moment evaporating away to leave only that deeper unease. "Well, I guess now we''ve arrived to all that heavy stuff I wanted to talk to you about. Doesn''t anything about what you just said strike you as wrong?"

    "How do you mean?"

    "Pain, loss, sadness¡­ we don''t like those feelings, sure, but they''re important feelings, too. They remind us what''s important, they keep us in check. Don''t you realize how unhealthy it''s gotta be, just pulling every sad thought out of your head?"

    "Normal people compartmentalize, with or without this," Logan replied, now eyeing the Empathizer.

    "That''s different and you know it," Skinny replied, shaking his head.

    "Look, I''m sorry I''m just being a little defensive and argumentative. Deep down, I think I agree with you," Logan replied, turning the device in his hands.

    "Don''t just agree to defuse the argument," Skinny said, noting the sudden change.

    "No, really, not just acquiescing. I think, deep down, that I agree with you. That this isn''t emotionally healthy."

    Skinny was caught off-guard. "You¡ªyou do?" he stammered, uncertain. "If you know I''m right, why keep using the dang thing so heavily?"

    Logan blinked several times in rapid succession. A tic? Fighting back tears? Something in his eye? Before Skinny could reach any satisfying analysis, Logan abruptly spoke up.

    "Did you ever go to that trip to the beach¡ªTopsail, wasn''t it¡ªwith practically all of our 5th grade class the week after school ended?"

    Skinny was caught off-guard by the apparent non sequitur. "Yeah, I was there. Why?"

    "Well, you may not remember, but I refused to get in the water," Logan began. "Hated the feeling of it as it dried. Hated the entire beach for that exact reason, and had only gone like three times, total. Anyways, me and Lyndon, we decided to dig in the sand instead," Logan began, eyes flickering left and right in the cabin as though someplace else entirely.

    The seagulls cawed as the waves pulled and roared in a ceaseless rhythm. With every crash, a gentle seabreeze picked up droplets of water and carried it to the small ridge of sand where a younger Logan stood, bringing with the damp that scent of salt and seaweed, brine and just the slightest undernote of the rotten, fishy stench of low tide. Logan held a small shovel in one hand, surveying the ground with Lyndon for a suitable spot.

    "Yeah, I remember that¡­ you guys dug a gigantic hole," Skinny said from the cabin. To Logan, it was a disembodied voice from a place far off and away, somewhere that had no connection to the beach at hand.

    Logan timed his strokes to be in the opposite phase as Lyndon''s. Shovels bit into sand with a crackling rasp, the kind that reminded him of all the unpleasantness of holding a mouthful of sand between his teeth. The hard, dampened wood stung where blisters were beginning to form on the pads of his hands, but Logan tuned out the pain. Each scoop deposited to the side bought them an extra few inches of depth.

    "I don''t know if I''d call it gigantic," Logan heard his own voice answer. "But we did get a few feet down in the ground. After a certain point, though, we hit some trouble."

    The dry scraping of the shovels suddenly became a wet sloshing sound that dribbled and splattered with every scoop back up to the surface.

    "We started to take on water. It just started coming in out of nowhere, slowing our progress."

    Logan and Lyndon started scooping at the slush near the hole''s bottom. It looked like sand, yet it flowed like water. At first it seemed a mere neat addition to their excavation, but it eventually became problematic. As they tried to excavate deeper, they soon found that their hole developed a small layer of semi-clear seawater a few inches deep. Logan watched the water''s gentle lapping cause small clumps of sand to drop in, and those clumps let fall even larger clumps above, until the perimeter of the hole slowly began to slide and collapse inwards on the water like a miniature mudslide.

    "I''ve been there before," Skinny said, remembering some of his own days building sandcastles. He took another gulp of the soda and listened.

    "Well anyways, the water was ruining our hole, so I got out a bucket and started shoveling the water out. But, every time I did that, more water rushed in from the sides."

    Bucket after bucket of water was hoisted up to the surface and splashed over the growing sand mound a few feet from the hole. Much to younger Logan''s dismay, the reservoir seemed self-refilling. After four or five buckets, he couldn''t tell if the water level was any lower, or if it had somehow gotten even deeper in the interim. What''s worse, the turbulent sloshing of the water and the inward flow had compromised the hole''s walls even further, with an entire large section of sand near Lyndon collapsing in. It fell and released a pathetic, sloshing splash that struck Logan''s right eye and set it stinging. His hands were too sandy to wipe at it, and his beach towel was nowhere near. All he could do was kneel near the failing, floundering hole, and blink as fast as he could until the pain subsided. It was a disheartening, losing battle, and what had started as a nice circle shape now resembled an angry inkblot. Every desperate bucketful only seemed to accelerate the hole''s erosion and collapse.

    Skinny spoke up. "Well, yeah, there''s this thing called the water table, and it¡ª"

    Logan cut him off with a stern look, unamused. "I know what a water table is, and that''s not the point. The important bit, here, is that the hole and the water is the closest analogy I can find for this thing."

    Skinny''s brow furrowed, not quite connecting the dots yet. "I''m not following?"

    "I can empty the hole, Skinny, and flush out the water," Logan said with a pained look. There was a soft hiss at his side as he charged a battery with the Empathizer, one that glowed with a sickly brown Skinny didn''t recognize. Logan swapped out the battery and loaded in a battery already glowing yellow in that smooth, practiced reload that bespoke a lot of experience using the Empathizer in the few short days he''d owned it. "But more water always pours in from the sides."

    Logan''s expression began to sour to the border of hysteria. "When my dad beats me, I can make the hurt go away and pull out all the negative. But the hole, I''ve emptied it over and over again, and it keeps filling back up." Tears welled at Logan''s eyes. "And every time, the water is muddier and muddier."

    Skinny squirmed in his seat, torn between reaching out to put a hand on Logan''s shoulder or recoiling backwards and fleeing the shed. First the red batteries, now this¡­ it was clear Logan was not well. Caught between forwards and backwards, Skinny remained still, chewing at his lip in transparent worry. His heart broke for Logan, but he wasn''t sure how the hell he was supposed to help with any of this. He was no therapist, no professional¡­ he wasn''t even sure if those people would know what to do in a case like this. Would anyone?

    Logan''s composure returned suddenly and completely as the cartridge in his side discharged, losing its warm, yellow color and returning to the metallic silvery neutral of a standard battery. He wiped at tears in the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand as his face held a mellow and chillingly-warm smile. "I''m running low on these, and I worry for what might happen when I run out. I scoured garbage cans in our neighborhood for used batteries¡­ did you know that? Then I got two boxes of them, and I can''t even explain how it is I got them, because I''m not even sure I know."

    Skinny raised his eyebrows at this point, but Logan continued.

    "I''m slowly accumulating the negative colors and losing my grasp on the good colors¡­ I can''t even remember what genuine joy feels like. The injected flash of happy is gone in seconds¡­ I know they''re just emotions, but I''m not strong enough to face them."

    Skinny found his voice and spoke up. "Alright, hey, man, you know I want to help. It sounds to me like that thing of yours ain''t doing you any good no more."

    "No, it''s not," Logan agreed, pressing the thumbswitch on the Empathizer. It loaded a pink-purple charge into the battery, a color that Skinny recognized as fear. "Not by itself."

    "Hey, I know that color¡­ that one''s fear. What are you afraid of, Logan? I can help, if you let me."

    "Afraid of what I''ve got to do¡ªand, in a way, already did. The box of batteries I mentioned? In the first one, right at the top, there was something else¡ªsomething that belonged to my dad¡ªstill belongs to him, since I saw at home he''s still got it. But now I got it too, a copy from the future¡­ a gift to myself, maybe?"

    "What was it?"

    Logan reached to his rear waistband and pulled out the steel revolver¡ªDad''s revolver. Before Skinny could even fully react, Logan cocked the hammer back and leveled the gun at Skinny''s chest. Skinny''s heart dropped. Logan certainly hadn''t been wearing the gun before, as Skinny would''ve seen it on the walk over, but he quickly realized that Logan could''ve had it stashed near the generator. His hands reflexively raised upwards, palms out in a placating gesture, trying to project an air of calm, but Skinny''s internal demeanor was far from it.

    "Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell are you doing with that thing?"

    "Alone, this thing is close to overpowering me. But think, if one person controlled all six, how powerful they could be."

    "Come on, man. You''re not making any sense, and you know it. What you need is help, some real professional help, not¡­ this."

    "This is my help, don''t you see? My whole life, I''ve felt powerless. Powerless to stand up for myself against my dad. Powerless to change the way I feel about myself and my situation. Even on the day we all find these incredible artifacts, I''m left with the impotent one. Powerless to make myself feel permanently happy, even when I got the one that''s supposed to control emotions. Do I look like my emotions are under control? Do I look like I have a modicum of power or control?"

    "There''s no need¡ª"

    "Answer it!" Logan shouted, thrusting the gun forwards in threat.

    "No, you don''t look like you''re in control," Skinny admitted.

    "No control," Logan repeated, distress rising on his face. His voice began to take on a manic, sing-song quality that sent a new wave of chills down Skinny''s back. "I''ve got the controller, and no control. None at all. Well you know what, Skinny? I''m taking control. I''m taking power for the first God-damned time in my life¡­ I''m tired of sitting by and letting my dad¡ªno, the world¡ªtreat me like its punching bag. I''m tired of being passive, of doing nothing. The world fucking owes me this, all things considered."

    "I know you don''t mean that," Skinny said meekly, tears beginning to well in his eyes.

    "You''re the mind-reader here. Take your device out, and why don''t¡ª"

    "C''mon, man, you and I know that''s not necessary¡ª"

    "Take it out!" Logan shouted, again thrusting the gun forwards to lend his words the authority granted by intimidation. Suddenly, Logan understood Dad''s love of the thing¡­ wave it around, and people did what he wanted. What a rush that was¡­

    Skinny squared his jaw for a moment, considering what he could say to de-escalate things. He saw genuine desparation on Logan''s face, a certain wildness to the eyes that he worried couldn''t be talked down. Finding nothing to say, Skinny reached for the Thought-Enunciator still stashed in his pocket.

    "Point it at me!" Logan commanded.

    "It doesn''t work on you!" Skinny shouted, his voice cracking.

    "Withdrawing your emotions gives you a solid grasp on your thoughts, so I could keep them quiet when I needed to. Point it at me; you''ll hear plenty now."

    Skinny''s own voice sounded pathetic to his ears. "Please, Logan, you''re not thinking properly here."

    "Am I?"

    By now, the full grip of hysteria was upon Skinny. "Look, man, this¡­ thing you''re doing¡ªtrying to do," Skinny stammered, still trying to shrink away from the gun, "you couldn''t even get away with it. Parker¡ªhe''s got the Time Watch¡ªTimepiece¡ªand he''ll go back¡ªundo anything you try."

    "Oh, that''s the best part. Point it at my head right now and see what I''ve got planned. Now, damn it!"

    Skinny complied, pointing the small, satellite-like end at Logan and listened. His face was already red-hot and streaked with tears, but it quickly began contorting through expressions of terror, of misery, of deep, disbelieving pain. Skinny''s voice was reduced to nearly a whimper now. "I know my friend isn''t capable of doing this."

    Logan offered a wan smile. "You''re right. You''re right, I''m not. But with this thing, I don''t have to be your friend anymore. I don''t have to imagine regret, or sadness, and hold myself back. Unbound by emotional or moral constraints, I can do anything I decide to."

    He leveled the gun again towards Skinny''s chest and prepared to fire, finger tightening around the trigger. Logan remembered standing on a certain diving platform at the Boone Community Center pool, giving advice to a scared child: "just close your eyes and make the jump before you can even be scared by it. Just leap."

    Skinny squeezed shut his eyes and raised his hands to block his face, shrinking backwards into the chair. His Thought-Enunciator clattered to his feet, giving Skinny an idea. "The devices¡­ you can have them! We''ll just give them to you. I can get the boys to come around, you know I can¡­ all the power you want, and nobody''s gotta get hurt over it."

    Logan''s hands were steady. His outstretched finger tested the resistance of that small sliver of metal, the pulling of which would end an entire human life. It flexed it back and forth at the very beginning of its range of motion, feeling the pull against his force. There, vacillating against the trigger, Logan''s hand paused.

    Skinny, feeling the pause grind between them like a massive glacier, allowed himself a hopeful peek between his fingers over his face. He watched as Logan set the gun on the table, the dread knot in his stomach finally beginning to unwind. As he racked his mind for the right words to continue the deescalation, he watched as Logan ejected a pink-purple battery from the Empathizer and loaded in a fresh blank one.

    "I''ll meet with them first thing in the morning¡­ we''ll collect these things up, all of them, and then," Skinny stammered, watching Logan.

    Logan toggled the thumbswitch on the Empathizer. The device hissed. It charged the battery a deep, pale cyan, a color not unlike the waters of the idyllic Caribbean on a cloudy afternoon. It was a new color, and its glow momentarily mesmerized both he and Skinny.

    "Huh, I guess that one''s compassion," Logan remarked, staring at it. Without looking away, he reached for the gun.

    The quiet of the night deep in the woods was shattered by the staccato report of a revolver''s firing that roared and spread out across the wooded valley, sending birds flying and critters scurrying for cover in its wake. Five more quick blasts sounded, and then the thick drape of silence rematerialized. The sad echoes of the gunfire returned as the only indictment, before even those, too, fell silent before the chirping insects.

    In the cabin, there were four sounds to be heard, no fewer and no more. The first was a persistent buzzing. It was a buzzing of the overhead light, and it was also the buzzing ring deep in Logan''s ears. The lamp was speckled with two droplets of fresh blood, around which buzzed a small swarm of gnats who could never know the horror that just unfolded below.

    The second sound was the rattling. It was the rattling breath of a boy breathing through perforated lungs drenched with blood, and the shaking exhales of a boy unwounded but trembling with adrenaline and with self-hatred, with determination and with fear.

    The third sound was a pattering noise, the wet sound of dribbling damp on soft ground. It was the trickle of blood from open wounds, the slow drip-drip of droplets on the ceiling that eventually acquiesced and allowed gravity to again take charge. They fell back to the dirt from which man was made, joining the slow dribble off a table that sourced from a glass bottle of Moxie now on its side.

    The fourth and final sound, a rhythmic clicking not unlike a clock''s, took Logan several seconds to identify. It was the sound a revolver made when the trigger was repeatedly pulled long after the chambers of the cylinder had emptied. Click, click, click, the gun continued, Logan''s finger still toggling the trigger as though it were some sort of murderous automaton.

    Together, the sounds formed an orchestra in four parts, a horrid, twisted fugue that would keep Logan awake for many nights to come. With great mental strain, he stilled the twitching finger and lowered the gun, setting it on the table. Then, and only then, did the body tremors begin. It started in his fingers and hands, but soon it swept over the whole of his body, shaking him in violent fits of adrenaline. As he regained control, he deliberately refused to look at the slumped form before him, knowing that Skinny would not yet be dead and also knowing he would be utterly unable to meet the boy''s gaze. Logan wouldn''t hold him while he went or try to offer any words to ease his passing¡­ after all, what would be the point?

    He bent down and scooped up the Thought-Enunciator, pocketing it. He then glanced at the small clock in the corner of the room, noting the time. 9:50.

    "I''m late," he muttered to himself, reaching back for the gun. Remembering then that the cylinder was empty, he set it back down on the table and began to move through the shed, searching. He found the fire ax hanging on the wall and gripped its handle, hefting its weight about in the air. Finding it satisfactory, he moved to the door and pushed it open with the ax''s handle, pausing for a moment at the threshold. Should I look back? Is there anything at all I can say? Before his mind could answer, his feet were in motion. He stepped out into the cool night and shut the door behind him, locking the grisly scene away. He set his back against the door and tried to catch his breath, feeling a rising dread at what work he knew waited ahead. He felt the momentary doubt of someone who''s already taken the plunge and was now in free-fall. No point resisting at this point¡­ best to just let gravity and momentum take over. Follow the plan. Setting away from the door, he staggered for a moment, wiping at his eye. The tears stung. The dark swirled. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as though a terrible beast lie waiting just out in the dark, watching him with a predator''s wide-eyed gaze. He swallowed those fears down as he resumed his brisk pace, ax in hand. He had a very specific appointment to make.

 Chapter 15 -- The Outsider

    The nighttime darkness overhead was just barely beginning to warm with the kiss of dawn''s light far and away on the horizon. A quiet mist hung in the air, gently drifting over the winding highway road like a blanket lazily pulled across a bed. There, in that sleepy dark of daybreak, there was a palpable sense of serenity, of a quiet stillness that knew nothing of murder, knew nothing of conflict. There was road, and there was mist. There were trees. There was the chirp of crickets, and there was the roar of a distant engine. And beyond that, there was nothing else at all.

    At least, for a time. Twin beams of light illuminated the mist, and then, with a roar!, a speeding car tore through the peaceful cloud and obliterated it, leaving only spinning tendrils of white in its wake. The car was a 1979 Mercury Cougar XR7, a blue-green thing with white accenting on the rear of the canopy. It sped through the winding, empty roads, its engine growl sending mice to their burrows and deer darting back into the deeper woods. A road sign that said ''Boone - 97'' streaked past, prompting the driver''s eyes to flash to the map he had splayed out across his passenger seat. He traced the line of the roadways he''d need to reach the small mountain town. Off the highway¡­. there. And then the state road, right up until that one¡­ a right from that point.

    The impact came so suddenly that his shocked reaction was nearly what killed him. The whole car jerked with a sudden thunk! and a mass of something was launched in the air to the left of the vehicle. His arms locked up as he watched that mass fly, leaving him turning the wheel unwittingly as he turned his head to watch its passing. Momentary clarity returned, and the man straightened the wheel as he slammed down on the breaks. Tires squealed and the car began to rotate uncertainly as it decelerated, a slow drifting motion to the left that quickly became a turn towards the right as he corrected and subsequently overcompensated. The headlights, which formerly illuminated the road, seemed to flick off¡­ or was it just that there was no more road to illuminate?

    The car pitched downwards as it slid free of the highway and into the lowered grass to the right side of the road. Off the pavement, the squealing of rubber on asphalt was quickly replaced with the chaotic, rumbling sound of locked tires on uneven grass and dirt compounded with the snapping of branches lying there in the sloping ditch. After a short distance, the car finally came to a halt, its engine hissing quietly.

    Shaking, the man disengaged his seatbelt¡ªhe was fortunate he''d decided to wear that today after all¡ªand he opened the driver''s side door. He stepped outside and circled to the front of his car, eyes straining in the dark to see the full extent of the damage. He stepped into the headlights and allowed them to illuminate his shirt, which, in turn, cast a gentle glow onto the car. There, he could see the hood was dented in and slick wet with what he assumed was blood.

    Shaking his head, he returned to the car and opened the trunk, removing the rifle he''d had stashed within. He loaded it and disengaged the safety as he set off across the still road, feet guiding him towards the high-pitched moaning noises that split the otherwise silent night. As his eyes adjusted to the faint, rising light, he soon saw the darkened mass there on the ground.

    The deer''s rear had been struck by the front of his car in a glancing blow, a collision that had evidently set the creature spinning along the asphalt. One of its legs was detached and unmoving on the ground, a small trail of blood leading from the leg to the rest of the deer as it crawled away with great effort and in great pain. The man didn''t hesitate there and then, watching the grisly scene. He didn''t lament the responsibility of the task at hand, nor did he wonder at the creature''s chance of surviving the crash. He knew that it was suffering, which of course meant that time was of the essence. He estimated the range at 10 meters. The target was moving, and light quality was poor. He held his breath, took aim, and squeezed the trigger, a bullet ripping through the shambling deer''s head. It slumped over and moved no more.

    Horace would''ve liked to say a prayer before he fired the shot, as he''d always done in the past when he''d gone hunting, but he also knew that Jesus made exceptions for dire need. That poor deer had needed to die, and it needed it right then and there. Still, Horace took a moment to close his eyes and say the words of his prayer, even if it was delivered posthumously:

    Oh, Father High, I pray to you,

    that my one shot shall send out true.

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    May it strike them without pain,

    and send them high to Your domain.

    He then switched to the second verse, the one usually saved for after the killing shot.

    Oh Lord, let no kill be in vain:

    To eat, to clothe, to save from pain.

    This I swear until my death¡­

    Respect all creatures You grant breath.

    Saying the words set him back to missing his father, just as those words always did¡­ It was his father that taught Horace how to wield a rifle, how to steady his aim, how to skin a deer and cook its meat¡­ he even taught him to light a fine cigar after a succesful hunt, something to help him enjoy the quiet calm that finds a man after a job well done. Horace was pretty sure the hunters'' prayer was his father''s own invention, always the humble and grateful man that he was. Horace was nearly 70 now, a decade that his father had never manged to clear. It was certainly a weird feeling, knowing that you''ve reached a stage of life that those pillars of authority¡ªyour parents¡ªnever passed. Seeing the bleeding deer carcass before him, and noting the rifle in his hands, Horace decided this was a strange place and time to be getting all sentimental.

    He produced a cigar from a coat pocket and leaned forward, shielding his lighter from the sleepy breeze of the summer night. The first inhalation was always the deepest, bringing the full front of the flavors gently roasted¡ªbut not yet burned. Then the first exhalation billowed before him, and he exhaled the stress of the spin-out with that breath¡ªsent it out into the night. His heartrate at last returning to normal, he walked back to his car and unloaded his rifle before storing it back in the trunk, placed gingerly next to the box of ammunition and the case of papers and documents he''d brought. He set the car in drive and drove back up the embankment, testing the car''s handling and responsiveness as he did. Finding it satisfactory as he reached the top, he rolled back onto the stretching highway and set off as the sun began to rise in earnest. He switched on the radio and scanned through it, finding a suitable station in seconds. The ominous-yet-melancholy synths of Phil Collins''s "In The Air Tonight" began their slow song, setting a wave of goosebumps across Horace''s body.

    Phil sang about that certain feeling hanging in the air, and Horace knew he could feel it too. And as Phil sang about a moment he''d awaited all his life, Horace felt a second wave of goosebumps ripple across his arms and back. Moments long-awaited were indeed approaching.

    Horace instinctively reached for the envelope tucked away in his coat pocket, primarily just to make sure it was still there. That thing had become something of a compass to him of late, its mystical authority a source of equal parts awe and fear.

    The letter''s instructions were specific. Its details would be hard for most to take seriously, but Horace was no stranger to trusting belief when the world required belief. After all, he had even kept the faith when he lost both his first and second wives to cancer all those years ago. It was tough, though, to look at the loss and know that somehow this was all for the best, that God''s plan would deliver him to the right place at the right time to do His bidding. He had that same unshakeable faith in this letter, faith that its words were true and that following its instructions would do some good for the world. After the past decades of his life, and all the cripple''s promises that came true, how could he not?

    He ran through the mental list of the machines it described. Six of them, all said and told. There was the mind-reading one, which Horace didn''t think he ever wanted to use. Felt too invasive to him, truth be told. Then there was the emotion manipulating one. That one also set Horace uneasy¡­ he was a firm believer in the sanctity of the mind, and a man''s right to privacy and control over what went on inside his own head. What he felt, what he thought¡­ man didn''t have any business messing with that.

    There was then the ring, the one that somehow boosted the mind. Horace wondered what it might be like to slip it on and think in an entirely new way, somehow brighter and faster. He wondered if any of that persisted once taken off. Once you thought in a particular way, how could you forget how to do it?

    Number four was the invisibility tool, which Horace knew would be useful for the rest of the job. He wanted to get to that one first, but the letter''s instructions were quite specific on that front. It told him that he needed to focus on the protection one first before all others, because the safety it afforded him would be irreplaceable. Then there was the last one, the watch, which the letter told him to avoid at all costs. Dangerous thing, to play with time, the cripple had told him. Horace felt inclined to agree. That one felt the most like stepping on God''s toes and taking power that only He should possess¡­ it''d be better to leave that one alone outright.

    Tucked in his other coat pocket was the list of six names he''d been given. A couple even had addresses given. As the sun climbed higher in earnest, and Phil Collins chanted his "Oh, Lord, oh Lord," Horace felt that clarity of purpose that he enjoyed before each and every hunt. His quarry was something far more dangerous than the average deer or boar this time, but the necessity of the hunt had never been greater. The Lord helped those who helped themselves, and Horace had much work ahead of him.

    The 1979 Mercury Cougar XR7''s engine roared, barreling him closer and closer to the Boone city limits.

 Chapter 16 - Absence

    The noon sun was poised high overhead as Ronnie trudged through the woods, a backpack slung over his back. Today was an abnormally windy day for a summer, which were usually marked by still air and stifling heat. The temperature was tolerable, and the breezes that ran through the woods set the trees rocking and sighing in a way that struck Ronnie as positively marvelous. Wearing the ring, he found that he held an entirely different regard for the trees and the way that the wind moved them. It wasn''t like he could see some fantastical pattern in the way it swayed back and forth, or that he suddenly understood the physics of the whole system to a greater level¡­ it just seemed to imbue him with a greater appreciation for systems so complex. He could simply sit in meditative silence and watch such things for hours¡ªand, over the past several days, had done precisely that.

    Under the effects of the ring, everything seem magnified, in a way. It''s not like his vision was zoomed in, and it wasn''t like he perceived things at a greater intensity, exactly, but it was more a change in depth of perception. When he felt his own bag shift against his back, he felt what he supposed were the shifting weights of each and every chess piece tucked away within. When he heard the rustling of the trees overhead, he felt as though he could hear a million separate clicks and groans instead of the one single susurrous rasp of wind that he''d have heard normally. With every footfall, he didn''t just feel hard ground or soft ground, but he truly felt a full impression of the spot of land covered by his foot, just by all the minute parts of the movement that were slowed or resisted or permitted. By the way the ankle shifted gently but then met some firm resistance as his weight shifted, he knew he''d stepped on soft dirt with something solid¡ªperhaps a tree root¡ªburied inches below. With the next foot fall, a nearly imperceptible resistance on the left side of the footprint that gradually leveled out let him know he''d stepped on a small, sprouting plant¡­ he didn''t even need to glance down from the drifting trees above to know his step with absolute certainty. He allowed himself to experience the forest absolutely, banishing thoughts and any distractions that might arise. He let himself be moved by the complexity of it all, and allowed his path to meander as he chased out glimpses of an eagle that glided overhead.

    His wandering path meant he was somewhat slowed, and so it wasn''t until 12:23 that he arrived to the familiar forest clearing¡­ they had been aiming to meet at noon. As he closed the final steps of distance, Ronnie looked to the landmark that dominated the local geography: Castle Rock. Named for the fortress in "Lord of the Flies," it was a massive, towering thing, featuring an indentation along the top that almost served as a flat platform with raised walls around it. The boys weren''t sure if it had been carved into its current shape, or if it was simply the way nature had formed the massive stone, but the imposing place quickly became a forest landmark. The rear of the stone transitioned from smooth, sloping rock to a more granular, rough-hewn stone that offered numerous footholds and handholds to climb the thing. Again, whether intentional or accidental, they couldn''t be sure. Ronnie saw the boys perched up there at the top of the rock, stationed as though guards overlooking a prison. It didn''t take long for one of them to see him.

    "Took you long enough," called Wade from above, noticing Ronnie''s arrival first.

    "Apologies¡­ think I lost track of time," Ronnie replied, shaking his head.

    "Skinny isn''t with you?" Shaun asked, looking behind Ronnie to the empty woods beyond.

    "Was he supposed to be?" Ronnie asked.

    "He hasn''t showed yet, so when the both of you were late, we thought you two might have been together," Logan called down.

    Logan, in the sleepless hours between last night''s work and today''s rendezvous, had been mutely curious about how he might handle today''s conversations¡­ and when the fingers of dread threatened to creep in, they were nothing a quick use of the Empathizer couldn''t fix, keeping him level, calm, and prepared. This morning, he had withdrawn a color never before seen to him¡­ an inky black with the faintest tendrils of deep ocean blue. Was that color guilt? Self-loathing? Remorse? Or, perhaps, could it have been commitment? Resolve? Purpose?

    Now, as the boys slipped into their usual rhythm, Logan found that he could still smile convincingly and project the same air of normalcy that he''d held all through the past. Guarding secret wounds from the world for so long came with its benefits, he supposed.

    "I''ll climb on up," Ronnie volunteered, walking towards the rear of the rock.

    "Don''t bother," Logan said. "We''re coming down."

    One after another, the boys filed backwards down the myriad handholds until they were all back at ground level.

    "Went up there to see if we could spot you guys," Shaun said.

    "You didn''t hear anything from Skinny about him missing out today, right?" Parker asked of Ronnie, settling to the base of the rock.

    "Nope. If I had to guess, he''s probably just feeling under the weather," Ronnie ventured.

    "What have you got in that backpack there?" Logan asked.

    "Chess board again, a deck of cards, a few books you wouldn''t be interested in, and, oh!¡ªI nearly forgot¡ªParker''s spray-painted gun from the convenience store."

    Ronnie fished the fake gun out from his bag and grimaced, noting that the gun had smeared black paint over much of the inside of his bag.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    Parker stepped forwards, pleased to see the fake weapon. "Thanks for bringing that over¡­ my mom was asking about us being near there the other day. I think the less evidence for her to find, the better," he said, taking the plastic gun. It felt stickier than he remembered, which made him all the more eager to get rid of it. He walked over to Castle Rock''s uneven rear and found a small crevasse in the rock''s surface. He slipped the gun in and let it go, watching as it fell out of sight into some small eroded cubby in the rock.

    "Well that''s that, then," Parker said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Police evidence: discarded. Any other criminal mischief we want to get into today?"

    "Weren''t we planning to hero today?" Ronnie asked, settling down on a small stone.

    "We were," Shaun said, "but I don''t think Skinny would wanna miss out."

    "Worried we''d hurt his feelings?" asked Wade.

    "Worried we''d hurt ourselves," Shaun replied. "It was close enough last time when there was six of us. Five won''t go any better."

    "Skinny''s parents should be out at work¡­ what if we went back to his place and saw what''s what?" asked Ronnie.

    Some nodded their assent, while others shrugged their indifference. With no nay-sayers, the boys donned their backpacks and set to walking.

    <center>* * *</center>

    The boys arrived to Hampton Drive, a small offshoot of a road that featured homes a half-step above most of the middle-class residences in Boone¡ªbut still a healthy three steps below the rich, grand manors and mansions that pocked the town''s outskirts. The Trent family was modestly wealthy: the mother, Michelle, was a veterinarian who earned a more-than-comfortable living, and the father, Jackson Trent Senior, worked odd jobs when he was healthy enough. This summer had been one of those periods.

    The home itself featured an impressive archway between two walls of the home that led to something of an open courtyard where the front door could be found. Not wanting to risk a conversation with the parents (if either of them happened to be home), the boys opted instead to walk around the rear of the house, moving towards the window they knew marked Skinny''s room. Inside, the lights were off, making it hard to peer through the window into the darkened space against the glare of daylight. Cupping his hands to the window, Ronnie peered forwards.

    "It looks like the room is empty," Ronnie concluded. He then began to knock on the window anyways.

    Without initially being sure why, Logan elbowed his way towards the window and peered in as well. He let his eyes trace over the posters on the wall, the ones selected by Skinny to decorate his space. He looked over at the loose objects on the desk: a silver Slinky, a desk lamp, a red pen, a picture frame angled away from the window. Logan knew that the hand that had set those objects in place would never set anything anywhere again. In a way, the room had been alive, changing every day as Skinny interacted with this and adjusted that and set those against the wall¡­ now it was still as a mausoleum, as though the thing itself had been slain by Logan with the same revolver. In that moment, a tremendous something seemed to position itself over Logan and began to squeeze down like a vice, his ears no longer hearing his friends but instead recalling that horrid music of the cabin, the buzzing, the rattling, the pattering, the clicks. Logan couldn''t stand it any longer¡­ he backed from the silent room beyond the window and was yanked away from his internal terrors as he fell over backwards into a seated position on the ground.

    The pain of his fall was a welcome thing, as it grounded him in the present outside Skinny''s home and kept his mind away from that claustrophobic shack in the woods. Wade snickered. "Walk much?" he asked, offering a hand to help pull Logan to his feet.

    "Well, it looks like he isn''t here," Shaun said.

    "Maybe the kitchen?" Ronnie offered.

    The boys set out circling the home, peering into windows that marked the main rooms of the home. Through one, they saw an empty living room, lights dimmed and television set switched off. In another, the kitchen stood dark and silent, no stove burning or microwave running. In a third empty room, an adjustable bed that resembled a hospital cot sat inclined at an angle, an IV drip bag poised to its left and a small set of inscrutable machines nearby. A fourth window had the blinds closed, and so Wade walked up and pressed his ears to the glass.

    "No sound inside," he declared. "Think the whole place is empty."

    "Maybe he was on his way but late?" Logan asked.

    "We took the most direct route from Castle Rock to here¡­ we would''ve seen him," Ronnie replied.

    "Maybe his mom or dad needed his help at work or something?" Shaun suggested.

    Wade replied "I could totally see him as a veterinarian''s assistant, wearing scrubs and putting puppies to sleep."

    "He''s good with animals," Shaun said, ignoring Wade''s comment.

    "Whoa, hold the phone, check out that set of wheels," Wade interrupted, pointing towards the street. The boys turned to see the approach of a sleek, blue car whose engine growled with obvious latent power. Wade whistled a cat-caller''s whistle.

    "That''s not one of Skinny''s parents, right?" Shaun asked, having never met the Trent parents personally.

    "Dude''s clearly white," Wade said, watching as the car pulled closer.

    "Looks like he scuffed up his hood," Logan observed, noting a dent near the front headlight.

    "Shame," Wade added, shaking his head. "A beautiful thing like that deserves to be treated right."

    The car drove along without slowing as it passed the boys, Wade watching it go. "New York plates," he added. "Someone''s an out-of-towner."

    "Hey, Wade, is that an Empathizer in your pocket, or did you just see a nice car?" Logan joked.

    "Don''t act like you weren''t into it, too," Wade said, turning back to the house. "That thing just oozed power and speed."

    "Not the only thing oozing," Logan replied, setting Shaun and Parker giggling.

    "So what''s the call on Skinny?" asked Wade, gesturing to the emptied house.

    "I guess we just call today a misfire," Ronnie answered. "Whatever''s got him busy, it''s got him busy. Meaning, no hero antics today. Maybe we just regroup tomorrow back at Castle Rock?"

    The boys nodded in agreement.

    "If we''re going home, I pass the vet''s office where his mom works¡­ I could see if he''s there and pass on the plan," Shaun volunteered.

    "And I pass the gas station. I''ll check by there," offered Wade.

    The boys said their farewells, exchanged their handshakes and fist bumps, and split off in their separate directions. As soon as Logan was alone, he wandered off his path home and found a large tree a short distance into the woods. Slumping against its trunk, he wept openly and loudly, careless of who might hear him. His body shook and tears streaked from his eyes. Grief, anger, sadness, remorse, and tinges of regret grabbed at him all at once and squeezed with unbearable force, reducing Logan to pitiful, wet sobs. The empathizer called to him, as though it whispered in his red, ringing ears, offering its emotional bliss, its comforting silence. He fought that impulse off through gritted teeth¡ªfor a time, at least. When he finally caved to it, and withdrew batteries of hateful, self-loathing color, it wouldn''t be right to say that he felt better¡­ as always, he simply didn''t feel a thing at all.

 Chapter 17 - Family

    Wade spotted the elevated sign first, a beacon hanging high over the rooftops meant to capture the attention of cars driving through on US 321. Boone was a city where few man-made structures even bothered to rival the mountain peaks surrounding the town. Accordingly, the sign stood out like God had taken a massive arrow and pointed it down to the station from the heavens above, and cars certainly flocked to it as though it were God''s promised land. The sign advertised two things: cheap gas and a 24/7 convenience store. Car after car arrived with those expectations, leaving no gas station more reliably busy than Hal''s Gas-n-Go. As Wade closed in on the base of the sign, he saw the small Perpetumart attached to the gas station come into view. It was an impressive little establishment, being one of Boone''s only 24-hour shops, and it was also the place where Jackson Trent, Senior, currently worked. Wade pushed open the door, which set a bell hanging above jingling.

    "Be with you in a moment," came a rasping voice a few aisles obscured from view. Wade looked around the shop, seeing only one other patron currently in the store. She was perusing through the myriad varieties of beef jerky.

    Setting out towards the voice, Wade turned the corner and found Jackson Trent seated in a chair dragged into the aisle. He was a thin man with a dusting of gray working its way into his short-cropped black hair. His hands were thin and vascular, his face peaky and thinned. Still, he wore a smile and shuffled through the work amicably, tending to a box filled with cans of Campbell''s soup at his feet. He was picking up the cans one at a time and sorting away to their respective homes in the shelf among the baked beans and tins of canned meat, sliding them around until they found their alphabetized spot. He turned as he heard Wade approach.

    "Ah, Mr. Kerrigan¡­ haven''t seen you in a while," Jackson said. His words were short, disconnected things, as though each word were only thought up once he had fully concluded saying the previous one. "How''re the folks doing?"

    "They''re doing well, sir," Wade replied, offering a friendly smile. He knew Skinny''s dad had always been big on the whole sir and ma''am thing. "My mom just got a new teaching job over at State," he added, before realizing that maybe work wasn''t the best topic to tread with Jackson.

    "I just got me a new job, too," Trent Senior said with a smile, gesturing around the store. "It ain''t as flashy as a university teaching job, no sir, but it''s good, honest, work¡­ them''s that run the place don''t mind me using a chair for shelving so I''m about as happy as can be."

    "Do you guys still stock those cheese-filled pretzels you used to send with Skinny''s lunch every day?"

    "We didn''t," Jackson said, before leaning in with a wry, conspiratorial grin. "But I ordered ''em in recently, just for the lot of you guys. Aisle 3, far right. Was gonna send Skinny over with a couple bags later in the week."

    "Well I don''t know about you, sir, but I''m definitely sold on this new job now," Wade said, offering the old man a fist bump. Without hesitation, Trent reached out and completed the gesture.

    "Now, how can I help you, Mr. Kerrigan? You come out here just for pretzels?"

    "No sir. We were looking for Skinny, actually¡­ he around here?"

    "That he is not¡­ in fact, he didn''t wake up this morning to join us for breakfast. Boys your age and sleeping in¡­ you know what my father would''ve done if I slept through breakfast?"

    "No sir, I do not¡­"

    Jackson looked gravely serious. "We never dared so I don''t know either," he said, before bursting into a wheezing fit of laughter at his own joke. He then recaptured some of that serious air as he thought on what Wade had said. "So you can''t find him?"

    "No sir¡­ he was supposed to meet up with us earlier today, but he never showed. We walked to your home and he wasn''t there either."

    "Might have gone to his mother¡­ she was talking about having a back-up of animals to care for¡­ walking, feeding, boarding, all that nonmedical stuff. Skinny''s always been a good kid, the exact kind to go help out them who needs it. I''d check there if I were you."

    "We got someone going there already. In case he''s not there either, can you take a message for him? For when you see him tonight?"

    "Sure thing. Shoot."

    "Tell him we''re planning to meet up tomorrow at Castle Rock. Same time as today''s."

    "Castle Rock?" Jackson asked. "Like, the city? Long walk for you boys."

    "He''ll know what it means," Wade assured the old man.

    "Message received, and will be forwarded on." Jackson then reached into his pocket and tossed a pack of gum towards Wade, who caught it in the air.

    "We received an extra box of these¡­ they''re not in inventory. Help yourself. Just don''t go gumming up our sidewalks now," Jackson said.

    "Yes, sir, and thank you, sir," Wade said. "Tell the missus I said hey!"

    <center>* * *</center>

    The veterinarian''s office was set in a row of storefronts just between a laundromat and real estate office. As Shaun pushed his way in through the front door, six sets of eyes turned to regard him. Three sets were human, belonging to middle-aged patrons Shaun didn''t recognize. Two sets were canine, belonging to dogs on leashes sitting on the waiting room floor¡ªone a golden retriever, the other some sort of poodle mix. The last set of eyes belonged to an iguana¡ªor, was it a bearded dragon?¡ªthat was perched on a woman''s shoulder. It seemed to be smiling, as much as reptile lips could be said to smile, and its demeanor was clam. As it examined Shaun, its tongue darted out to wipe at its eye. Adorable yet creepy thing, Shaun thought.

    Remembering the reason for his visit, Shaun walked over to the reception window and pressed a button on the counter, which triggered a buzzer somewhere beyond the window. The glass slid back, revealing a frowning, plump woman with a bored expression. Her glasses she wore were square and all-too-small for her face, giving the impression that they might shoot off towards Shaun at any moment. He mentally resisted the urge to duck away.

    "Picking up?" she asked, noting Shaun''s lack of pet. "Because if so, you gotta have an adult to do pick up."

    "Oh, no, ma''am," he said, "I don''t have a pet."

    The woman stared at him blankly, letting an uncomfortable silence follow his words. "I can see that," she finally said.

    "I, uh, I''m just here to see Mi¡ªDr. Trent. Is Dr. Trent in today?"

    "She expecting you?" The receptionist asked.

    "Well, no, not exactly¡­ I''m a friend of her son."

    At the mentioning of Skinny, the receptionist lit up. "Such a good kid, that Jackson. He''s got a way with the animals that really only people in the business have got. You know that?" As she spoke, the door near the reception window buzzed and clicked open. "I guess you can come on in; go on to room 4. I''ll send Michelle in when she''s got a second, but it might take a bit."

    "That''s fine, and thank you ma''am," Shaun said, opening the door that separated the waiting room from the office beyond. He walked into the main corridor, green doors marking off various offices to either side. He found the one labeled with a large number 4 and made his way in, taking a seat. In contrast to his mental picture of cold metal scales and white ceilings and walls, the place was surprisingly warm. It wasn''t a matter of temperature, but something about the decor was oddly inviting. The walls featured posters and brochures with bright inks and an almost storybook illustrative quality about them. SO¡­ MY DOG HAS RINGWORMS. NOW WHAT? asked a poster across the room, complete with a photo of an attractive family man scratching at his chin and looking at his sleeping dog. RABIES - KNOW YOUR SIGNS! said another, featuring a diagram of a squirrel with various lines and indicators pointing at symptoms. "To spay, or not to spay," wondered a brochure at Shaun''s right, its front showing a man holding a cat like Hamlet hoisting the skull of his fallen friend. The reference was lost on Shaun.

    Shaun picked up the brochure and began to leaf through it. He was halfway through a paragraph about how spaying could improve his pet''s lifespan ("and reduce the risk of cancer, at that!" the brochure extolled) when the door swung open.

    "Ah, Shaun, it''s so good to see you!" Michelle Trent was a woman of short stature but grand presence, possessing that ability to fill up a room the moment she entered it. Her black hair was cut neatly to shoulder length, and her veterinarian''s scrubs were simultaneously professional and fashionable. She was a woman who had never been anything but a vet, and yet, she held the commanding impression (and intensity) of a big city mayor, of someone to look to for instruction or guidance. The boys collectively couldn''t decide if they loved her or were scared of her¡­ it seemed the feelings swung back and forth like a pendulum.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Seeing the infectuous smile on her face and the genuinely warm demeanor, today was a love day, Shaun decided. "It''s good to see you, too, ma''am!" She pulled him in for a hug.

    "You haven''t been over for dinner in a while," she chided gently. "Every time we''re cooking that pasta dish you loved, I tell Skinny he should invite you over."

    "If it''s that meatball one you mean, just give me the date and time and I''m there," he replied.

    "I definitely will. So what can I do for you today? Thinking of adopting?"

    "Oh, no, it''s nothing like that. We were just looking for Skinny, actually. He was supposed to meet us today but he never showed, and then we went to your house but he wasn''t there either."

    "Oh, really?" Michelle asked, frowning. In her head, she immediately heard that maternal voice of worry, but she quickly silenced its panic. I saw him last night before I turned in for bed, early as it was. Was he looking sick? No, he seemed fine. Did he mention going anywhere? Nothing I can remember. As she ran through that mental checklist of possibilities, she realized the boy''s unspoken question. "Well, he''s not here. You speak to his father yet? He wakes up and leaves for work later than I do¡­ would''ve spoken to him this morning. Do you want me to call?"

    "No need! One of our group is going by the store to ask," Shaun said. "If you see him¡ªSkinny, that is¡ªcan you tell him we were looking to meet up tomorrow same place same time as today?"

    "Yes sir, young sir," she said.

    As Shaun left the vet''s office, Michelle walked over to her desk phone and dialed the number of her husband''s store from memory. After a few moments'' ringing, his familiar, gravely voice spoke from the other end. "Perpetumart, how can I help you?"

    "Hey, hon. You see Junior this morning?"

    "Oh, hey, Michelle. Boy slept clean through breakfast¡­ one of his friends stopped by just earlier. Same by you?"

    "Yuh-huh. What''d you tell him?"

    "Well, I remember yesterday how you were mentioning having lots of work stacked up¡­ I guessed maybe Junior woke up late and then went out to help you. By your call, I''m guessing he didn''t¡­"

    "No. He didn''t. So, neither of us saw him since yesterday night?"

    There was a pause on Jackson''s end, and Michelle knew her husband well enough to know he was scratching at his face in that pensive way of his that he always fell back to when considering tough questions. "No, I guess not. How worried are we?"

    Michelle pursed her lips. "Not particularly, yet. I''ve got no clients for a short lunch break¡­ I''ll call around his friends'' famlies and see if he''s been seen at all. I''ll call the Campbells last."

    Both immediately understood that last remark. The mother of the Campbell family, Nora, was a police officer, so checking in with her was as good as getting the department involved. Neither wanted to confront that just yet. At the moment, Skinny was merely misplaced. Calling the police and getting their involvement? That was the moment he was actually missing, and neither wanted to even permit that thought to enter their mind.

    "If it comes to that, I''d rather go visit the station¡­ what with it being just up the road from me," Jackson volunteered, breaking the uncomfortable silence where both of their thoughts had begun to wander.

    "I''ll keep in touch," Michelle said. "Stay near the phone."

    "Will do. Love you," Jackson said.

    "Love you too," Michelle replied, hanging up the receiver.

    <center>* * *</center>

    With the removal of ''hanging out with friends'' from his day''s plans, Ronnie took the opportunity to tend to something he had long been postponing. Not intentionally, he thought, I''ve just been so busy. He knocked on the cherry-red door in front of him and waited. After a moment, he repeated his knock, this time with more force. Gotta be loud, he remembered. The louder volley of knocks set off a cascade of something mid-way between a bark and a howl. Phoebe, the small, golden poodle, was such an ancient thing that every day it continued living seemed an act of defiance towards God. She was thin and her coat was even thinner, seeming to flee from splotchy patches along her side that marked old scars. Her gait was crooked, as she favored her front left paw that was wounded in a bout with a car (an injury she never quite fully recovered from). She was missing a few teeth, and if she could still wag her tail she chose to keep that a secret. Michelle Trent, the veterinarian, often whispered to the DeLange family that they should consider euthanasia, and sooner rather than later. Martha DeLange was not interested.

    Martha''s hearing was worse than that of Phoebe, so the trick to getting her to open the door was to get Phoebe''s attention first. The dog, which always sat on her lap or between her feet when the lap was otherwise inaccessible, would set to barking and run towards the door, which inevitably would bring Martha in tow just behind. Indeed, as Phoebe arrived to the door Ronnie waited at, barking and wailing, it was only a moment later that the lock began to turn and the door swung open. "Ron! What a surprise to see you!" Martha beamed.

    "Hey, grandma," Ronnie said, stepping in for a hug. "Good to see you, too."

    The two sat down in Martha''s parlor, each holding a porcelain teacup. Martha set a steaming teapot on the table between them and placed a bag of Earl Grey in each cup. She then began to pour the water with a surprisingly steady hand. If Phoebe was something ancient and crumbling, Martha was like an oak in drought: she was thin, but the thinness didn''t engender weakness. Instead, it exposed the hearty bark beneath the layers of excess that the years accumulated, leaving behind only strong, gnarled wood on its still-sturdy trunk. She was small, but she was not frail. As she sat back, teacup in hand, Phoebe leapt up into her lap and set her head down contentedly.

    "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Martha asked, sipping at her tea. Ronnie took a sip as well, but found it still much too hot.

    "No reason at all," Ronnie said. "Just to visit."

    "Well, aren''t I lucky, then," Martha said, smiling. "I haven''t had a visitor in quite some time. Your mother doesn''t visit very often, truth be told¡­ now, I know, I know, she''s a busy woman. But it''s nice to be remembered, is all."

    Ronnie let his eyes trace the walls of the parlor, which featured paintings he remembered well from childhood and a few new ones that he didn''t. Photographs cluttered on the shelves, black-and-white moments frozen in time. Martha followed his gaze.

    "That one, there, was Mickey. Your¡­" she trailed off, thinking. "Second cousin, twice-removed. A real swimming sensation in his heyday. Lived up near New York."

    "Did I ever meet him?"

    "Died of a stroke before you were born¡­ would that he could''ve met you. I think you two would''ve gotten along splendidly." She smiled wistfuly, in that moment residing within a memory instead of the present. Ronnie found something about the moment surprisngly touching. In fact, he remembered looking at his grandmother only just earlier this summer and seeing someone needy, someone bitter at her own loneliness. She kept herself locked away in her home with her old photographs like a keeper living in a wax museum, choosing the moments frozen in time instead of the bustle of the world beyond¡­ or, at least, that was what he had previously thought about the older woman. Now, he couldn''t help but wonder how many stories is she the only one left to carry? How many people did she know, people with lives full of tragedy and triumph, dreams and failings, and what is it like to see all those books close, and know that her final pages are just beyond the horizon?

    "You''ve got his eyes," she said, turning from the photo to him. She then frowned. "I don''t remember your eyes being quite so bright."

    Ronnie momentarily panicked, realizing he was still wearing the ring, which indeed changed his eye color to a brighter color near grey. "They lightened recently," Ronnie replied, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

    "You don''t say," Martha marveled, holding his gaze. "Well, I think that''s a remarkable color they''ve got now. Just make sure you see an eye doctor, because changing color like that isn''t normal," she said. She then turned back to the photos, much to Ronnie''s relief.

    "Here: sit tight, enjoy your tea. I got something to show you." Martha set Phoebe on the chair as she stood up and walked off to a closet beneath the stairs. In it, she found the plastic container she''d sought and brought it back to the table. She set it down and began to unpack its contents: photo albums, loose papers, portraits, and a few framed documents.

    "Look at this one," she said, handing Ronnie a small black-and-white photograph. In it, a woman smiled a wide, beaming grin against a formal portrait backdrop. The focus was soft, but the subject, unmistakeable. Ronnie recognized the eyes immediately. "How old were you in this one?"

    "Twenty-six," Martha replied. "Which, I still am, mind you. Just twenty-six with six decades of experience." She handed another photo to Ronnie, this one featuring two toddlers in semi-formal dress. The older rested an arm on the younger''s shoulder in a casual embrace, both smiling but looking in opposite directions away from the camera.

    "Do you know who those are?" she asked.

    Ronnie shook his head.

    "Your mother and your uncle," she replied, taking the photograph back to examine it. "Such beautiful children, they were. Sometimes I wish it could go back to¡­ this," she added wistfully. "What I wouldn''t give for that."

    As she continued digging through the box of photographs for personal treasures, Ronnie lifted out a dusty photo album and began flipping through its creaking pages. Each new page introduced a new set of photographs, each one featuring people he didn''t recognize in places he didn''t know. Maybe it was the ring giving him some new perspective, but there was inherently something fascinating about these photos. He saw one, a black-and-white picture of a man with an expansive, larger-than-life pose, as he held a rifle high above his shoulder. He could see personality and impression baked into that pose, as though everyone who knew the guy would say oh, him? He''s a character, a real card. A wisecracking asshole, but one with the walk to back up the talk. All the nuance that made him up, all the arrogance that pose bespoke¡­ he was dead now, and reduced to almost nothing more than a picture in a dusty, old box.

    As Ronnie advanced the pages forwards, he watched that arrogant young man turn into a proud older patriarch, hunting photos giving way to pictures of him at the center of growing families. One featured him with a child to his side, one with a clear visual similarity¡­ his son? Another featured him with a strange figure in a wheelchair, one with a scarred face that the out-of-focus photograph didn''t render in much clear detail. A third yet featured him with a woman, presumably his wife, at the head of some large table, a young man seated to his side that resembled the child in previous photographs. A life laid out in the span of mere pages¡­ would Ronnie''s own life be compressed to so little when he passed?

    "That one, there, that''s Bernard," Martha said. "Or was it Ben? He''s your grandfather''s family, so he''d have been the one to ask¡­ that to his right was his wife, Rita, and his son¡­ what was his name, now?"

    Ronnie removed the photo from its plastic sleeve and turned it over, reading the labeling on the back. "Ben + Rita at Horace''s 24th birthday," he read from the label written in black marker.

    "Yes, that was it. Still alive, too, as far as I know¡­ I wonder what he''s up to now?"

 Chapter 18 - What Hes Up To Now

    Horace rubbed at his temples, listening to the drone of the television set in the waiting room''s corner. The thing''s picture and sound were nearly unintelligible, coming in as a garbled, half-static mess. He could tell that it frustrated the other patrons.

    He mused that this place was like a purgatory, of sorts. While it was true that there was no divine judgment pending, he thought the waiting experience still proved pretty illustrative to the character of the waiting person¡­ did they tap their fingers or feet impatiently? Did they lash out at others? Or did they wait contentedly (or, at least, non-disruptively) while their car was serviced? It wasn''t his place to judge others, as only God could, but he still passed the time by categorizing the other people in the waiting room. The woman who had yelled at the clerk after waiting for an hour? Inferno. The man over near the door who read a book without having checked his watch or the wall-mounted clock? Paradiso. The couple, likely husband and wife, flipping through magazines and chatting softly? Well, they were currently allowing their children to run around and terrorize the outdoors¡ªHorace had seen them throwing rocks at each other just earlier, screaming, shrieking things that they were¡ªbut the parents themselves were quite calm and patient. Jury''s still out with them.

    Carrying a styrofoam cup of what was presumably coffee, a new woman entered the room from the hallway opposite the entrance door. She had a small frame and dark brown hair cut short, arranged into a decidedly masculine hairstyle. Her clothing wasn''t form-fitting or even particularly flattering¡­ it seemed that she had chosen her outfit using the single criterion "what looks the most uninteresting?" Here, Horace thought, is a woman hiding her femininity. She sat down in the chair next to Horace''s and sighed, sipping at her coffee with two cupped hands.

    "They''ve got a secret machine in the back¡­ you think it''d be employees only, but customers, too. Just down the hall," the woman said.

    Horace looked left and right, trying to figure out who she''d been speaking to. Seeing nobody, he then furrowed his brow. Secret machine?

    "Coffee machine, that is," she added, noticing the absence of that important detail.

    Horace nodded graciously. "Thanks kindly¡­ but I can''t do coffee. The caffeine sets my heart pounding," he replied.

    "I wish I had an excuse half so good to quit the stuff," she said between sips. "Sometimes I think this and the cigarettes are the only things keeping me chugging. Whatever happened to the times when a good night''s sleep was enough?"

    "Haven''t had one of those in a while," Horace replied.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    "Cigarettes?"

    "A good night''s sleep."

    "A kindred spirit, then," said the woman. "What''s it for you?"

    "Hmm?" Horace asked, unsure of her meaning.

    "What''s keeping you up?"

    Horace was silent for a moment, taken aback by the deeply personal question from this total stranger.

    "Mine''s my family," she volunteered, taking the lead. "You think you know them inside and out¡­ but lately I''ve been worrying."

    Horace only now noticed her wedding ring. "Infidelity?" he guessed, immediately feeling like the question crossed some personal line the moment he spoke it aloud. She simply shrugged it off.

    "Well, that, too, but I''m increasingly sure my husband would rather have a husband of his own, if you catch my drift."

    Horace was flabbergasted by the woman''s frank openness, here in the middle of a mechanic''s waiting room. Before he could reply, she bowled on.

    "My son, too. No, not the wanting a husband thing, but I''m worried he''s run in with the wrong crowd. You try and steer ''em right, but, after a certain point, you''ve gotta let go of the bike and let them pedal on their own¡­" The woman turned to him. "I''m sorry, I don''t mean to offload like this. I just haven''t had many people I can talk to lately."

    Horace offered his most sincere smile he could muster. "I don''t mind at all."

    "Well, how about you? What''s yours?"

    Mine? Oh, my cause for lack of sleep. Horace''s mind scrambled for a safe way to answer that question. "My work," he finally said, choosing his words carefully.

    "What is it you do?" she asked.

    "I''m an accountant," he replied. A half-truth. That was his primary vocation, sure, and it certainly had its share of stresses, but it was certainly not the reason for his current worries.

    "Haunted by the numbers?"

    "Well, I work for family¡­ things get a little complicated."

    She nodded, pensive, looking out the window. Horace felt driven by the silence to continue speaking.

    "They''re out-of-state. I''m just passing through for a couple days, truth be told. Not from around here. What is it that you do?" Horace asked, returning the question. The woman suddenly began to stand.

    "I''ll give you one hint," she said, downing the last of her coffee. "My car''s done."

    Horace turned to the window and his stomach dropped. There, pulling to the front of the store, was a black-and-white squad car, stenciled with the letters BOONE PD.

    "You? A cop?" he asked, not doing a very good job hiding his surprise.

    "Someone''s gotta do it," she replied. "I''m not on shift yet, hence the clothes. Either way, it was nice to meet you, mister¡­" she trailed off, waiting for a name. Horace debated lying to the woman, but figured it was better to not risk getting on the police''s suspicions before he''d done anything in town.

    "Horace, just call me Horace."

    "Well, Horace, it was nice to make your acquaintance. My name''s Nora." She handed him a business card. "My telephone number is on there¡­ if you need anything at all while you''re in town, feel free to give me a call."

    "Will do," Horace lied. He watched her leave and then turned to the business card, his stomach twisting even further when he read the last name. Nora Campbell, no doubt the police officer mentioned in the letter. He''d been instructed to avoid any attention before he made his move¡­ off to a great start, Horace. Off to a real great start.

 Chapter 19 - Missing

    Nora walked into the parking lot, shaking off the strange encounter with the man in the auto shop waiting room. She wasn''t particularly sure why she had said so much, especially because she had said so much before she learned he was an outsider. With that final revelation, she felt that her emotional confessions were a little bit more secure, but still. Why tell so much to someone she''d just met? Or, in truth, hadn''t even met yet?

    She had felt emotionally blocked-up of late, and getting everything out brought with it a certain relief¡­ it felt to her like blowing her nose, leaving her much clearer-headed in the present. She put her key in the ignition and switched her radio back on. "Hey dispatch, this is Nora Campbell. Tell asset management that regular squad car maintenance for my car was completed today, July 15th, at about 3 p.m. Over."

    "Message received, Nora. Also, we''ve got someone at the station hoping to talk to you, over."

    "Oh, really? Did you get a name? Over."

    "Jackson Trent, senior. Said it''s about his boy, over."

    "No further details? Over."

    "No further details, over."

    Nora frowned, remembering her own suspicions related to the Johnson''s General robbery. She had made the judgment call to not chase the boy''s tenuous connection to the robbery. Skin color and group size alone don''t make for enough evidence to bring someone in, she had thought. She even knew that some in the precinct were a little less racially-progressive than they ought to be, so she figured she''d leave Skinny out of the investigation until further implicating evidence surfaced. Is that what''s waiting for me in my office right now? She hoped not, because that would also involve confronting the other thing she''d been pushing away. If Skinny were dragged back into the suspect list, it brought Parker into that list as well. Strange, twisted timeline of the hoodie or not, if Skinny were connected, Parker''s connection would be undeniable.

    "Tell him I''m on my way over," she said. "Over and out."

    * * *

    Jackson Trent was seated in Nora''s office, hands unmoving in his lap. When he saw Nora, he smiled and stood, offering a hand to her. She took it and shook it, noting its clammy, cold feeling. It also felt far lighter than she remembered.

    "Jackson, it is good to see you. You look well," she said, which was not totally a lie¡­ last year, the man had seemed a mummy.

    "Nora, thanks for coming in early." He spoke with that peculiar manner of his, where each staccato word seemed a separate sentence entire. "They told me you weren''t scheduled until 6."

    "I wasn''t supposed to start my shift until then, but I wasn''t gonna leave you waiting, Jackson. So, what''s on your mind?"

    "Well, see, it''s about Junior¡­ Skinny."

    Nora nodded, but she did not speak. She had been taught that one of the best ways to get more information out of someone was to hold silence: people abhor a vacuum, and so they''ll often subconsciously move to fill any silence that you strategically leave behind. Jackson continued.

    "See, today at work, young Wade Kerrigan came to visit me¡­ said he and the boys were looking for Skinny, that he missed some meet-up of theirs they''d planned. Now I told him that he probably went off with his mother, but then I spoke to her. Shaun Valdez went by her office looking for Skinny as well. He wasn''t there either."

    Tracking the likely trajectory of this conversation, Nora quickly grabbed her notebook from her pocket and began taking notes.

    "And at home?"

    "The boys said they checked by there¡­ no sign. We then called up the parents of each of the boys in their usual gang¡­ saving you for last, of course, for obvious reasons. If you had seen him lately, you''d have said it by now," Jackson began, trailing off.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    "So when''s the last time anyone''s seen Skinny?"

    "Michelle and I turned in early last night¡­ it was probably around 7 or 8, just after dinner. In the morning, what with no school for the boys, we sometimes let Skinny sleep in. Neither of us saw him before we went off to work."

    "Has he ever run off before?"

    "No ma''am."

    "Does he have any other relatives he''s particularly close with?"

    "No ma''am." Jackson''s mouth opened, as though he meant to speak, but then he closed it. Then it opened again. Nora waited for him to speak.

    "Do you think we''re being paranoid? That this is too soon?"

    "There''s no such thing as too soon when we''re concerned for our loved ones," Nora replied. It was a question she''d answered a few times before. "We''ll put in a missing person report, issue an APB. Is Michelle at her office or at the house?"

    "At the office, but should be soon on her way over here, I think. I told her you wouldn''t be here to speak with me until six."

    "Well that''s ok. Give her office a call, and ask if she could swing by the house first and pick up the most recent photo of Skinny she can find¡­ we''ll want it for the file."

    * * *

    "Jesus Christ, Nora," said Chief of Police Clyde Pemberton. "You should''ve brought this to me days ago and recused yourself," he said.

    "But sir, you have to acknowledge the fact that the hoodie''s timeline makes no sense."

    "Witness testimony is notoriously fallible," Clyde said. "Maybe they were wrong on the timeline."

    "The identification of the hoodie could just as likely have been wrong."

    "Granted. But then what are we to make of this? As if this damned robbery case wasn''t confusing enough¡­ you have a girl who tries robbing the place. Then in comes a gang of boys who match your son''s friend group in apparent age, height, and skin tone in the case of the tallest, who, I''ll remind you, is the tallest of your son''s friend group. That gives us suspicion¡ªmild suspicion, sure¡ªthat Skinny is at this robbery. Then, one robber is allegedly shot multiple times, but escapes without so much as a drop of blood. Then in comes a new robber, wearing a jacket that your son buys down the road¡­ after the robbery takes place. From a guy who swears it never left the store. Following up with hospitals¡­ no unexplainable gunshot wounds in the area. But then, adding the icing on the cake, Skinny suddenly and inexplicably goes missing. Something stinks here, and it doesn''t take a detective''s nose to smell it."

    "We can bring the boys in," Nora began, but the chief cut her off.

    "Damn right we''ll bring the boys in¡­ I''m sorry, Nora. But you know we need to. We''ll check them for wounds¡ªeven a bulletproof vest would leave bruises¡ªand we''ll take their stories."

    "Where the hell would kids their age get bulletproof vests?"

    "Beats the hell out of me. But however odd it seems¡­ we''ve got the boy possibly tied up in some crime, and then he goes missing only days later? It''s a hell of a coincidence. I know the boys. I know your boy. Personally, I don''t think he did it. But we''ve got to stay objective here, Nora. We''ve got to chase any credible leads."

    "You call that credible?"

    "It''s the best we''ve got to work with right now. I''m putting Coulter on questioning the boys, but you can go round them up. Unless you''d rather we send someone else for that."

    "No, I''ll do it. What about the Trent parents?" Nora asked, gesturing towards her office. In it, both Michelle and Jackson Trent waited for her to return.

    "I''ll bring them up to speed with what they need to know. And then, after we speak to the rest of the boys, we''ll decide if a search party in the woods is a necessity."

    * * *

    "What is this, like an arrest thing?" Wade asked, eyeing the squad car.

    "No, not an arrest. We''d just like to bring you in for questioning¡­ totally voluntary," Nora said.

    "Am I allowed to say no?"

    "Of course. But we''re just trying to help track down Skinny¡­ the more we can learn, the better our chances."

    "He wasn''t at the vet''s office, then?"

    Nora pursed her lips. "Nobody''s seen him since last night."

    Wade chewed at his lip, thinking. Then, with a shrug, he sauntered over to the squad car and climbed into the back seat.

    "You know, you''re allowed to request a parent be there with you, if you like."

    "I think it''s ok," Wade said. "This won''t take too long, will it?"

    "Quick as can be, I promise."

    A similar conversation took place outside the Valdez residence before Shaun entered the squad car as well. His parents protested, saying he was much too young for this sort of thing, and that Nora was "scaring him half to death!" Nora wasn''t sure if his mother had even taken a full breath in the two consecutive minutes of yelling, but she finally quieted when Shaun requested her presence during the questioning. She climbed into her Sedan and drove to the station while Nora completed her next stop: driving to her own home to pick up Parker. She dropped these three off first, promising her son that she''d return as quickly as she could.

    She next drove to the DeLange residence, where Mr. DeLange told Nora that Ronnie had been spending the evening at his grandmother''s home. After finding the home at the address given, she knocked at the door and was greeted by an elderly woman and a shriveled poodle.

    "Is Ronnie here?" Nora asked. Four minutes later, Ronnie was climbing into the back row of the squad car. He''d declined to bring any family along.

    Lastly, Nora drove to the Kessler residence, quickly discovering that the boy was currently home alone. "We''d like you to come with us¡­ but you''re allowed to request a parent be there for questioning. If so, we can withhold your questioning until they get back in town."

    "I don''t need them," Logan said. "I''d be happy to help."

 Chapter 20 - Questions

    "Let''s start with the fourteenth¡­ yesterday. Tell us what happened, and especially on what was going on with Skinny."

    Shaun Valdez was small for his age, and he was younger than the other boys to begin with. Even in the small, cramped interrogation room, those facts combined to leave him positively dwarfed in the space. His mother loomed over his shoulder with arms crossed like a bodyguard, ready to throw herself between her son and the police should any perceived threat arise. Officer Jim Coulter would''ve found it touching, in a way, if he hadn''t known this questioning would be about as pleasant as pulling teeth thanks to her presence. He''d had plenty of the protective types in here before, and she was quite likely to undermine just about every question he asked the boy¡­ there was a reason most interrogations were done solo.

    For this first question, though, she merely nodded her head, and Shaun began to recount the day previous. He explained that the boys had been playing a poker game in the park, and that they''d also tossed a football around. "Who won?" Jim interjected. A rehearsed alibi would obviously agree on who won, but a question like that helped to screen out the sloppy ones. If none of the boys agreed, there was your wedge in.

    "Logan did," Shaun said, remembering back. "Bluffed us all out."

    "Was there anything unusual about Skinny''s behavior that day?"

    Logan remembered back to Skinny''s distant expression when he lost against Logan. He also thought he''d seen the two boys talking privately later that afternoon while tossing the football.

    "Nothing at all," he answered.

    "You sure about that?" Coulter asked, eyebrow raised.

    "Sure," Shaun agreed.

    "So, walk me through the rest of the afternoon until this moment."

    Shaun explained the end of the poker game and the rounds of catch that they went through. He explained how the boys had parted ways with plans to meet up the following morning at Castle Rock.

    "Castle Rock?" Jim asked.

    "It''s what we call a big stone out in the woods¡­ you can climb on top of it, and it kinda looks like a big castle."

    "What did I tell you about climbing on rocks in the woods?" his mother interjected, an angry note in her voice.

    "I said you can¡­ the boys climb it often but I usually don''t."

    The mother looked like she had more to say in retort, but Jim raised a finger to forestall her objections. "Please, keep going."

    Shaun then explained how they''d been waiting for Ronnie and Skinny to show up late, and how Ronnie''s arrival alone set them worrying for Skinny. He told about their walk to Skinny''s house, and how it had turned up empty. He then mentioned heading off to speak with Skinny''s mom as the rest headed home.

    "Wade Kerrigan went to see his father, correct?"

    "Yeah, we figured we''d check both," Shaun replied.

    Coulter nodded, taking notes in a small police notebook. "Ok, now let''s hear about the thirteenth. The day before the poker game. In particular, take me from morning to right about where you wound up next to Johnson''s General."

    The mother stepped forwards. "Wait just a second now¡­ this doesn''t have anything to do with that robbery down there, does it? I was told this is just about the missing Trent boy. What''s my son being near a robbery got to do with that?"

    "Nothing, hopefully, but we''d just like to tick all the boxes. We have reason to suspect Trent might have been connected to that robbery, so we''re just filling in the details."

    "You don''t have to answer any questions you don''t want to, baby," she said to Shaun. "Don''t let them twist you into something you weren''t a part of."

    "You''ve nothing to be worried about," Jim responded. "Just fill us in on what happened that day and we can help find your friend."

    <center>* * *</center>

    "Well, see, we started with a chess match," Parker said. After his mother had asked about (and collected) the hoodie, he''d known that more questions about that day were on the horizon. He and the gang had worked to get their stories straight in case they were ever brought in for questioning¡­ he only hoped the others remembered their parts well.

    He knew that it was easiest to lie with the truth, and so they''d all decided to use the day previous as their basis for the lie. What they''d actually been doing before the Johnson''s General robbery was testing the extent of their devices'' powers. They, of course, couldn''t tell that to the police. So instead, they built a fake day using the chess match and hangout from the night previous, the one just before they''d gone to see the burning warehouse.

    "A chess match?" Coulter asked, as though he hadn''t heard the exact same thing from both Ronnie and Shaun just before.

    "Yeah, a game of chess. You play?" Parker asked.

    "No I do not," answered Coulter. "Who won?" he asked.

    "Not Ronnie," Parker answered. Just as Coulter registered the comment and was wondering if witness testimonies had just contradicted each other, Parker continued on. "Well, yes, Ronnie, but only because I let him win," he said with a smile. Parker''s hope was that the attempted humor would help defuse suspicion. He couldn''t tell if it worked or backfired¡­ Coulter''s face remained stoically unreadable.

    "So there''s the chess game, the hanging out after the fact, but then what? How is it that you wound up at Trade-In Tom''s?"

    This was the part Parker was worried about the most¡­ it was where reality ended and fiction began. Any one of the boys could slip up at this part, and detectives pulling that thread could unravel the entire tapestry.

    "Well, as we were packing up the chess board, we decided we were bored with the usual activities. Walking, games, the like. We wanted something more exciting."

    "So, you go clothing shopping?"

    "No, we wanted to do paintball."

    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    Coulter was silent, allowing Parker to go on.

    "I know my mom, being a cop, hates us playing with guns. So we told Tom that we were planning to do some repainting. Truth is, I just had to buy a junk piece of clothing that could get splattered up."

    "Why didn''t any of the other boys buy anything?"

    "They said they all had clothing they wouldn''t mind ruining, but I like all of my hoodies." Again, it was good to pepper in as much of the truth as he could, and Parker particularly liked that detail''s addition because he knew it was a simple truth his mother could confirm: Parker only owned three hoodies, and he wore them each quite frequently in the colder months.

    "So you guys own paintball guns, then?"

    "No," Parker answered, "But Logan was supposed to take care of that part."

    <center>* * *</center>

    "So, you guys went over to buy clothing, but what about the weapons? Did you guys own any paintball markers?"

    "Well, not yet," Logan answered, "but we''d planned to buy some. I saw some for sale for about ten bucks at Wasserman''s. Took small CO2 cartridges, fired standard shot."

    "You have much savings?"

    "Plenty enough. I was gonna buy three of them, and we''d take turns using them out in the woods."

    "So what happened?"

    "Wade mentioned the welts from shot and suddenly Shaun wasn''t so interested anymore. General interest kinda sagged at that point. A few wanted to shoot, but nobody wanted to get shot¡­"

    Coulter nodded, writing. So far, all the boys interviewed had been in perfect agreement on every major fact.

    "Anyways, so, after Trade-In Tom''s?"

    "We lit a campfire and chatted on the side. Someone brought a small radio out, and I think Wade was roasting some hot dogs?"

    More details that synchronized up. There had to be some new avenue of attack¡­ just then, Coulter remembered Nora''s other dead-end case.

    "Where did you boys get the radio from?" Coulter asked.

    Logan momentarily paused, frowning at the unexpected question. "Uh, I think Ronnie had been repairing an old junk radio he used to own."

    Coulter made a quick note to follow up on that and double-check the radio''s origins. "You boys meet anyone trying to pawn off radios or other electronics?"

    "No sir, that we did not."

    "Not even batteries?"

    "No sir."

    "I heard you boys showed up at the warehouse fire before fire crews," Coulter tried next.

    "Due respect, sir, but Walter Cronkite could''ve flown in from New York City before fire crews arrived," Logan replied.

    Coulter chuckled at the jab¡­ he''d have to tell that one to Curtis later. With a sigh, he prepared to move on. "All righty, Mr. Kessler. At this point, I''m just about out of questions. We just have one more thing to ask of you. Do you mind taking your shirt off for a brief body examination?"

    "What for?" Logan asked, defensive. He had been calm, collected, and confident throughout the interview, but this last request made him suddenly uneasy.

    "The other boys all complied," Coulter lied. Most had, but Shaun''s parents had categorically refused. Coulter hadn''t minded, because the profile of the robber who was shot didn''t fit Shaun, small as he was. "We''re just checking for injury patterns to the chest consistent with a known crime. If you''re innocent, you have nothing to be afraid of."

    "I would really rather not," Logan replied, standing.

    "Come on, now, let''s not make this difficult," Coulter said. "We can come back with a warrant for arrest and compel you, if you''d prefer it the hard way." Coulter was relatively certain that no such warrant would be written and signed, but clearing the group only worked if they saw every member''s chest fitting the description¡­ wasn''t a little fear excusable if it served the greater good?

    And just like that, the sense of helplessness rushed back in. Logan looked at the cop before him and saw the same type of bully he''d looked at his entire life¡­ someone who would act like a friend, but when they didn''t get what they wanted, they''d flex all the strength they could to force you to fall in line. And despite the rising dread he felt, just like had always happened in the past, he was complying before he was even aware of it. His shirt slid off over his head and his confidence went with it. There he there in the room, feeling vulnerable and exposed once again. Coulter swore under his breath and reached for a button on the desk. "Barb, send in the photographer, will you?"

    They had him stand with arms over his head facing the camera, and then he was asked to rotate to the left 30 degrees, and turn again, and again still, until he had completed a full orbit. The camera''s flashing bulb set afterimages of spots dancing across his vision, shimmering circles of green that drifted like motes of dust in the dark interrogation room.

    Logan had always been a skinny boy, but the total lack of any extra fat gave his skin an almost skeletal appearance that only further highlighted the troubling pattern it hosted. He sported several purple bruised patches on his front chest, left side, and back. On his lower back, a bandage dabbed with blood covered an irritated wound. Coulter knew the look of a puncture wound when he saw one.

    "How''d you get those?" Coulter asked.

    "I fell," Logan replied, not caring how pathetically vague it sounded.

    "And the knick on the back? You must be quite the clumsy walker," Coulter added, noting the flash of anger in Logan''s eyes. He frowned while the boy offered no additional explanation, eventually shaking his head. "With those pictures, we''ve got all we need now¡­ you can put your shirt back on."

    "Am I free to go?" Logan asked through teeth nearly gritted.

    "You''re free to go," Coulter said, rubbing at his mouth. He had seen bulletproof vest bruising before¡­ sharp-edged and dark things, they were. The bruises Logan sported were probably not those¡­ but they were concerning all the same, so he''d have the medical examiner double-check. And then the back wound? If they''re all unrelated, what''s that boy mixed up with? Was it a gang thing? A family thing? He mentally filed the questions away and stretched with a yawn, frustrated but unsurprised at the lack of meaningful information pulled from the five interrogations. They''d all had their stories straight, and the timeline of the hoodie still made no sense. So where did that leave Skinny?

    <center>* * *</center>

    "So, all five had corroborating stories," Pemberton said. "The Kessler boy was bruised up pretty badly, but not in patterns consistent with vests. So we''ve got jack shit?"

    Nora and Coulter both nodded. The two sat side-by-side opposite to the Chief, who was leaning back in his chair beyond his desk. He tapped his fingers in a gesture that was somewhere between impatience and frustration. "I got two parents out there wanting to start up a search party¡­ when I told ''em that the boys likely knew something, you should''ve seen the relief they felt. You remember how the clerk at Johnson''s said that the second group went on about saving the day? Well I mentioned the boys might''ve gotten it into their heads to try some kind of vigilante stunt, and they told us Shaun Valdez was real big on comic books. Hero stuff."

    "We asked," Coulter began, but Pemberton cut him off.

    "I know, I know you asked¡­ you said they all denied it. Course they did. Now what would drive a kid to go out and risk their lives like that, especially being as young as they are? What''s a kid against a hardened criminal?"

    "Six of them," Nora interjected.

    "Oh, you get the point," Pemberton said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

    "What if we put the boys in a line-up and see if the clerk or the apprehended robber¡­"

    "Valerie Delacroix," Nora offered.

    "Yeah, Valerie¡­ see if either recognizes the boys'' voices?" asked Coulter.

    "Witness testimony is that the one who did most of the talking was the black one¡­ if we''re running with this group still as our primary suspects, not having Skinny would drastically hurt ID chances," Nora said. "Are we even still running with this group? I know my son is in there, sir, but they answered each and every question satisfactorily."

    "Well, my theory is that this group of six tried to foil a robbery and nearly got killed doing so. Skinny, fearing the noose of the law closing in, decided to skip town," Pemberton said. "I''m open to other theories, but you gotta give me something to work with."

    "Maybe the boys had nothing to do with the General Store robbery, and Skinny simply went missing under any number of possible ordinary circumstances?"

    "What, just went up and disappeared?" Coulter asked.

    "People do tend to go missing sometimes¡­ that''s why we''ve got missing person reports. They were meeting up in a small clearing in the woods¡­ maybe the boy got lost?"

    Clyde Pemberton stroked his chin, thinking. "I suppose it couldn''t hurt too much to put out a search party¡­ volunteers and spare officers. Start with the woods near this Castle Rock the boys talked about and comb our way back to the town. Nora, I want you spearheading things."

    Nora nodded, having been expecting that the moment she suggested Skinny had gotten lost.

    "If the search turns up nothing, we might just move to that lineup idea. We gotta give these poor people something," Pemberton said. "Dismissed."

 Chapter 21 - Search

    The brilliant light of sunset began to settle across the parking lot as more and more volunteers arrived on foot and by car. They carried flashlights, lanterns, torches, and even glowsticks as they milled through the lot and found the Trent parents, offering their hugs and words of encouragement. Nora watched the volunteers orbit the Trents like they were some center of gravity, clustering and flowing around that central nexus. All told, it seemed they had over 100 volunteers, an impressive assembly on such short notice. She then looked over to the only group keeping a short distance from the Trents: the five boys. They chatted quietly amongst themselves and glanced at the woods, clearly eager to begin.

    "All right everybody," Nora shouted in her most authoritative voice, "we''re just about ready to get started. You all remember the rules¡­ keep in sightline with a buddy at all times. Open-flame torches are forbidden during the summer. If, God forbid, you find something, wait for an evidence team before disturbing the scene. Jackson Trent Senior will be waiting here in the lot, directing any latecomers to our line. Everyone ready? We''re gonna go out to our starting point before it gets too dark."

    As they processed out into the woods, the boys led the way to Castle Rock. They then passed the landmark and continued on until the blue light of dusk threatened to smother the woods in dark. At that point, they began.

    "Spread out left or right until you can just barely see one man to your left, and one man to your right. The idea is to make a wall of people. Then we''re gonna begin walking back towards town. If anyone sees anything, call it out."

    They formed into their wide, horizontal line and began working their way backwards. It wasn''t a perfect formation, with friends and relatives seeming to clump together, but it was likely effective enough for their purposes. As they walked, the line of flashlights and lanterns advanced through the woods, accompanied by the echoing calls of "Jackson!" or "Skinny!"

    None answered back.

    As they walked among the line formation, the boys took the opportunity to gossip about their interviews and what they''d told the police. "Good call, Parker, on the alibi thing," Shaun said. "I didn''t expect it to be so easy to lie to them like that."

    "I had my device on me when they did the interview," Logan said.

    "Me too," Wade replied.

    "Me too," Parker added.

    "Well a watch is hardly suspect," Wade said.

    "Neither is a rock," Shaun countered.

    "We''re going to have to be more careful with where we bring these things if future run-ins with police are possible," Ronnie advised. "They didn''t search us because they didn''t arrest us, and there was no reason to do either yet¡­ but maybe it''s better to be safe."

    The boys glanced around at the darkening woods and the line of lantern-holders advancing through. Their eyes scanned over the foliage-covered floor for some kind of clue, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Four out of the five began to dread finding some evidence of harm that befell their friend¡­ the fifth began to dread that every flashlight and lantern would turn on him, and that their glow would illuminate the dark deeds he''d committed to further his own ambitions.

    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    "Do you really think¡­" Shaun began, fearful of his own words, "that it''s¡­ the owner?"

    "What do you mean?" Logan asked.

    "The owner of these devices. That he got to Skinny? That he''d be coming for us next?"

    Silence fell across the group of boys, save for the crunching of their steps on loose leaves and the drifting, echoing calls of "Skinny!" that rang through the woods empty and ever-more desperate with each successive cry.

    "We have to acknowledge that risk," Ronnie said finally.

    "What if we came clean to the police? Admitted everything?" Shaun asked, tears welling in his eyes.

    "They''d take these from us, for starters," Wade replied.

    "And so? At least they''d be able to protect us," Shaun said.

    "I think it''s up to us to protect ourselves," Logan said. "With these things in our hands, we''ve got the best shot."

    * * *

    Further down the line, a balding man hoisted a lantern and called out "Jackson!" whenever the timing felt right, though he wasn''t actually searching for the boy. He was keeping an eye on persons of interest, primarily the ones he''d read about in the cripple''s instructions. The timeline of events outlined in his letter was very specific, but the moment of permitted action was drawing near. He thought back to the deer struck by his car¡­ an innocent creature of God struck dead solely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, unwittingly in the path of great work. He remembered the words of his hunting prayer, and hoped that no others would die unnecessarily before his business in Boone was concluded. "Jackson!" he cried, knowing fully well no one would answer back.

    * * *

    The boys turned their lights leftwards in the darkening woods as they heard the approach of footsteps. A lone figure walked towards them with a quickened pace: Michelle Trent.

    "Hey ma''am," Wade said.

    "We''re so, so sorry," Shaun added, not sure if he should take on a tone of condolence or consolation or pity or what.

    "What would you have to be sorry for?" Michelle asked, hugging each one of the boys in turn. "Thank you all for coming out here to help."

    "We''re more than happy to help," Ronnie replied. "We''re sure he''s fine¡­ maybe just a little lost."

    "I know you boys talked to the police earlier today," she said. "They said you were very helpful, so thank you again."

    "Of course¡­ we want to see him back home as much as you do," said Ronnie.

    "That being said, I''m not police," Michelle said, gesturing at herself. "If there''s something you know about, or something you wanted to say but couldn''t because they were police¡­ you can tell me." She said the words with a smile that was hard to read in the dark of the woods¡­ was that a friendly, open smile, or was it a forced rictus of desperation?

    "We told them everything there was to tell," Wade replied, unsure if he should feel indignant or not.

    "Of course you did, sweetie. Of course you did." Her words actually seemed genuine, not bitingly sarcastic as they might have been construed. She now spoke to Shaun directly. "But the police mentioned that you guys might have been trying some silly vigilante thing with that robbery¡­ I''m just saying that if you were, I''d understand why you lied to the police. It''d make sense to lie to them. But not to me. I want you all to look at me and promise me you''d tell me if that''s what happened. Promise me you''d say it."

    Shaun reflexively looked down in guilt, something that Michelle noticed immediately. "Well," he began, but Logan interjected forcefully.

    "We promise," he said. "We were raised better than to lie to the police. What we told them is what happened," he said. "Now, please, we''d like to keep looking before it gets pitch-black dark out here and we lose all hope of finding some clue tonight."

    "Of course," Michelle breathed, her voice nearly a whisper. "Of course." She clasped her hands together and stopped walking at pace with the boys, disappearing into the wall of dark that crept just out of their lights'' ranges. And the boys trudged onwards, Logan increasingly certain that a new adversary of sorts had just been set down on the chessboard.

 Chapter 22 - The Morning of the 16th

    The drab light of morning crested over the mountain ridge, bringing with it the twittering singing of songbirds and the crow of the occasional distant rooster. The city wiped sleep from its eyes slowly and reluctantly, with only the occasional car setting out for early dawn shifts. But of course, not all in Boone slept well overnight. Logan Kessler had endured yet another consecutive night of fitful sleep in fragmented bursts, the bags under his eyes setting in deeper and darker in tone. He had passed most of the night staring at the box he kept by his bed, a small cardboard thing that had once housed a disposable camera. Now it held three items instead, and Logan hoped that it would soon house three more. He picked up the box and tucked it under his arm, deciding that now was as good a time as any to test out his new possessions. He packed it away into his backpack and set out.

    The house was silent and still in absence of his parents, meaning that he didn''t need to justify his strange comings and goings¡­ convenient, that had been. He still didn''t understand exactly what had happened to them, but he had his theories. The revolver waiting for him in the box meant that it was a problem future-Logan had solved¡­ and so, the answer would surely come to him in time. He biked out into the tranquil dawn and rode his way down the winding roads to the city''s center, stopping at a coffee shop on the corner near King Street. It was not yet open, so he passed the time writing in his small notebook he''d packed in his bag. He still had details to sort out, including several related to the strange arrival of the box in the woods¡­ but he''d received a vital clue just yesterday. The officer''s questions seemed to link the warehouse fire with stolen electronics. He''d have to do a little investigating of his own, but, with the Thought-Enunciator, that part had never been easier. He saw the outline of events begin to form in his mind, but quickly found himself floundering while trying to imagine the looping continuity of what was to come¡­ or was it more correct to say what had already come? He flipped to a blank page and began drafting a calendar, marking the days he had been in his cabin and the days he had left it undisturbed.

    As the timeline began to resolve, he watched an elderly man flip the coffee shop''s front sign to OPEN. Logan was the first in the door, and he ordered a large coffee as he sat himself at a table near the door. More and more people in dress ranging from casual to formal began to file past, the buzz of the workday just only beginning to thrum like a great steam engine slowly churning its way out of the station. Logan reached into his bag and pulled the Thought-Enunciator out, aiming its satellite-like end at the people milling past the coffee shop. Immediately, voices filled his head, loud and clear¡ªthe inner monologues of each and every passerby he aimed at.

    When was the deadline for Jacob again¡ªwas that florist''s shop at this light or the next?¡ªRelax, Kim, you''re too stressed out about a simple¡ªanyone could just walk right up¡ªshe''s gorgeous, I should really ask¡ªhe''ll be moving out in two weeks, just try to hang in there¡ªthe absolute worst thing that could''ve happened¡ªpeople don''t just go missing like that in Boone.

    That last one gave Logan pause, his eyes flickering down to the device in his hand. A pang of something raw and burning began in his stomach, but Logan''s other hand was already seeking out the second device he''d packed. Moments later, the Empathizer''s comforting hiss returned him to a level coolness. He didn''t need that grief, that regret¡­ he could shed it at will, like a ratty coat discarded and sold to Trade-In Tom''s. Why hold on to something so distressing?

    He continued his experimenting, pointing the device at people further and further away from the window. How hard is it to find a goddamn cab in¡ªtwo loaves of bread, at least a dozen eggs, maybe a Merlot for Sarah, she''d like that, a carton of Marlboro¡ªbullshit, making me come in for this shift¡ªred? No, that''s too slutty. The blue? What kind of statement would that¡ª

    Logan then couldn''t help but burst out laughing as he pointed the device at a man walking across the street. As soon as the device had landed on him, Logan heard the opening crawl from Star Wars in full volume. The man''s imperious steps across the street were synchronized to the tune only he and Logan could hear.

    "Something funny outside?" the elderly owner of the coffee shop asked.

    "Just people," Logan replied, wiping at his eyes. He nonchalantly took both the Thought-Enunciator and the Empathizer and moved to pack them away in his bag. As he placed them inside, he regarded the third object stored away in his bag: the Time Watch.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Parker awoke slowly as beams of sunlight, shining through his window, began to settle on his cheek. Motes of dust burst to light and back into shadow as they traveled through the path of the peeking beams. Parker sneezed, setting the dust scattering and swirling.

    He reflexively reached for the Time Watch that he''d begun stashing under his pillow as he slept; his heart skipped a beat in his chest as his hands returned only bundles of sheets. He bolted upright and began to frantically search the bed, alarm rising. It wasn''t under either of his pillows. It wasn''t bundled in the sheets. It wasn''t on the floor near the head or foot of the bed. It didn''t seem to be anywhere at all.

    Parker then let out a tremendous sigh and collapsed into his now-stripped bed, laughing at his own stupidity. He hadn''t taken it off at all last night¡­ he was still wearing the watch. He lay there in the bed, staring at the watch in close-up, something he''d done countless times since he''d gotten the strange object. He scrutinized its metal band, which fit him unexpectedly well. He looked at the three hands on the clock face, watching them sit unmoving¡ªnever moving unless wound. He twisted the small dials that adjusted the date until it read 16 - JUL. Summer felt like it had only just begun¡­ where did all the days go?

    Parker was worried for Skinny, sure, but he also seemed least worried among his friends. It was partly because he trusted the boy to take care of himself, but the more compelling half of his lack of worry was that Parker alone had the ability to go back in time and undo any trouble that might have befallen Skinny. He could investigate the boy''s disappearance. If there was a threat, he could go back in time to undo said threat. It lent with it a certain sense of invulnerability that must have been something like what Wade felt wielding his Protectionizer. Parker made a mental note to ask him about that later.

    He dressed himself and wandered out to the kitchen, where he found a cold plate of eggs and bacon left by his mother. He placed it in the microwave and set it heating, brushing his teeth while his breakfast warmed. Less than thirty minutes later, he was pedaling on-bike towards the agreed meet-up. He''d be a full hour early, but he''d never minded the waiting out in the peaceful woods.

    <center>* * *</center>

    "Speaking of¡­ there''s that Parker boy right now," Jackson Trent said. He was seated in the passenger seat of Michelle''s car, the two of them driving down the town''s main roadway. They watched out the right-hand side of the car as Parker broke from the road and began biking into the woods on a faintly marked trail. "Wonder where he''s off to now?" Though Skinny had only been known missing for not even a full day yet, the parents seemed outwardly as though they''d been searching fruitlessly for weeks. Michelle''s hair was disheveled and her eyes were sunken, at once both half-shut for lack of sleep and driven by a manic intensity behind them. Jackson''s gaunt face seemed even more so than usual, a harsh shadow of a beard beginning to claw its way out of his greasy face. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she drove. He scratched at his neck and his legs, a nervous habit of a nervous man.

    One so frequently bedridden as Jackson Trent might often grapple with a sense of helplessness¡­ in his weakest spans, he''d feel the burgeoning impotence of a man turned victim by his own body. He wasn''t a proud man by any means, but still, on those worst of weeks when he was confined to his bed, he''d tend back to that dark self-doubt and shame, as though those feelings lived in his sick bed and would greet him as an old friend whenever he''d return. There, in that bed, he''d relied on his wife''s income to keep their family afloat. He''d relied on the care of others to keep himself alive. When his own son had gone missing, he hadn''t even had the strength to go walking through the woods to search for him. He felt the creeping tendrils of helplessness worming their way into his mind again¡­ which is why today''s errand was so important to him. It wasn''t a good idea, by any means, but it was him reclaiming a bit of pride and contributing something meaningful to Skinny''s rescue. It was sure as hell better than doing nothing.

    "Do you think they''ll swing for it?" Jackson asked, though the couple had discussed this precise question through most of the early hours of the morning.

    "There''s really only one way to find out," Michelle replied. A thoughtful silence fell. "I wouldn''t be driving you back to the station if I thought they wouldn''t," she added. In the light of their son''s disappearance, both had been given the day off from work, and both intended to spend all of that day working to track him down. It all began with this pitch.

    The car pulled up to the police station, where Michelle pulled into a handicapped spot at the front. She stepped out from the car and moved to Jackson''s side, helping him get up from his seat. She offered her arm for support as the two set forwards. "I''m fine, I''m fine," Jackson answered with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Now let''s go find us Miss Nora once again."

    <center>* * *</center>

    Ronnie groped sleepily for the buzzing alarm clock, his ring clanking against its plastic shell as he pressed the ''off'' button. He had recently begun sleeping wearing the thing, a decision that was partly inspired by Skinny''s disappearance¡­ if someone was genuinely hunting down the devices, he didn''t want to let his out of his sight for long.

    By his bedside sat various volumes of the encyclopedia set that had long sat on his parents'' bookshelves, an assortment of sticky note annotations now sticking from its front and sides to mark various points of interest in the books. The ring boosted his reading and thinking speed, but its other latent effects were more subtle and slow to manifest. Ronnie was now certain that the ring came with a ravenous apetite for learning as well. What had begun as a gentle, peckish stomach rumble had slowly evolved to a near starvation for information, and fortunately, the encyclopedia seemed to satiate some of that hunger. His real stomach rumbled, however, reminding Ronnie that there was more than one apetite to tend to.

    With a sigh, he lumbered to the kitchen and began making himself a breakfast of eggs, toast, and a small bowl of assorted fruits. As he sipped at his orange juice, he leafed through additional pages in the dusty volume covering the letter D, reading now about Diocletian¡ªformerly Diocles¡ªand how he had restored the Roman Empire to order after a near-decent to anarchy in the 3rd century. He finished his toast slice as he read about diodes, a small electrical component that only allowed the flow of current in only one direction. As he savored the last grape, he read on Diogenes, one of his history teacher''s favorites¡ªapparently the old cynic had lived in a clay barrel at the markeplace and mocked every one of his contemporaries ruthlessly, including Alexander the Great.

    Finishing his meal, Ronnie marked his page and closed the book, returning it to the stack in his room. He then set to washing the dishes and cookware stacked in the sink. As he did so, he let his eyes wonder across the kitchen, settling in on the various photographs framed on the walls and counters. In them, he saw images of himself as a toddler and eventually a young child, slowly growing across the years spanning the photographs. He saw pictures of his parents and pictures of his cousins, and wondered how long it might be until all of these were just photos in a box, with none alive who could recognize the people or stories they represented.

    He made a mental note in that moment to go visit his grandmother again later today, and to offer an ear for the myriad stories she kept. He felt he owed those tales the respect of an attentive listen¡­ and deep down, he hoped that someone might do the same for his story when enough years had passed.

    He finally mounted his bike and set for the road, heading for Castle Rock.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Wade pressed the snooze button on his alarm clock for the fifth consecutive time this morning. To him, there was no sleep better than the half-hour of half-sleep he got as his alarm woke him again every five minutes and he got the repeated satisfaction of getting to go back to asleep immediately thereafter. Every morning saw a similar sequence of alarms, and Wade always remained just aware enough to know when the final, un-snoozable alarm had arrived¡­ and he''d often snooze it anyways. Not much a morning person, Wade only managed to make it to school on time thanks to the superhuman efforts of his parents to get him up when it was necessary. In their summer absence, the hours of sleep tended to spread outwards across most of the morning.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Today, though, it was the sixth ring that had finally won out, causing Wade to force his eyes open and begin reaching under his pillow for the object he''d stashed there. He finally found it and closed his fist around it, dragging it towards him: it was a foil-wrapped set of Pop-Tarts. He propped himself up against a pillow and began to eat the pastries by tearing them into small pieces and eating them like some ancient Roman emperor being fed grapes on a grand, reclining sofa. He made a mental note to shake out his sheet before his mother reamed him for getting crumbs in the bed.

    After finishing his meal, he stretched and rose to his feet, drinking from one of the six water bottles of varying levels of fill that stood near his bed. He then reached into his underwear and removed the Protectionizer he''d stashed inside of it, giving it a curious sniff. Finding it more-or-less acceptable, he set it down and began to dress.

    After washing up, he made his way downstairs, eager to try out the experiment he''d thought up while trying to sleep last night. He grabbed the matchbook and a sheet of paper, and hurriedly made his way out to the back porch. There, he first checked for any prying eyes who might see him. Seeing none, he lit the paper on fire and gave it a few seconds to more fully catch. Then, squeezing the Protectionizer in one hand, he grabbed the burning page and crumpled it into a ball with his other. He squeezed on the burning sheet until smoke began to rise, and held it another ten seconds beyond that. He then unfurled his hand and found a smouldering, extinguished ball of paper only half-burned. Fire-punch test? Failed, he thought, lamenting the fact that he wouldn''t be able to punch people with flaming fists. Could''ve been badass, he mused. He made a mental note to try it with lighter fluid or something similar, though he''d have to go buy some first. He then walked over to the side of the porch where he''d marked the ground with an ''x'' in chalk. He summoned all his might and struck at the ground with a closed fist, his hand bouncing off the floor without breaking either his bones or the floor. Floorsmash test? Still ongoing, he noted mentally, maintaining a sense of certainty that one day, if he kept at it, the floor would crack.

    With no minor disappointment, Wade began to pack up for the day, loading some snacks and drinks into a backpack before climbing onto his bike. He set out for Castle Rock, wondering when he could slip a stop for lighter fluid in the middle of a full day of searching for Skinny.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Shaun had woken up a full hour earlier than intended. It wouldn''t be right to say that he was excited for the day, as that implied a positive emotional state and Shaun''s was decidedly negative. That being said, Shaun felt ready for the day. He knew that he and his friends would be searching out Skinny and putting their heads together as a team to track him down¡­ it felt positively impossible to sleep well when such work lay ahead of him.

    He ate a quick breakfast of a frozen waffle drenched in syrup before setting out on bicycle. He wasn''t even sure of where he was heading until he pulled to a stop in front of the place. Skinny''s house was quiet and obviously empty¡­ apparently Mr. and Mrs. Trent had business in town searching out their son. He swallowed, only now fully realizing and processing his intent, but he quickly pushed his reservations behind him and set to work. He dragged his bike to the woods behind the home and found an alcove where he could be sure nobody saw him. He then activated his Invisibility Plug, flickering out of sight. The world around him became cloudy as he vanished, almost giving off the impression of being seen through a TV set that was far too dim with poor picture quality. Still, he was able to navigate his way about the house, and as he walked around the perimeter of the home, he had to fight the urge to duck for cover with every car that rumbled past. It''s impossible to get used to, being totally see-through, he thought to himself. Instead of chastising himself too seriously, he decided that a little caution was probably a good thing in his current situation. He peered through the windows and confirmed the rooms, one at a time, to be empty.

    Still invisible, he arrived to a side door of the home. He placed a hand on the knob and tested it by pulling it ever-so-slightly. Much to his relief, he found it to be unlocked. "We should leave it open in case Skinny comes home," he could imagine the mother saying. He shrugged off the upsetting image and then considered how best to proceed. If a neighbor witnessed a door just lackadaisically swinging open on its own, he or she might be prone to ask questions or investigate. It''s gotta look natural, Shaun thought. Like the wind or something is lazily blowing it open.

    Holding his breath, though he wasn''t quite sure why, Shaun tilted his head and listened to the trees above as they sighed in the occasional breeze. He waited for the wind to gust up again and as soon as it did, he began to slowly slide the door open, accelerating as it yawned wider and wider, trying to give it the impression that it caught more and more of the passing gusts as it moved. He then stepped in and pulled the door behind him, doing his best to imitate the door rebounding from the furthest open position its hinges would permit. He didn''t let it click shut fully, as he''d need to make it nonchalantly slide open again as he left, but he instead allowed it to rest against its frame. He removed his hand from the door and found that it held still. Now within the house, he stood there silent and unseen, having no clue whatsoever if his door antics had seemed natural or utterly ridiculous¡ªperhaps even more confounding than a simple open-and-shut would have been. Too late now, Shaun; gotta roll with the punches here, he thought. The visual obfuscations of being invisible made it hard to search out what he''d come here to find, but, with the Trent household having so many large windows, Shaun figured it was better to search invisibly than risk being seen from the street.

    He crept his way to Skinny''s room in the back corner of the home, his padded footfalls and the ticking of an ornate grandfather clock the only sounds in the house. The air was still and somewhat warm, sunlight softly filtering in through the many windows that lined the walls. He made his way to the opposite end of the living room and found the door he sought. As he pushed it gingerly, it swung open with a tired creak that shattered the dead silence of the home.

    Looking around for any sort of reaction, and finding none, he then made his way into the room and set to searching. He rifled through laundry hampers and ran his hands under pillows and mattresses. He rummaged through desk drawers and trash bins and the undersides of furniture. He separated stacks of clothing from Skinny''s closet and searched for items pried between shirts or pants, wondering how might I have hidden the Thought-Enunciator if I lived here? It wasn''t in the bed. It wasn''t in any shoeboxes or stashed within any shoes. There weren''t any loose floorboards, so far as Shaun could tell, nor were there any removable vents along the floor. No hollowed books on the bookcase. No Thought-Enunciator anywhere that he could tell.

    "Hello?" A gravely voice called from across the home as Shaun heard the door he''d entered from swinging open. "Junior, is that you?"

    Shaun''s breath caught as he realized that the room was most certainly not how it had looked when he''d arrived¡­ he''d been trying to be thorough in his search, and, so, he hadn''t been particularly neat. The bed was stripped and its sheets were balled near the floor. Clothing from the closet was still spread out along its floor, and drawers he''d already checked were open. Worse still, the door to Skinny''s room was wide open, letting anyone from the living room see right in to the room he''d turned upside-down. He had to close that door or he''d surely be discovered.

    Shaun walked over to the door and peered out, still not seeing anyone. He then gripped the door and tried to slide it shut with him on the inside. As soon as he began to move it, he realized his mistake: the door creaked loudly as it shifted, same as it had when he opened it just earlier. Still not particularly good at stealth, are we?

    "Skinny?" The voice shouted, which Shaun could now identify as belonging to Jackson Trent, Senior. He heard footsteps rushing towards the bedroom. Shaun backed away, half-tripping on a shoe he''d moved while searching under the desk. He caught himself against the desk, and the rattling sound seemed to only increase the fervor of the oncoming footsteps. Shaun meekly shuffled his way to the back corner of the room, and there he waited with his breath held. After a moment''s pause, the door burst open, Jackson barreling in wheezing and trying to catch his breath. "Skinny?" he called again, looking around the room. His mouth worked silently as he saw the mess left in the room. "Michelle!" he finally called through ragged, shallow breaths. "Michelle! Someone''s been here," he yelled, voice cracking.

    Shaun stood as silently as possible in the rear corner of the room as he watched Jackson drop to his knees near the door. It''d be hard to get out past him, Shaun thought. Then a second set of footsteps quickly crossed the house, Michelle bursting into the bedroom. Hard just became impossible.

    "I think¡ªI heard¡ªthey might still be here," Jackson managed, patting at his chest with a closed fist. "A sound," he said, still struggling to speak, but Michelle locked eyes with him and the two seemed to share that layer of near-telepathy that any couple married for long enough seems to develop. She stepped as quietly as she could and made her way to Skinny''s desk, where a baseball bat stood leaning against the side. She picked it up and hefted its weight, looking over at the closet. The door was partly open, revealing the mess Shaun had made within, but the door also obscured view to half the closet. The Trents clearly assumed someone lay hiding within. Jackson Trent clamored to his feet, peering over at the closet door as his wife made her way towards it. Shaun took the opportunity to begin moving towards the bedroom''s entrance door, keeping his eyes on the sickly man to avoid bumping into him. Jackson was still in the way of the main exit, but if he advanced just another step¡ª

    Shaun was falling before he even realized what had happened. As he tripped over the same damnable shoe, he quickly realized that there were two outcomes from this moment: he could continue bowling forwards and likely bump into Jackson Trent, Senior (most likely knocking the frail man straight over), or he could twist to the left and try to fall against the desk at the room''s side¡ªa painful and likely far noisier option. As is typically the case for most deer caught in the headlights of an advancing vehicle, Shaun could choose neither and so he wound up accomplishing both. He half-twisted into the desk, setting it rattling (and smashing his arm against it in the process) as he deflected off of it and into Jackson, sending the both of them sprawling over.

    Michelle immediately turned, bat still in-hand. Jackson, having not seen his assailant, assumed that he''d been blindsided and reached to grapple at the unseen attacker. He was sprawled on his back, his world reeling, but as he reached over his head for the assailant his arms found purchase and he squeezed.

    "What the fuck?" Michelle exlaimed, watching dumbfounded. Her husband''s arms gripped at nothing, but that nothing was somehow pulling her husband along the floor as it struggled. By now Jackson''s own head had turned to see the struggle against empty air, and he, too, was dumbfounded.

    "Don''t just watch¡­ hit it!" he shouted. Michelle was shaken back to life and she moved towards the struggling pair, before repositioning herself nearer the door.

    "Hit what?" she shouted. "There''s nothing there!"

    "Just swing!"

    Michelle didn''t want to risk striking her husband, so she swung at the open air just beyond the struggling pair. The bat whooshed through the air, contacting nothing.

    "Closer!" he shouted. "Swing closer!" Jackson suddenly jerked to the left, and then to the right, as the grappled form twisted violently. The next swing whooshed through open air.

    Shaun felt the bat brush against his clothing as he twisted out of its path. Next one is probably hitting, he thought, desparately resisting Jackson''s grip. For an infirm old man, Jackson''s hold was stronger than it seemed to have any right to be. Desperation proved to be a powerful motivator, and, if Shaun had taken the time to look through the Trents'' master bedroom, he''d have seen the trophies to kickboxing tournaments from Jackson''s youth. Still, Shaun had the advantage of health, and the even more significant advantage of Jackson not even being able to see what he was grappling. Shaun rolled over the old man, who was surprised by the sudden shift of the weight he was grabbing, and he kicked with his free leg at the man''s grasping arm. Struck by an unexpected blow, Jackson flinched back, and he extended his leg just as the bat swung overhead towards the ground. It collided with his leg, setting out a scream of pain from the older man.

    Shaun felt the grip on him loosen with that wail, and he managed to wriggle his way free as he scrambled towards the center of the room. "I lost him!" Jackson shouted through the pain, finally allowing his hands to prod at his wound.

    "I''m sorry, babe¡­ you moved at the last second!" Michelle shouted, moving back towards the door to body block it. She held the bat at the ready, scanning the room for a sign of any movement. "Fucker''s not getting out of here," she shouted. "Just sit tight." As she stood sentinel at the doorway, Jackson began to writhe around on the floor, arms moving like a swimmer as he wriggled his way through the room. Shaun realized he was scanning and searching for an invisible foe by contact. Clever, and it meant that Shaun had relatively little time to make his move. He stood there, searching for some kind of idea. Finally, one came to him.

    Michelle watched as the balled sheets of Skinny''s bed suddenly burst upwards into the air, before being caught by nothing at all. They then seemed to charge forwards of their own accord. As they drew near, Michelle wound up, preparing to swing. They then launched upwards and unfurled in the air, tossed at her head. She instinctively swung the bat at the sheets to prevent it from covering her head, and, as she did so, she felt the telltale rush of air as something breezed past her legs low to the ground. She spun, following the movement, and watched as the door to Skinny''s room burst open and bodyless footfalls tore their way across the living room. She gave chase, but she knew that she had lost the phantom the moment it exited the bedroom.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Nora walked up to the Trent residence, a stack of 100 "missing" posters in hand. She''d felt bad about declining their earlier request¡ªsuch operations were so rarely ever approved, and certainly not on such a short timetable¡ªso she took the initiative to make posters for the family to begin plastering across town. She even had another 200 printing at the station, to be distributed and spread by officers on every major roadway in town. She approached the front door and was planning out her olive-branch-extending speech when the door suddenly burst open as though violently kicked ajar. Nora''s police reflexes immediately kicked in, her hands releasing the stack and dropping to her weapon, but nobody fled the house. The next thing Nora was aware of was the approaching sound of sprinting footsteps, but, curiously, they seemed to lack a sprinting person. Then Nora watched as the falling sheets of paper saying "MISSING - JACKSON TRENT" began to swirl in the breeze of a body running close past¡ªone of them even seemed to snare on something, momentarily, launching away from Nora at high speed, before it slipped off and returned to its normal falling trajectory. It had been disturbed by nothing at all.

    What the hell? Nora thought, listening as frantic sourceless footsteps pattered away. Moments later, Michelle Trent appeared in the doorway, baseball bat in hand. The two looked at each other, both equally dumbfounded.

    "You look like you''ve just seen a ghost," Michelle said.

    Nora frowned. "Mind if I come in?"

 Chapter 23 - Bait for the Trap

    Once the trail''s level walking paths had become root-covered, winding stretches of loose dirt, Parker stashed his bike near a distinctive tree and walked the remaining distance to Castle Rock. He discovered that he was second to arrive, Logan already perched atop the commanding structure.

    "Identify yourself!" Logan called down with the feigned authority of an imperious tower guard.

    "Parker Campbell, requesting permission to ascend the tower!"

    "Permission granted," came the voice from above, and Paker began his climb up the side of the structure. As he rose, Logan watched, wondering what might happen if Parker slipped and fell to his death right this moment. It would throw off everything he had planned, and further directly contradict the past¡ªor was it the future?¡ªthat he knew would unfold¡ªhad unfolded?¡ªbut the thought played through his head nonetheless. There was a fair-sized stone right by Logan''s feet¡­ a small toss to his head would send him crumpling down. Could I, if I wanted to?

    Logan flexed his fingers. His arms could move. He could throw the stone, if he decided to. But Logan already knew that Parker survives this morning unharmed¡­ It was all very confusing. Despite the fact that he reasoned he could kill him right now, he knew that he hadn''t, and so, he wouldn''t kill him in this moment¡­ so how was that any different from couldn''t kill him? If Logan knew how the future would unfold, and so Logan acted in ways to promote that future and avoid contradicting it, events reached their conclusion without Logan getting to influence them at all. Did Logan have free will if he let fear of paradoxes steer him from point A to Z precisely?

    Logan was still eyeing the stone and grappling with those questions when Parker crested the structure and settled onto the flat top with him. Parker hadn''t died here today, much to the surprise of nobody¡­ but the whole mental line of questioning left Logan feeling an echo of helplessness once again. Was he prisoner to actions at once already done and somehow yet to be made? He looked to Parker and saw a shoulder covered with blood. His ears rang with that damned screaming of silence after gunshots, and that horrible music returned to his mind once again. The buzz of the light, of insects outside. The rattle of Skinny''s final breaths. The patter of blood. The click of empty revolver chambers. Buzz. Rattle. Patter. Click. Buzz. Rattle. Patter. Click. He felt the weight of the fire ax in his hand, and could still visualize the forest clearing. Its weight was horrible in his hands, the cool wood somehow burning to the touch.

    "¡ªothers?"

    "Hmm?" Logan snapped back to the present.

    "No sign of the others?"

    "Nope," Logan said, mind turning. He stood and faced out to the woods, Parker standing to his side doing the same. "Say, Parker, since you''re here early anyways¡­ there''s something I wanted to tell you. Didn''t really want to raise this in front of the group for reasons that''ll be obvious¡­ it''s about Skinny."

    "Sure, shoot away."

    Buzz. Rattle. Patter. Click. Logan charged a battery with the Empathizer pressed to his side opposite Parker and pocketed it immediately. Cool, collected calm washed over him and returned him firmly to the present. He reloaded the device with a battery he''d kept in his coat pocket for just this moment. He then subtly began rubbing the terminal on the front of the Empathizer and pressed it to his palm.

    "The night he went missing¡­ I never mentioned this to you guys because I was worried about it. He actually came to me that night, after the official last time anyone had seen him."

    "Did you tell the police that?"

    "I didn''t tell anyone¡­ because of what he came over to talk about. He said that he was getting into shouting fights with Ronnie¡­ that he hadn''t been acting himself lately. That Ronnie was demanding the two trade devices, because he didn''t like the ring."

    The easygoing smile wiped off Parker''s face as he began to consider Logan''s words. "Are you implying what I think you''re implying?"

    Logan swallowed and nodded his best impression of a reluctant-yet-grave nod. "He was asking me for advice of what to do, and if I could use my Empathizer to mediate between ''em¡­ I told him it could wait until morning. Then, as you know," Logan trailed off.

    "Ronnie''s always been a gentle giant¡­" Parker thought out loud.

    Logan knew that this was the critical moment. He''d been holding the terminal on the Empathizer¡­ would it be warm enough to pass for flesh? "Please, I don''t want you to think I''m accusing him of anything," Logan said, doing his best to play the role of a friend worried he''s insulted another friend. As he spoke, he partially turned, reached behind, and tapped Parker on the arm, as though punctuating the statement¡­ but he''d tapped Parker with the Empathizer instead, and discharged the purple-black battery right as he vocalized the p in please, hoping it would best hide the hiss. He dropped his hand to his side and the device into his pocket as Parker turned to him.

    "No, of course not, but it''s important to be careful in a situation like this," Parker said, seemingly uneasy. Logan saw the seed of fear begin to take root in Parker''s mind through all of the subtle facial tics he''d become good at recognizing¡­ there was the widening of the eyes, a gentle dilation of the pupils¡­ the smaller, more-rapid movements. He did all he could to resist smiling at Parker then and there.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    "Well, I''ve actually got an idea, if you''re willing to help," he said.

    * * *

    Shaun showed up next, and Wade and Ronnie were only minutes behind. Once all five were settled on the top of the formation, Shaun regaled the group with the story of his near-miss with the Trents.

    "So the old man took a baseball swing to the leg?" Wade asked.

    "Yuh-huh. I was pretty sure my head was about to be a tee-ball with those swings," Shaun replied.

    "But you didn''t find it?" Ronnie asked. "The Thought-Enunciator?"

    "No, no sign of it anywhere," Shaun said.

    "How thoroughly did you check the place?" said Parker.

    "I''m pretty sure it wasn''t there. And if it was, well, they''ve no doubt got cops at the place checking it out," Shaun said, trailing off.

    "Do you think the parents might have it?" Wade asked.

    "I don''t think so¡­ I don''t know. Oh yeah, and bad news gets worse. I saw your mom there, Parker, right when I was leaving."

    "She saw you?" Parker asked, worried.

    "Well, no, nobody saw me, invisible ''n stuff¡­ but I nearly bumped right into her as I was running out the house."

    "Now how''s that for inconvenient timing," Wade mused, shaking his head. "So now what? The police send out secondary search parties, these ones for the Invisible Man?"

    "Well, we''ll have to wait and find out," Logan said. "These developments are troubling, sure, but we''ll handle them the same as last time. When we get home tonight, stash your devices away and hide them good. This time they might pick us up with a lot more questions. Now, until then, how are we planning to find Skinny?"

    The boys began to wander through the woods, searching for anything out of the ordinary. They decided to split up into two groups: Wade, Logan, and Shaun in one, and Parker and Ronnie in the other. When Logan saw the slight unease in Parker''s disposition at being paired alone with the larger boy, Logan offered to swap groups.

    They then set out and combed through the woods, searching for any clue of their friend''s whereabouts. Logan did his best to seem as genuinely interested in the hunt as the others were, even taking a proud moment to call out a suspected clue¡ªa dirty, bundled shirt they found tucked near a tree¡ªbut the group quickly decided it wasn''t significant. As they walked, they saw the occasional searching adult or police officer poking through the brush. They nodded and waved pleasantly to those they passed, assuming they were all out there for the same reasons.

    They set up a small camp for lunch on the edge of the woods after two hours of fruitless search, eating pre-packed lunches and drinking from their canteens. Ronnie unfolded and set up the portable radio unit, tuning it in to the same police frequencies. There, through mouthfuls of food, they chatted idly and listened to the radio''s chatter.

    "So," Wade said, taking a large bite out of his sandwich as the group listened in, "it''s time for the elephant in the room. When do we use the time watch to solve this thing?"

    Everyone had already thought of it, with Logan and Parker already even having discussed it, but it was good to get the whole group up to speed now.

    "So," Logan said, "using the watch comes with certain¡­ disadvantages."

    "We''ve gone back before, but not very long each time. As you guys know, there''s no going forwards, so anyone going back to that night would have to wait out the few days to get to the present."

    The group munched, listening.

    "But, of course, because of paradox-y stuff, that person couldn''t interact or be near any one of us, nor could they stay at home or be seen at all by anyone we know without risking big trouble. Whoever we send back is gonna have to live in the woods for a couple days," Parker said.

    "Now, I know of a small shed in the woods," Logan said. "It''s tiny and dirty, but it''ll at least be shelter¡­ I haven''t been there in a couple years. It''ll be guaranteed empty, so whoever we send back can live in it for a while. Generator might even still work. It can fit a person just fine, and might just be able to fit two, but that''d be pushing it."

    "So the question is how many do we send back," Parker said. "And to when and where exactly?"

    "We don''t even know if it''ll be dangerous," Logan added. "If Skinny was¡­ you know, by the original owner of these things, then it might not be a good idea to send a bunch of us back¡­ we might just be delivering them right to his grasp."

    "But sending anyone alone would be putting them in even greater danger," Ronnie protested.

    "I know. That''s why we''re asking you all," Logan said.

    "What if¡­" Wade began, thinking. "What if we sent one person back with the Time Watch, the Protectionizer, and the Invisibility Plug? What better spy kit is there than time traveling invincible invisibility?"

    "That''d be putting a lot of eggs in one basket," Logan said. "What if he subdued whoever we sent back? Then he''s got four of the six, and the two we''d have left, mine and the ring, wouldn''t be much help in protecting us."

    The boys chewed this over.

    "All of this is assuming there''s some evil hitman collecting the devices," Ronnie said. "What if his disappearance was something more mundane?"

    "You want to gamble all of the artifacts on the chance that Skinny somehow just went missing in the woods?" Logan asked.

    "I''d gamble my own," Ronnie said. "What if it''s just Parker and I? Strength in numbers makes two people better than one, and If he gets mine, we still have a bunch of the more protective ones left."

    "I think it''d be better if I went alone," Parker said. "If there''s any trouble, I don''t need to go invisible or be invincible¡­ I can just go further back in time to safety."

    The group let that idea settle for a moment, each one testing it in his mind.

    "The same could still be done with two people," Ronnie protested.

    "But at greater risk," Parker replied.

    The radio suddenly squawked to life with the garbled voice of a dispatcher. "All units, we have reports of an armed suspect at Best Friends Veterinary Office." The group immediately fell dead silent: that was the place Skinny''s mother worked.

    "Dispatch, this is car 067. Sewer main break on Grove means we''ll be delayed approximately twenty minutes; moving with all possible haste, over."

    The group sat in a momentary stunned silence. Then, Parker spoke. "What if the parents did find the device after all?"

    "I mean, who even robs a vet''s office," Wade said. "What if this is our guy?"

    "We could get there before the police if we leave right now," Ronnie added.

    Logan nodded, and the group immediately set to packing up. In forty seconds, they were on their bikes, racing from road to field to road as they cut a straight path to the vet''s office.

 Chapter 24 - The Vets Office

    The gang parked their bikes behind the plaza adjecent to the vet''s plaza, careful to position them on the side opposite to the approaching road. They didn''t want any police cars to notice the presence of five bikes near the crime scene, what with the law breathing so heavily down their necks already. They then donned the masks that they''d become accustomed to keeping in their packs, several throwing over a second shirt or jacket to prevent anyone from seeing their distinctive clothing. As the others were pulling shirts and masks over their heads, Logan discreetly tucked his revolver into his waistband. The group then hurried their way to the vet''s plaza.

    "Wade, you go in first," Ronnie said, "with Shaun in tow just behind you, invisibly. You''ll be his way into the store. Logan, Parker, and I will wait near the back door, which I''m sure any hostile would''ve locked. Shaun, once you''re in, go unlock that door as stealthily as possible. Then, when the coast is clear near that door, push it open and we''ll make our way in." The team nodded and split up, two filing to the front and three towards the rear.

    Protectionizer gripped in hand, Wade pushed his way into the vet''s office. He froze as a set of overhead bells jingled¡­ so much for a stealthy entrance. He held the door open a moment longer than was necessary to allow for Shaun''s secret entrance behind him, and then slowly closed the door to minimize the jingling of the bells. The waiting room was empty and nobody deeper within the office outwardly reacted to the sound of his arrival. He cautiously crept forwards.

    At one end of the waiting room was a door to the rest of the office, which Wade knew had to be buzzed open by the receptionist. There was nobody at the reception window. It was open, at least, and fairly wide. With a sigh, Wade began to climb his way through.

    On the other side of the window, he confirmed that the reception area was empty. He could press the buzzer to unlock the door, as he saw it labeled behind the counter, but he didn''t want its loud sound to draw any attention, nor did he need to arouse suspicion by opening a door for seemingly nobody. He instead waited patiently for the telltale creaking and occasional sourceless rattle that told him Shaun had also climbed through the reception window. The two then made their way through the reception office, tiptoeing silently.

    "We don''t have any money here," came a faint voice muffled through several doors. Michelle Trent, both immediately knew. Wade nodded towards where the back door was located, signaling that Shaun head off to complete his objective. He himself set off towards that voice, trying to find its source.

    * * *

    As Shaun walked towards the rear door, he moved through silent hallways and passed darkened offices. The place seemed eerily empty of humans¡ªbut animals abounded. He soon walked into a room filled with stacks of dog cages, several of them currently occupied. A Great Dane at the bottom level immediately perked up as Shaun passed, though Shaun was still invisible. Perhaps the dog heard him, or perhaps the dog merely smelled the boy, but the large dog began to bark wildly and pace in his cage. Shaun immediately broke into a run for the back door and found it indeed locked¡­ he turned the lock but didn''t yet push it open or knock to signal the three outside. He instead perched there, silent, waiting for any sign of movement from within the office.

    * * *

    Back on the other side of the office, Wade stood outside an office door, ears attuned to the sounds around him. He had heard faint whispering and the clattering sound of rummaging search before the silence was suddenly split by the loud barking of a dog elsewhere in the office. Wade immediately slunk back and found a closet to position himself into as that office door swung open. He watched through the cracked door of the closet as a masked assailant stepped into the hallway, pistol trained on the ground as the figure moved towards the sound.

    * * *

    Shaun watched as a masked figure in a tactical vest assessed the room with the dog cages. He checked beneath tables, peered down hallways, and even opened a few cabinets to figure out their approximate storage space before deciding it unlikely that anyone could be hiding inside one. He then seemed to be convinced that the area was indeed empty, and perhaps just that the dog had been spooked by, well, whatever it is dogs can occasionally be spooked by. He then made his way back down the hallway he''d arrived from, never breaking that tactical searching stride as he retreated. Shaun checked over the door for a bell. Seeing none, he then quietly pushed the door open. Ronnie, Logan, and Parker immediately poured in. "One hostile spotted," he whispered. "Armed with a handgun."

    * * *

    Nora set down her binoculars and picked up her walkie talkie. "All units, the trap has sprung. I repeat, the trap has sprung. One entered front, three in the rear. I want both exits blocked off. Gomez, get yourself and Michelle barricaded with Lawson." Across the parking lot, undercover squad cars flicked on their sirens and moved in. Two drove behind the plaza and pulled to a sudden halt near the rear exit, tires squaling on the asphalt. Three more drove to the storefront and set up horizontally facing the waiting room, the officers climbing out and using the cars for cover as they trained their weapons on the building. Seated next to Nora, Jackson Trent, Senior, began to clap his hands wildly.

    "Now that''s a goddamn show," he said. "I told you this''d get them, did I not?"

    Nora shook her head, impressed herself at how well it had all panned out. She and the department had unilaterally rejected the Trents'' proposed sting operation this morning, feeling it was a wild longshot. That had all changed after the odd encounter at the Trent residence this morning. The room''s state meant that someone had been searching through Skinny''s bedroom, and, while Nora wasn''t sure if she believed anyone had turned invisible (despite what the Trents swore happened and what she herself had seen), it did align closely with the original account of what had happened at Johnson''s General. That last parallel set goosebumps across her skin. People couldn''t just turn invisible, right? But still, the web of connections began to make her head spin: an attacker materializing out of thin air in a robbery linked to Trent Junior¡­ an invisible intruder searching the Trent house¡­ now, masked men showing up to the Trents'' place of work after broadcasting its distress on radio (including a fake sewer line break, to give the masked men hope that they''d beat the police). It seemed undeniable now that they had a team of vigilantes on their hands, and perhaps a team that possessed some hard-to-explain abilities. She removed the bullhorn from her back seat and began to walk towards the office. "You sit tight now¡­. could be dangerous."

    * * *

    Wade watched from his cover as the masked assailant ran into the office where Michelle had been and slammed the door shut, locking it immediately. Wade then heard the wailing of sirens and squealing of cars as they pulled into position around the office. Shit, he thought. This is definitely not good.

    Staying low, he made his way towards the back of the office, towards the barking of the dog he had heard earlier. There, he found the rest of the gang pacing nervously. "It was a trap," Parker replied, stating the obvious.

    "We locked this door," Shaun added.

    "Attacker was probably police, all things considered," Wade said. "He''s barricaded himself in an office with Michelle. He''s armed, too. Front door has a bell, so we''ll hear anyone enter, but we have to be watching that inner office door so he can''t exit and get to us," Wade said. The group nodded and they moved down the hall, taking position at an L-shaped juncture where they could see to the back door near the dog cages and down a second hall to the office door where Michelle and the police officer were barricaded in.

    "What''s our play?" Logan asked.

    "DON''T ATTEMPT TO FLEE. WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED," came an amplified voice from outside the building. Parker''s stomach dropped. "Shit. I know that voice."

    The voice outside began to boom once again. "IN THE MEDICATION FRIDGE, YOU WILL FIND A WALKIE-TALKIE. GO PICK IT UP AND SWITCH IT ON. IT''S TUNED TO THE RIGHT CHANNEL."

    Stolen novel; please report.

    The gang all turned towards the fridge nearby. Wade was first to walk towards it, opening the door and indeed finding a walkie-talkie stashed inside. He shrugged and put on his deepest, gruffest voice as he switched it on. "Smokey, this is Bandit. Come in, over."

    The radio crackled before Nora Campbell''s voice answered back. "Bandit, this is the Boone PD. You and your small team are surrounded with agents posted at the front and rear entrances. Let''s chat."

    "Chat away," Wade said.

    "We''ve got two agents inside the office with weapons and a dozen more trained at the doors. We don''t want anybody getting shot. If you all walk to the front office with hands on your head, we can take you in and nobody gets hurt."

    "Let me run that by my team." Wade said. He waited a half second before replying. "Yeah they didn''t like that option very much. Got other suggestions?"

    "We know you guys were here to help. Here, and at the general store. You won''t be in much trouble¡­ just let''s talk back at the station."

    Wade lowered the walkie-talkie. "Damn, she''s connecting dots. What''s our move now?"

    Parker waved his wrist forwards. "We leave, now, using this. They''d never see us."

    The group all looked at Parker''s Time Watch and realized it was simple¡­ they just had to go back to some hour in the middle of the night and then they could let themselves out the empty office. At that moment, the door to the inner office kicked open, and not one but two police officers moved into the hallway, gun drawn. One spoke into a radio on his shoulder: "moving to intercept now. Overheard one saying they had means to escape unseen. Will apprehend with minimum possible force."

    The boys scrambled down the hall towards the back door, diving for cover on opposite sides of the room with the dog cages. They heard footsteps and shouting as the police officers advanced, yelling "DO NOT MOVE. STAY ON THE GROUND, HANDS ON YOUR HEAD."

    Separated from each other, the boys would be unable to flee using Parker''s Time Watch. Their tests had found they needed proximity or contact, but crossing the room would put them in line-of-sight of the advancing and armed officers. Logan set to work right away. He unlatched the nearest dog cage and allowed the Great Dane to lick at his face. He then oriented the dog towards the hall with the shouting police. He grabbed a glowing red battery from his side pocket and loaded it into the Empathizer. With the gadget''s distinctive hiss, the dog took off in a blind, frothing rage, ignoring the cowering figures and charging at the shouting, intimidating persons in the hall.

    Logan heard the police yell and he heard the gun discharge, something that set his ears ringing. He then heard a thud as one officer fell to the floor, likely tackled by the giant dog. He next heard snarling and the squeal of an injured dog, but it seemed the second officer couldn''t immediately shoot without risk of harming the first. Without losing a moment, Logan did the same with the next dog in line, a small white Maltese. He worked his way down the line, finding a Golden Retriever and a Chocolate Lab. After being pumped with a red, each one ran off to join the snarling melee. With that final dog, Logan was out of angry batteries in easy reach, so he summoned his courage and sprinted across the room to the side Parker crouched in. Just behind him, Wade sprinted across the hall as well, a single shot ringing out and striking the boy. He was torn off his trajectory and tumbled sideways as he ran, but he continued holding the Protectionizer and slid across the squeaky, polished floor to tumble into the rest of the boys. All five linked hands and then Parker smashed the display of his watch face into the counter, sending off that blinding flash and gut-wrenching falling sensation that marked a leap through time.

    * * *

    "What''s happening in there," Nora asked, unease rising. She heard shouting on her comms line and now had just heard a single shot fire. Moments later, a second rang out, and then a third. "Dogs attacked like they were possessed," a voice finally said through the radio. "Bit up Gomez pretty bad, we need a medic in here. One dog dead, the other three scattered at the last gunshot. I think I shot one of masked guys, but the bastards somehow got away."

    "Got away?" Nora asked, eyebrow raised. "How the hell could they have gotten away? We have both exits covered. What, did they leave through a goddamn tunnel?"

    "You''d better get in here and see for yourself," the voice replied. "Room''s confirmed clear of hostiles."

    "Shit, shit, shit!" Nora said to nobody in particular. How quickly her mood had risen today, and now how thoroughly and effectively it had been dashed.

    With her weapon drawn, and with Coulter and four other officers flanking at her side, she made her way into the office. One room at a time, they cleared their way through the office, establishing that indeed, somehow, the attackers were nowhere to be seen in the front half of the office. As soon as she arrived to the room with dog cages that featured the store''s rear exit, stepping over the body of a single dead dog, she lowered her weapon and whistled. "What the Christ happened here?"

    Ash, or soot, or something black and fine coated most of the room, centering in a small nova to one side of the room. The room smelled of cordite and dust, not uncommon for an enclosed space where a gun had just discharged, but beyond that there was a smell of something foul to the air, a smell that reminded Nora of a pot of milk that had boiled over and burned to the stovetop. She wiped her fingers along the wall and the thin layer of powder lifted easily. "We''ll want samples for forensics, of course," she said. "None of our two in here saw what happened?"

    "No ma''am," the one called Lawson said. "Gomez and I were fighting off the dogs just down the hall there. We saw two bolt across the room and fired to subdue."

    Nora''s stomach dropped. Parker.

    "You fired despite a lack of clear and present danger from the intruders to the officers?"

    "They somehow sent the dogs after us," Lawson objected. "We were in harm''s way, and we fired at the ones responsible, the invaders wearing masks." His eyes held a second message: you''re only so defensive of them because of your son''s involvement.

    Nora bit back her reply, not wanting to prompt yet another argument of impartiality.

    "¡­I thought I contacted one, but no blood," Lawson added, changing the subject.

    Well there''s a familiar story, Nora thought, remembering back to the thief Valerie''s recounting of her failed robbery. "Well none of this makes any God-damn sense. We''ve got masked men pinned here in the back of the office, where you two officers can see the only exit they''re near. Tame pet dogs start attacking, as though on command, and then all four of them just simply disappear in a cloud of black dust?"

    "There was a bang and a flash of light," Lawson said.

    "Of course there was. A bang and a flash," Nora repeated, letting the absurdity of the situation hang in the open air. "So, what, do we suppose Montgomery Scott just beamed them up to the USS Enterprise? Just help me to understand how it is exactly that they vanished from a sealed box?"

    Lawson was silent, a deep frown on his face.

    "Where is Trent?" Nora asked, looking around the room.

    "She''s in her office with Jones¡­ I think he''s taking her account of events," an officer replied.

    "This might be above our paygrade," Coulter replied. "Do you think we should phone the Bureau?"

    "Starting to wonder that myself," Nora replied. "Let''s search the place first. See what we can''t find."

    <center>* * *</center>

    Under the shade of a tall and proud hickory tree sat a 1979 Mercury Cougar XR7. In it, Horace puffed at a cigar held loosely in his lips as his eyes traced the names of the businesses across the street. Laundromat. Real estate. Ah, there it was¡­ Best Friends Veterinary Office. The letter, in its sagacious knowledge of the present, had promised quite the show for Horace. So far, things had been relatively still and boring, but he could see now that the situation was rapidly changing. A masked figure approached the front door and made his way in. Horace stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray of his car and leaned in. In the fronts of several parked cars, he saw silhouettes waiting in a tense silence. Ever the hunter, Horace knew a bear trap when he saw one. The bait had been set, and now the boys placed their paws on the center pad¡­ the jaws were tense, waiting to snap shut.

    It wasn''t just his observations that tipped him off¡­ from the letter, he knew quite directly that the vet''s office was a trap. He also knew that the boys would escape, if only narrowly. What mattered the most was that this single incident was Horace''s green light, so-to-speak. Inaction and silent spectatorship could now switch to active, decisive action to carry out the cripple''s plan, and Horace intended to linger in this town no longer than was necessary. He saw the cop car belonging to the police woman he''d met, and any police attention was a bad thing when considering the work ahead of him.

    He thought then on the cripple, Jim Duncan. Horace had always thought of his family''s ward as something like an uncle, though the man''s strange temperament and frightening condition alienated him to most of the DeLange family. He couldn''t walk, of course, and had been pushed around in a rattly wheelchair for as long as Horace could remember. His voice was a chilling, wheezing thing, owing to the grevious wounds he''d sustained to his neck and jaw. Most of their communication had been done with Horace speaking and then waiting patiently for Jim to write his reply¡­ it was faster that way, and obviously less painful for the man. Most people saw his scarred face and neck and thus only saw a monster in that decrepit chair, and only Horace had seemed to harbor more curiosity than animosity towards the old man. The two had become fast friends as a result.

    Before long, Horace was often volunteering to push the man''s chair, a responsibility that Muriel seemed grateful to hand off. The two would discuss world politics and philosophy, with Horace quickly discovering a profound wisdom to the man that he had never before even glimpsed sight of. They would walk through parks and talk of wars and of elections, of discoveries and theories, and Jim Duncan proved himself time and again a person of impeccable foresight. Horace still had several sheets of paper from the two''s many deep conversations, and he knew that handwriting like a man knew the voice of his dearest friend. There was only one topic that seemed off-limits: Jim''s accident or his past preceding it. For decades, Horace had simply accepted that he might never learn that chapter of his "uncle''s" story.

    Strangely enough, it was a journey to the movie theater in 1973 that provided his wedge in. Horace was lost in the memory. He was outside the theater and watching rain come down around the hazy streetlights. He was in the car, and heard the rain''s pattering against the car''s roof¡­ As he''d watched Jim write those letters still burned into his mind, his heart had raced and the humid car compartment suddenly had felt very warm indeed. A great and terrible favor, he had written. How little Horace had known then.

    Horace was snapped back to the present moment as he watched cars suddenly spark to life and storm forwards to seal off the front and rear exits of the vet''s office. He watched the police take aim at the store as Nora stepped forwards, bullhorn in hand. He shook his head, impressed at yet another accurate prediction from that slip of paper, which he gingerly folded back up and tucked away in his glovebox.

    It was time to begin.

 Chapter 25 - Alibi

    The flash receded and the boys stumbled to their feet. Their eyes burned from the intense flash of the time jump, and now they stood momentarily blinded in the sudden dark around them. A dog nearby barked in the darkness and the green-blue afterimage of a bright flash swam in their heads. Spreading outwards, and without speaking, they shuffled their way through the pitch-black space, feeling along the walls and tables until Shaun found what they had been seeking: the lightswitch.

    The fluorescent lights overhead clicked on and buzzed softly as they rose to a dull yellow-white. "When are we?" Wade asked, steadying himself against the counter.

    "About 4:30 in the morning of the sixteenth, which was¡ªis?¡ªtoday," Parker replied. "We''re lucky¡­ I pulled the damn dial too far and nearly sent us back an entire year."

    "What does that mean?" Logan asked, still shaking his head clear.

    "If I pull the adjustment dial out, one click controls the hour hand, two clicks is the day dial, and three is the year bit¡­ in a panic, I yanked on the dial and nearly sent us to 1980," Parker said with a laugh.

    "That is not funny," Wade replied.

    "Guys, we''ve got a problem here," said Ronnie, rubbing at his eyes and surveying the scene. Everyone''s eyes burned, as they had gone through the near-whiplash of normal light to bright flash to pitch darkness to fluorescents in about the span of a minute. Still, as they blinked away the disorientation, they all quickly saw what was the matter: a thin layer of black soot coated much of the room, centering on the place they had been standing when they arrived.

    "Well, that''s not very subtle," Logan said.

    "If we leave it like this, come morning, the Trents and police might realize something''s up with this place," Ronnie said. "If they call off the trap, or decide to host it elsewhere¡­"

    "Yeah yeah, yada yada yada, paradoxes ''n stuff," Wade said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "So, it''s clean-up time?"

    After a brief search through the myriad cabinets and drawers, the group quickly found a spray bottle of cleaning solution and a roll of paper towels. Each grabbed supplies and began working his way through the room, scrubbing up any of the black powder he could find. There was a shared motivation to be thorough, and so the cleaning took more than a few minutes. As they worked, Ronnie formulated a plan.

    "So, we fell for their trap. They dangled the Trent connection right in front of our noses and we stumbled right on in¡­ and now, after Skinny''s disappearance, us masked vigilantes are missing a member that fits his description. It''ll be hard for them to conclude definitively that it was us, per se, but I have every reason to believe they''ll bring us back in for questioning, and they''ll probably be a lot more thorough about it this time."

    "What, like arrested?" Shaun asked, worried.

    "I don''t think so," Ronnie said, before correcting himself. "I don''t know, to be honest." Ronnie frowned as he rubbed at a particularly stubborn spot of black on the wall. "That being said, there''s a way to dodge all that trouble¡­ a way to get them off our tails for good."

    "We disappear and flee off to Canada," Wade offered.

    Ronnie ignored him. "We''ve got a singularly unique opportunity here¡­ we can craft the perfect alibi." He let his words settle over the boys, who continued to scrub as they thought. Ronnie watched realization first dawn on Logan''s face.

    "That''s pretty brilliant," he said, momentarily pausing from the clean-up. "That''s damn clever, actually."

    "What am I missing?" Parker asked.

    "It''s the morning of the sixteenth," Logan said. "Right now, in a way, there''s two of each of us. One group is all asleep in their beds right now and pretty soon they''ll get up, bike out to the woods, and charge into this trap recklessly right here¡­"

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Parker nodded, understanding. "But we can establish unshakeable alibis¡­ we just gotta make sure we''re somewhere else with other people when the ambush happens here," he said excitedly.

    "And then we''re off the suspect list for good," Ronnie concluded, triumphantly.

    "You genius son of a bitch, you," Wade said, clapping Ronnie on the shoulder.

    "So, here''s the plan: we finish up here, and then we go out into the woods to the south, far from where we were earlier today. Once it''s been long enough for us, and I mean the us of the past, to be out in the woods by Castle Rock, we can go back into town and start to establish separate alibis. Separate is ideal, because the more trustworthy sources we can implicate into our alibis, the better. The police might come looking for us, but, when they have our parents or family or whoever insisting that we''ve been with them all day, they''ll have no choice but to leave us be. Then, when this is all wrapped up, let''s say around 6:30¡ªwhich should be a couple hours after the ambush¡ªlet''s meet up at mine. Sound good?"

    The last of the paper towels were collected into a trash bag, which Wade slung over his shoulder.

    "Trash man is a good look for you," Shaun teased, prompting Wade to swing the bag at him as though it were a squishy flail. The boys laughed and sparred while Ronnie went to check that the front doors were locked. Logan took the moment of distraction to move in towards Parker.

    "When we split up later, I want to quickly go back to our earlier conversation. Can you come find me just after we split?" he asked in a low whisper. Parker nodded, watching Ronnie return from across the darkened office hallway. "Wherever we split up, I''ll walk away for about five minutes and then double back. Do the same," he said, before wandering off and pretending to inspect the counter for any black smudges of ash.

    "With no key," Ronnie said as he arrived back at the group, "we''ll have to leave the back door unlocked. I hope they don''t find that particularly suspicious."

    "I''m sure it''ll be fine," Logan said. "They''ll just think they forgot to lock it last night, no big deal. Everyone ready?"

    The boys did a final visual sweep, confirming that there was evidence of neither the ash nova nor their impromptu midnight cleaning service. Satisfied, they switched off the lights and made their way to the rear door.

    The summer air was hot with just a lingering touch of humidity. Gusts of wind rolled their way over the trees in the distance, suffusing the night with the occasional far-off rumble of sighing trees. Insects chirped and buzzed from alarmingly close by as the boys wound and wended their way from the vet''s office to the outskirts of town.

    "What about our bikes?" Shaun asked, breaking the night''s quiet.

    Ronnie stroked at his chin. "Good point," he said. "We parked them a short distance from the vet''s office, sure, but the police might spread out after we slip away¡­ probably good to move and hide them somehow."

    "I could do it invisibly," Shaun offered.

    "A great idea, right up until someone reports seeing a bike roll itself into the woods," Ronnie replied.

    "I could do it," Logan offered. "Visible, but my parents aren''t around, so I won''t be much for getting a sturdy alibi, anyways. I could stake out the spot, and as soon as the past-us shows up and drops off our bikes while charging at the vet''s office, I could move in and wheel them to better cover."

    Ronnie seemed without objections to the plan, so the group considered the matter settled. Logan noted that in the vacuum of Skinny''s absence, Ronnie had emerged as the de-facto authority central to the group''s planning, of course partly owing to his ring-boosted mind. It made sense, which is what also made it predictable. Logan knew he was rapidly approaching the second critical juncture in his detailed plans. It would require that Parker distrust the rest of the group, and achieving that was as simple as leading Parker to distrust Ronnie. The rest clicked in place by association alone.

    As they walked through the darkened woods, navigating by the dim and flickering glow of small lighters in-hand, they heard a distant howl that was soon joined by two others. A skittering of leaves nearby froze the boys in place. A squirrel, perhaps?

    Stillness and silence returned after a moment, and the boys continued their wandering. Finally, on some unspoken cue, they sat down at a small clearing and propped their backs up against the bordering trees.

    "I always hated sleeping out here without a tent," Wade said.

    "Sleeping?" Parker asked.

    "It''ll be a few hours yet before daybreak¡­ and we''ve got a full day ahead of us now. It might be good to get some rest while we can," said Ronnie.

    "Say no more," Shaun said, leaning his head back to the tree and closing his eyes. "Wake me when it''s go-time."

    Logan closed his eyes and tried to settle in. After his poor sleep the night previous, he knew that he should revel in the opportunity to catch a few hours before such a critical day. And yet, despite his reason, he found himself totally unable to sleep. Perhaps it was his anticipation at what was to come¡ªor was it more accurate to say excitement?¡ªor perhaps it was simply the lack of comforts out there in the woods against a stiff and gnarled tree. Either way, Logan did not sleep those remaining hours, and instead spent them fitfully imagining what was to come, and remembering the part of it that already had.

 Chapter 26 - The Sending

    Dawn crept over the woods with the urgency of a foraging tortoise, meandering its way through the trees and hills at a fittingly sleepy pace. Logan was first to stand up and begin stretching away the stiffness of the hours spent against the tree, and, as he did so, he eyed the still forms of the other boys as they rested. He realized then that he still had his weapon tucked away, and that he could simply attack right now and use his wakeful advantage to overtake the other boys. He only had six shots in the weapon, meaning he would need four kill shots (or, at least, disabling shots) out of six possible ones. Even lining up the first against an immobile, sleeping foe, that didn''t allow for much room for error on the other three¡­ and Wade slept with the Protectionizer on his person. How would I stealthily deal with that?

    Logan crept his way over to the place where Wade slept and looked to his hands, trying to see if the boy was currently clutching the small device. If not, there''s actually a chance here¡­

    Wade''s eyes flicked open and settled on the standing form of Logan overhead. He looked around and scratched at himself with an empty hand. "Morning already?" he said, stretching with a groan. The other boys began to rise as well.

    "Figured I''d wake you," Logan said. "Wanted to give us time to figure out our plan before we had to split."

    The boys settled on their respective plans for establishing their alibis. Parker planned to visit the station, looking for his mother. Other police officers would be able to vouch for his location. Ronnie was to visit his grandmother again, a very trustworthy source. Wade and Shaun were to go to the Perpetumart and shop for snacks. That was one part they particularly liked, as they figured it would be even better to have one of the Trent parents vouch for their alibi. Even if Jackson Trent Senior wasn''t at the store, at least Jackson''s boss would be able to vouch for them, and hopefully get Michelle off their case. Logan had to linger near the vet''s so he could be close enough to tend to the bikes, so his job was to set up at a coffee shop nearby and chat with the owner. That would hopefully establish that he''d had reason to be near the scene. Then, once he left the shop to move the bikes and the trap was sprung, he''d make his way to the police line and find Nora, ostensibly out of interest in the developing scene. She''d no doubt question him, where he''d be able to report on all the alibis of the other boys. A quick series of phone calls later, and they''d all be in the clear.

    "Anyone have any questions?" Ronnie asked as the group arrived to the edge of the woods. Ahead, they would split up as they moved for their separate destinations.

    "Yeah, I''ve got one," Wade said.

    "Is it about the plan?" Ronnie asked.

    "Nope," said Wade.

    Ronnie shook his head in amused frustration. "Well, team, we''ve got work to do. Stick with the plan and we''ll reconvene tonight. Be thinking of solutions for the time-traveling question in investigating Skinny''s absence. How many should we send back, and with which of the artifacts? Let''s debate it tonight and hopefully set off as soon as possible."

    The group nodded their assent, while Logan and Parker shared a moment of knowing eye contact.

    "Then let''s split off here¡­ see you guys tonight," Ronnie said.

    The boys wandered their separate ways, spreading off for their various tasks. Both Logan and Parker set a mental timer for about five minutes, and, once it elapsed, they both turned around and began heading back to the edge of the woods. While Logan made his solitary walk back to the woods, he used his Empathizer to charge up batteries of purple-pink and of deep blues, even including one of a flickering red. He tucked them away and then reveled in the calm preparedness the extraction left in its wake.

    As soon as Logan saw the other boy approaching, he summoned his best worried smile and waved him over. "Thanks for agreeing to chat," Logan said.

    "Sure, man. What''d you want to talk about?"

    "Well, it''s the Ronnie stuff. It''s silly, I know¡­ I shouldn''t be worried about this," he said. "But you can''t really help what you''re afraid of, right?"

    "Well, if anyone can," Parker said, "I think you''re the man."

    Logan smiled wanly and pulled the empathizer from his pocket, the rear terminal showing a purple-pink battery he''d left in the device. Parker needed to see Logan was genuinely worried¡­ it''d play better that way.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    "I know I could just pull the fear out, and, to an extent, I''ve been doing that," Logan said. "But sometimes I get thinking on stuff¡­ fear, while unpleasant, isn''t a bad thing, right? It keeps us away from dangerous spiders. It keeps us from walking up to tall ledges and from getting too cuddly with a venemous snake. Like, sometimes I feel like fear is our subconscious mind speaking up to keep us safe¡­ ignoring that alarm bell is like muting the fire alarm. Most of the time it rings, it''s a false alarm, but you don''t want it quiet when the flames are real."

    Parker nodded, waiting for his friend to get to his point.

    "What I''m getting at is this: after what Skinny told me, I''m worried about Ronnie. And today, he just came up with the perfect plan that splits most of us up invidually¡­ Remember his skill on the chessboard? I sometimes feel like he''s moving us all around like pieces on that board, playing some game we don''t even see. Like he''s gonna separate us, and then, well, I don''t know. It feels silly, I know¡­ but my subconscious is just throwing alarm bells left and right. You''re not feeling any of it, are you? Like, just tell me I''m crazy here and I can rest easy."

    Parker pursed his lips, remembering the fear he''d felt considering the boy when at Castle Rock. Those doubts¡ªof course planted by Logan¡ªwere like a seed, and his mind was damp soil in which they could grow and take deeper root. Now, that fear had begun to manifest as a deeper and darker dread as his mind turned it over again and again, amplifying the worry each time. Logan saw the real worry now on the boy''s face, and was immediately fascinated at the implications. Could negative emotions echo and amplify in the right kind of person? Does it do so in every person it''s injected into? He made a mental note for further testing later on.

    "I''ve felt it, too," Parker finally said. "Unease at Ronnie. I couldn''t vocalize it before, but you''re right. The chessmaster¡­ he could manipulate us so easily if he wanted to."

    "It feels vindicating to hear that," Logan said. "That I''m not the only one feeling this way."

    "But, well, what do we do about it?"

    "Here''s the thing. He has us split up today. We need to know if he''s a danger right now, or if I''m just overreacting. That''s why I say you should go back in time right now to follow Skinny¡­ see if Ronnie has anything to do with his disappearance. You trail him silently after he leaves my place, and then you can go crash in the shack for a couple days. You remember where it is, right?"

    Parker nodded.

    "Then, you come find me today and let me know what you found. If Ronnie''s involved, we''ll have all morning to stop him. Hell, at that point, maybe we even go to the police."

    Parker nodded again, this time with some hesitation.

    "It''ll work out okay," Logan said. "Look, here''s my plan."

    Logan flashed back to the night of the murder, that horrid music again filling his ears. Buzz. Rattle. Patter. Click. Buzz. Rattle. Patter. Click. In the screaming ringing silence after the gunshot echo faded, he''d checked the clock. What time had it been? He could still see the display. 9:50, it had said.

    Shaking himself back to the present, Logan continued. "Skinny came around my house about 10 p.m. and left around 10:30. My folks weren''t in, as you know. Anyways, there''s a clearing in the woods not too far from my house. Far enough for you to be able to arrive without the flash or noise spooking anyone, but still close enough to not put yourself out so far alone. I''m thinking you jump to land there at 10:15. That gives you ample time to creep towards my house, where you should be able to watch him leave. You stealthily follow him as he heads home. By his family''s account, it doesn''t seem likely he got home that night¡­ you should be able to see what happened."

    "Do you really think," Parker said, trailing off. He then found the courage again to continue his thought. "Do you really think a friend of ours could have hurt him like that?"

    Huh, I guess that one''s compassion. Buzz. Rattle. Patter. Click.

    "I hope to hell he couldn''t¡­ but maybe the ring changed him somehow," Logan continued. "Like the One Ring twisting Sm¨¦agol."

    "Like what?"

    "Oh, it''s a book thing. Not important. Look¡­ are you onboard with the plan? I hate that we even have to have this conversation¡­ but I just can''t shake the feeling."

    "Me neither, which is why I''m willing to do it. Where''s this clearing you mentioned?"

    <center>* * *</center>

    As they walked to the clearing, Logan realized that he, armed with a gun, was alone with Parker. I could just shoot him right now and be done with it, he thought. Then he frowned. Based on what had happened the night Skinny had died, he knew that he wouldn''t shoot Parker here and now. If he did, he risked creating a paradox. And so, Logan decided to shrug his shoulders and call his action timeline-forced. There was something somewhat liberating to the label¡­ the powerlessness he''d been grappling with suddenly became a scapegoat to pin his choices to. It took out the agency from his darker actions, meaning he didn''t even feel a stirring of guilt that he''d have had to pull from himself with the Empathizer. He wasn''t making this choice¡­ it had already been made, and he was simply moving through the motions.

    They arrived to the clearing, a small circle of patchy grass with a lone tree stump near the center. Logan led them both to the stump, standing near it so that Parker did as well. "You dial for 10:15?" Logan asked. "The night of the 14th."

    Parker nodded, double-checking the dial.

    "You know the plan. After spending the 15th at the shack, come find me here on the 16th. Even if there''s dire news, and Ronnie, well¡­ you can''t say anything sooner or you risk paradoxes. Understood?"

    "Yes, understood."

    "If it comes to it, I keep a fire ax in the cabin¡­ you can use it for protection, if you need."

    Parker again nodded. "Let''s hope it doesn''t come to that."

    "Agreed. Just¡­ take care of yourself out there," Logan said, offering a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

    "I know I will," Parker said. He hefted a stone from his pocket, tossing it briefly, before bringing it down against the watch face. And then, with a flash, he vanished from the morning of the 16th.

 Chapter 27 - The Photograph

    Ronnie found himself again standing before the cherry-red door. He knew he would have to knock loudly to be heard by either of the two hearing-impaired inhabitants of the home, so he chose a knock style somewhere near "police raid breach and clear." After a moment, he heard the wheezing cry of Phoebe as she made her way to the door, and Martha DeLange was only moments behind.

    "Ronnie!" she called, a warm smile on her face. "A pleasant surprise, as always!"

    They sat and again Ronnie waited as she prepared tea for the both of them. As she poured, she said "again, I am so sorry to hear about your friend. Still no news, right?"

    Ronnie shook his head. "No sign."

    "Well it''s just so upsetting, I tell you. How could they not know a thing about it? It''s like the boy just went poof! and vanished right into thin air," she said. "And then for them to just go and add on to the hurt by dragging you boys to the station like you were some kinds of suspects¡­ were they decent to you?"

    Ronnie nodded. "Nearly pleasant, even."

    "Nearly," Martha repeated, a hint of a youthful smile on her lips. Ronnie immediately remembered the photographs of his grandmother as a younger woman, and, in that smile, the gnarled old woman and the vibrant young one were momentarily bridged in time. Ronnie tried his best to hold on to that connection.

    "Tell me, dear, what did they ask you about?" Martha asked, raising her cup for a dainty sip.

    "About what you''d expect from a police interview where they''ve got nothing concrete," answered Ronnie. "They asked about where we''d been, what we''d been doing¡ª"

    "Alone, or with your friends?"

    "Alone, one at a time."

    She seemed incensed at that answer. "I ought to go to the station and lambaste them for that," she said. "What were they thinking, terrorizing you boys like that. You know, the Chief, that Pemberton¡­ I knew him when he was hardly your age. I could go give him a stern talking to."

    Ronnie chuckled. "Thanks for the offer, but I think that won''t be necessary. They''re as worried as we are, and were just running with the only connections they could find."

    "Still, that Clyde Pemberton¡­ he used to be such a model officer, only working with certainties. I sure hope the years haven''t made him paranoid¡­"

    <center>* * *</center>

    "Jesus Christ, Nora, you''re sounding as paranoid as the Trents." Clyde Pemberton eyed her critically, looking for obvious signs of stress. Her eyes weren''t particularly baggy or wide, nor was her appearance markedly disheveled. "What you and they are describing sounds absurd."

    "And yet, sir, it fits with the witness description at the Johnson''s General robbery¡­ I saw it myself."

    "Well, you didn''t see it, right? Isn''t that the problem with witnesses to something invisible?"

    "The door was kicked open by nobody!"

    "It could''ve been the wind."

    "And the Trents'' fight with the thing?"

    "A fiction for attention. I don''t know¡­ people manage to find the wildest reasons to lie."

    "Sir, this was something different. Please. Just let me run point on the sting they came up with."

    "I should be laughing you right on out of my office. You know that, right? What about that lineup? Good, traditional policework, the type that''s tried and true."

    "All due respect, sir, but you know that''s not likely to work with Trent missing. Anyone wearing masks might well have put on a voice¡­ when''s the last time a lineup has gotten us anywhere against a masked perp?" Nora asked.

    "There was that Oddkins fellow a few summers back," Coulter replied.

    "He had a prosthetic arm, and that was the major factor in a positive ID."

    "I know, I know I know¡­ but you know what I mean. Your story, frankly, is absurd, and I''m worrying the stress of this whole situation with your son''s involvement has you pushed past your breaking point."

    "I won''t lie, I am feeling the stress. I''m a mom, how could I not? But we have three eye-witnesses to something extraordinarily weird, one of those witnesses being police¡ªme¡ªwe''ve got the Trent connection, we''ve got the story of the clerk¡­ if all that isn''t enough to motivate the op, then I''ve got no clue what could have been."

    The chief frowned, eyes searching Nora''s face. Finally, with a stretch, he relented. "Fine, you can do your sting. But this goes on you, you got that? Anything goes wrong, or if anyone cries entrapment, or whatever surprises might wait down the line¡­ you''re taking responsibility for this op. Got it?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "One more thing, Campbell." Pemberton reached for a folder on his desk and pulled out a photo, which he then pushed it forwards to Nora.

    "When we were processing the girl from the general store robbery this morning, she was given her possessions back on transfer. She immediately noticed something strange with her bag." Pemberton pointed at a photo from evidence of her handbag. "See that wide black smudge there?"

    "Sure."

    "Yeah, well, she says she never had that thing before. On a hunch, I sent Gomez to the store to survey around, and he said he found a similar smudge of black on the floor near where Delacroix was apprehended."

    "What is it?"

    "Paint, it looks like. And it gets better. Forensics says there''s a partial palm print in the wide smudge on her bag."

    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    Nora raised her eyebrow.

    "Usable forensics," the Chief clarified. "Perp either touched a painted wall or spray painted something too close to crimetime. You can run your sting, but anyone you catch gets immediately printed. And, in the likely event your sting turns up empty, I''m putting it on you to start collecting prints elsewhere. Your boy and his friends first among ''em."

    Nora swallowed nervously and nodded.

    <center>* * *</center>

    "Do you think," Ronnie began, "we could take a look at more of those photographs again?"

    Martha''s face lit up. "Oh, of course!"

    "I''ve been thinking a lot lately on how most of them were total strangers to me¡­ family I knew nothing about. I''d like the chance to hear more of their stories."

    "Well, if nothing else, I am certainly a keeper of stories. Let me go grab the box and then we can take a look."

    In less than a minute, she returned to the sitting room, clear plastic box of albums in-hand. Ronnie could see a genuine eagerness to share the box''s contents. He watched as she opened the lid and began to unpack its contents gingerly. "It''s like taking a walk through the years," she said.

    "What a feeling that must be," Ronnie said, thinking of Parker''s watch. "If you could go back, but it was only a one-way ticket¡­ would you?"

    Martha fell silent as she continued unpacking the photos. She laid a book on her lap and pulled the vellum cover open with a delicate touch, smiling wanly at the scenes that greeted her on the first page. Ronnie was about to repeat the question, assuming she had simply not heard him. However, her silence was revealed to be deep consideration as she finally spoke up.

    "I love you and your mother, you know I do. And I have friends here¡­ Mrs. Jacobson down the road, and Kenny at the grocer''s. It''s hard to choose to say goodbye to folks like that and leave on a trip you won''t come back from."

    "How''s Kenny doing, by the way?"

    "Oh, he''s fine, right arm''s healed up faster than the doc expected. But what I was getting at is this: I''ve spread roots here, and I have plenty of reasons to stay. But, and here''s the important bit, a person tends to know when their era has passed. I''m yesterday''s edition¡ªlast year''s¡ªhell, last century''s, it feels like."

    She began to flip through the pages, eyes flitting across page to page among the scenes frozen in black and white. "These are my people¡ªwere my people¡ªbut now they''re just photos and I''m just the last one left over, waiting for the book to finally close. Truth be told, Ron, I''d go back. I think I would. I''d miss you dearly, and some parts of the life I''ve got here¡ªoh, and Phoebe would be coming with me, that''s a necessity¡ªbut these days hardly anyone comes to visit me. And it''s not your fault, I know you''re busy, and your mother is as well¡­ but I miss having loved ones close. These days, all I''ve got for comfort are memories, and I''m forgetting more and more each day. Once I''m gone, well, then they''ll all be gone too. I''m sorry, that got grim-sounding and sad out of nowhere." She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, forcing a smile back onto her face.

    "Share them with me?" Ronnie asked.

    "The photos?"

    "The memories," said Ronnie. "Let me guard some myself. Keep them close, and, maybe one day, when I''m as old as you are, I can pass those stories down some more. Keep them alive."

    She eyed him, surprised by the boy''s sudden interest in her life over the past few days. A cathartic smile then broke through, marked by something resembling gratitude, almost as though passing the stories on would lessen some burden she had carried many of these past lonely years. She began to pass him photographs, and, like the cracking of some great and ancient dam, the stories began to pour out and flooded the space between them.

    There were marriages and there were reunions, elopements and infidelity. There were tragedies: a young boy who died of an unknown illness in the night, and a train wreck that killed two distant relatives of Ronnie''s in 1937. "This is the last photo of them that we''ve got," Martha said. "Two weeks from now, they get on a train, and then that''s it. Lives cut short."

    She showed Ronnie photos of toddlers and of families and of homes and of large holiday dinners. "Michael, there, he had the most jovial laugh. Cancer got him, but he laughed that laugh of his right up until his final day, defiant as ever."

    She then showed him photos of children in a field, photos of a family at a parade, photos of a man in military uniform, photos of¡ª

    Ronnie stuck up a hand, pausing his grandmother''s recollections.

    "Who''s that one?" he asked, gesturing at a photo. The bald man in the picture was pushing a wheelchair, a stern look on his face as he looked straight at the camera.

    "That''s your great-uncle Horace, actually, and a relatively recent photo at that. Can''t be more than ten years old."

    "Do you have more photos of him? I want to know more about him," Ronnie asked, brow furrowed. There was something undeniably familiar about the face¡­ he racked his memories for the connection. His expanded mind now seemed to retain information better, including an improved memory, but it was still hard to sift through the sheer volume of information that he now absorbed.

    "Wait, I remember now," Ronnie said. "I could''ve sworn I saw him at the search for Skinny. When we went out into the woods. Is he around here?"

    Martha frowned. "No, dear, he lives in New York. He would''ve certainly stopped in to say hello if he was in town¡­ but let me see what else I can find of him."

    She rummaged through the box for particular albums and loose photos. She then set them out on the glass table in a vague grid and began to select certain ones. "These are the most recent," she said, handing them to Ronnie. He held one up to the light and scrutinized it closely. It wasn''t a perfect match, but the man''s resemblance to what he remembered was uncanny. Ronnie then lowered the photo and started looking through the wider grid. Many of the photographs featured Horace gripping the handles of a rickety wheelchair, inside which sat a scarred, old man with crooked posture and a major gash along the face and neck that twisted his look to a permanent rictus of pain.

    "That man in the chair, is he family too?"

    Martha picked up another photo from the table and turned it over, reading the date on the photo''s back. "Well, in a way, I suppose. Name was Jim Duncan, so not a DeLange by blood, but he was adopted by the family. Your great-great-great-grandfather found him on his land when Jim was a young man, savaged by a bear attack or something and bleeding to death. They took him in and cared for him, but his wounds were real grim, as you can see in the photos. Anyways, always a religious lot, they prayed to God every day that the boy would pull through, and, by some miracle, he did. When he came to, he didn''t remember how he''d gotten onto the DeLange land, or even where¡ªor who¡ªhis family was. Your great-great-great-grandfather saw it as providence he''d been on a walk that day to find the boy, and so he adopted him to the DeLange family."

    Ronnie pawed his way through the photos, focusing on the strange pair. Why was Horace DeLange in town? Despite his grandmother''s doubts he was here, Ronnie was becoming increasingly certain with each successive photo. It was the same brow line, the same default frown held on that hard face. And the twisted old man in the chair, why was Ronnie so drawn to him? There was some pattern he felt he was missing, a big something his subconscious was screaming at him to recognize. "Do you have more photos of Jim?"

    "He was ever the misanthrope," Martha replied. "Wasn''t around usually when most pictures were taken¡­ hated his own image. I''m sure I''ve got some more, though¡­ let me see if I can find any."

    One by one, she selected additional photos from the bin and began laying them on the table. These photos were older and faded, browning deeply as the contrast sapped away with age. Even still, Ronnie''s stomach twisted in tighter and tighter knots as each successive photo was set on the table.

    "Here''s one of him at fifty," Martha said. She dealt the photo onto the table with a flick. "Oh, and here''s one at probably forty-five." Flick. "This one looks like thirties." Flick. "I think this one is mid-twenties." Flick.

    To Ronnie, the world seemed to move in slow motion. The teacup that had formerly been in his hand sailed gracefully to the floor, arcs of airborne tea streaking downwards in pursuit. When the cup kissed the wooden floor, shattering shards of porcelain danced outwards in twisting patterns. He saw his grandmother get up, mouth gasping. He saw the dog begin to bark, excited by the commotion. He felt himself sink back in his chair, but the world felt very, very distant. "No," is all he managed to stammer, his mind swimming. "No."

 Cahpter 28 - The Arrival

    It was the night of the fourteenth of July, 1981.

    Six gunshots rang out in the darkness, winding their way across the hills and valleys deep under night''s black cloak. The sounds'' roar gradually diminished until they ceased entirely, the silence returning as crickets resumed their nightly song. In the small shed far off in the woods, that horrible orchestra in four parts played for the first time to Logan''s reeling ears. Buzz. Patter. Rattle. Click. He let out a tremendous sigh that shook his entire frame and managed to still the twitching finger that rested fitfully on the trigger. He set the revolver on the table and only then did the full-body tremors begin. They started in his fingers and hands, but soon they swept down his spine through his back and abdomen to his legs and torso, shaking him in violent fits of adrenaline. As he regained control, he deliberately refused to look at the slumped form before him, knowing that Skinny would not yet be dead and also knowing he would be utterly unable to meet the boy''s gaze. Logan wouldn''t hold him while he went or try to offer any words to ease his passing. After all¡­ what would be the point?

    He glanced at the small clock in the corner of the room, noting the time. 9:50.

    "I''m late," he muttered to himself, reaching back for the gun. Remembering then that the cylinder was empty, he set it back down on the table and began to move through the shed, searching. He found the fire ax hanging on the wall and gripped its handle, hefting its weight about in the air. Finding it satisfactory, he moved to the door and pushed it open with the ax''s handle, pausing for a moment at the threshhold. Should I look back? Is there anything at all I can say? Before his mind could answer, his feet were in motion. He stepped out into the cool night and shut the door behind him, locking the grisly scene away. He set his back against the door and tried to catch his breath, feeling a rising dread at what work he knew waited ahead. He felt the momentary doubt of someone who''s already taken the plunge and was now in free-fall. No point resisting at this point¡­ best to just let gravity and momentum take over. Follow the plan. Setting away from the door, he staggered for a moment, wiping at his eye. He then resumed his brisk pace, ax in hand. He had a very specific appointment to make.

    An owl''s hoot overhead reminded him that he wasn''t the only nocturnal animal in these deep woods¡­ and yet, he didn''t feel afraid. Gripping the ax tightly in his right hand, he felt damn-near invincible. His left aimed a flashlight about in the dark, searching out landmarks and distinctive markers so he could make his way in the black nearly entirely on auto-pilot. His mind was a cinema screen, and the picture of the night was Betrayal in the Shack in the Woods, starring Jackson Trent Junior and Logan Kessler. He watched that picture over and over again, every detail leaping to cruel life as he re-lived it over and over still. He tried to command his mind into silence, to break the incessant recollection, but it seemed to ignore his efforts to corral it in. He paused for a moment and charged a battery with the Empathizer, immediately feeling more in-control. He then looked around, surprised. Somehow, he''d arrived at his destination: a small clearing not particularly far from his house. He checked his watch: 10:09. Shit. I missed it, he thought, before laughing at himself.

    I don''t have to have missed it¡­ Let''s update the plan¡ªwell, I guess I already did. 10:15 will work. He removed a notebook from his pocket and wrote down that number, locking it into a tangible record for his own use later on. Memory wouldn''t be trustworthy enough for something so important¡­

    Swinging his flashlight left and right, he found the stump at the center of the clearing. He tried his best to visualize it in the daylight, and imagined which direction they might approach from. I''ll stand him here, he thought, noting a spot near the stump. Orient him that way.

    Logan then stood in position a single foot behind the space he''d noted and tested the ax''s weight with a few practice swings. It was unexpectedly heavy when swinging at full extension. I''ll have to go for short-arm swings to maintain control of the thing. He then checked his watch. 10:11. Shit, this was going slowly.

    Doubts began to creep into Logan''s mind, as did deep pangs of a soul-shaking guilt. Simultaneously, tongues of the flames of self-loathing began to lick upwards from his gut, and Logan felt momentarily driven to drop the ax to the ground. One quick use of the Empathizer later and he again had the weapon in hand, waiting. One down tonight, one more to go. One down, just one to go. This''ll be easy¡­ the hard stuff is past you. No need to lie this time. No need to look ok when you aren''t. Just something quick, all over in an instant. You can do this.

    He checked his watch again. 10:14. He took a step backwards and breathed in deeply. He then frowned and took another three steps backwards, and then another two. Wouldn''t want to be too close. He then wondered what might happen if he stood precisely in the arrival zone¡­ an experiment for another time. He looked at the empty air in front of him and began to tremble slightly in anticipation. He raised his left arm and positioned it across his face, covering his eyes. He then closed them for good measure.

    10:15. Even with his eyes buried into his arm and his eyelids closed, Logan saw a sudden burst of light. The shockwave of sound arrived in that same precise moment, rattling him, and that sound was the starting gun to Logan''s now-beginning sprint forwards. He opened his eyes and was distressed to see that his night vision was momentarily disrupted, but Parker''s would be as well. Logan still had surprise, and he had to press that advantage. As he surged forwards, the arm in front of his eyes levered downwards to join the right on the handle of the ax, which he then swung downwards in an overhead chop. He couldn''t see the boy, but the sudden and sharp resistance to the swing told him all that he needed to know.

    Parker did not scream, nor did he fight back. He instead immediately began to leer to the left, while Logan''s momentum continued to carry him forwards. Parker''s motion pulled the ax¡ªnow embedded into his shoulder¡ªout of Logan''s grip. He twisted, trying to grip the handle again, and spilled over sideways in the process. Parker began to flee the clearing, a hand on the ax head to stabilize it as he ran. Logan scrambled to his feet and gave chase.

    Both ran only by the dim light of the moon overhead, which did little to illuminate the path beneath the canopy of trees overhead. Logan felt the sting of thorns and branches he ran through that he could not see. He nearly tripped twice on raised roots along the floor, and, in his stumbling, he lost direct sight of the fleeing boy. A sudden and loud tumbling noise just ahead as Parker tripped set Logan back on the hunt, and he closed the distance to the downed boy quickly.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Logan ran to him and found the grip of the ax, wrenching it free. He then brought it down in a reckless swing, but Parker rolled off to the right as the ax sailed downwards. The blade contacted a stone on the ground and set out a spark, a momentary dot of light in their blackened brawl. Logan swiped the ax towards where Parker had been momentarily illuminated by the spark, and felt the slightest resistance of a glancing slash. "Wait," the wounded boy finally said, but Logan couldn''t and wouldn''t be talked down.

    Parker rolled to his feet and took off in a crouching run, trying to keep himself low to the ground, perhaps as though to hide in the dark. It would''ve been a decent approach, but Logan could hear the boy''s panting breaths and unsteady footsteps. He chased and swung at the sound, his ax striking a tree at a shallow angle and bouncing off. His wrist cried out in protest, but he pushed on, closing in again on the sound and swinging. He scored a partial hit, again emedding the ax. He pulled it free and swung once more, this time missing and finding himself blindsided by a tackle from the wounded boy in the dark. They both spilled over backwards, Logan barely managing to keep the blade in hand. He swung it overhead blindly, the blade striking into empty rock. A kick in the dark struck Logan''s side. He instinctively curled in, and, as he did so, he swiped the blade at the source of the kick. Another shallow hit, slicing through clothing and continuing on barely impeded.

    A rock then struck Logan in the chest, hurled from the dark. A second was thrown a moment later, each impact seeming to jolt Logan''s entire body and set his teeth rattling against each other. He charged at the direction he heard Parker''s breathing and collided into the boy, dropping the ax as both locked into a grapple. Logan pushed, but Parker pushed back fiercely, gaining the upper hand and now charging forwards as Logan was taken backwards. The two collided into a tree, Logan''s back smashing into it as Parker drove him against it. The breath shot from Logan''s body, and he was relatively sure a knot lower on the tree had punctured him somewhere on the back. A major bruise, at the very least.

    Logan then felt Parker''s hands close around his neck. Logan grasped at Parker wildly, but the larger boy was undeniably stronger. Logan reached up over his head and found a loose branch, which he snapped off and used to strike Parker''s head. The boy''s grip loosened, and Logan managed to wrench himself free and slip underneath Parker''s pressing weight. As he retreated backwards, Logan saw the ax barely illuminated in a gap between the trees, as though the night itself had wanted Logan to regain his weapon. He recovered the ax and pushed forwards, swinging. He saw Parker''s right hand manipulating the watch on his left, and knew that the entire operation could be compromised if he didn''t close right now. His first swing barely slashed the boy''s left arm, but Parker continued twisting the dial. The second swing struck the right arm more solidly, yanking it aside as the blade embedded in his forearm. Logan pulled it back and scored two deep gashes to the face, causing Parker to drop to his knees. How much easier this would''ve been if I''d saved a couple rounds in the revolver''s chamber, he thought. But it seemed most of the fight had gone out of Parker now. He tried to twist the dial on his watch once more, but his fingers were clumsy and numb with the deep gashes in his arm. His left began to hang looser and looser. Best to end this quickly.

    Logan took another overhead swing, striking the boy in the neck. He pulled the blade out and swung once more, striking the boy''s left arm. He hit it with such speed that Parker''s arm jerked back and struck the tree to his back¡ª

    and a bright flash blinded Logan as a thunderous boom shook the dark woods once again. Logan fell over backwards, stunned. A bright afterimage of the flash danced across his vision, but, as his night vision slowly returned, he saw that the tree in front of him had no bloodied, bleeding boy propped against it¡­ Logan was alone in the woods.

    "Shit, shit, shit!" he cried out into the dark, feeling his plan unraveling before his eyes. "Shit!" He rummaged into his backpack and pulled the flashlight back out, and he used it to look around the area, searching for a blood trail or some sign that Parker hadn''t done what he''d very very obviously just done. If he''d stumbled away, Logan could catch him. But if he fled backwards into time¡­

    Logan felt the black bile of fear begin to rise. He felt revulsion, and he felt hate, and he felt guilt at the murder of Skinny that would turn out to amount to nothing in the light of his failure. He pulled these out with the Empathizer, and then he pulled out yet a second round, so deep as his revulsion was. But, finally, in the cool emptiness left in the device''s wake, he pointed the flashlight back at the tree as he gathered his wits. Unexpectedly, the light caught. There was something there, against the base of the tree.

    He walked in, and his breath caught in his throat: it was yet another gift from the night, a miracle if Logan had truly ever seen one. Along the ground ran a gnarled root of the tree. Underneath one root, partly obscured by the thing and thus undisturbed for dozens of years, was something metal. Something familiar.

    Logan leaned in and laughed. Underneath a root of the very tree Parker had been leaning against was a watch, and one that Logan immediately recognized as Parker''s. He hefted the ax with a jolly grin and began to swing, chopping at the roots as the stifling summer wind began to rise.

    * * *

    The flash and its accompanying crackle receded into night, leaving Parker slumped breathlessly against the sapling. His body burned and it shivered; everything ached, and felt as though he were submerged deep in molasses. Stinging pains ran up his neck and down his back. He wanted to wince, to grip at the pain, but his legs shouted out painful protest when he tried to stir.

    In the moonlight filtering through the canopy, he''d seen glimpses of his attacker¡­ he pushed that out of his mind. Survival first, thinking later. He knew at once where he was, but the when was the question of deeper concern. He lifted his left wrist to his face to read the watch dial¡ªor, at least, he tried to move his left arm. He found it refused to move outright. In fact, beyond the searing pain and sensation of warmth bleeding outwards from a gash in his left shoulder, he didn''t feel his left arm much at all.

    He reached over his body with his right arm and gripped the left. It was a bizarre sensation, to be moving the dead weight of one''s own body when all sensation fled¡­ it sent a chill down Parker''s spine. His arm flopped about pathetically, listing at such an angle that Parker still couldn''t read the watch dial. He tried to sit up, but found that he still couldn''t manage anything better than a slumping lean against the tree. His face now stung acutely, and blood dribbled heavily onto his chin and dripped to his body below. Biting back the frustration, Parker set his left arm down and then probed with his right arm for the watch''s release latch. After a protracted struggle, he detached the thing and hoisted it towards his face, scowling at the dark. In the barely present moonlight, he saw that the watch face was smeared opaque with blood. He wiped it against his chest and tried again, finding it even bloodier this time. With a shriek of frustration, he rubbed the watch against the mud and loose leaves along the floor. He then pulled it back and stared at it, eyes searching for any reflection of the light¡­ he finally saw the date on the clock face, and with the shock of his discovery, the shock of his wounds caught up all at once and pulled him down, down twisting and falling into a black and dreamless void.

 Chapter 29 - The Time Traveler

    It was the morning of the fifteenth of July, 1901.

    "He isn''t dead," said Charles DeLange, bending over the boy. "Still breathing shallowly."

    "My goodness, Charles. Do you think it was bears?" asked Maude DeLange, a hand extended over her mouth, which held agape with shock. "And his dress is so strange. He can''t be from around here," she remarked. She watched as Charles stripped off his jacket and shirt, tossing the bundle to her. "What''s this about?"

    "Wouldn''t want any stains," Charles said, reaching down for the boy. "Some kind of sled would be ideal, but we''ll work with our options." He picked up the boy and slung him over his shoulder, noting immediately the slow trickle of blood that began to run down his bare chest. "We need to get him treatment immediately or he won''t last long. I''m going to run back to the house. Can you run for the doctor, dear?"

    Maude nodded.

    "Tell him the boy''s lost a lot of blood. I''ll be praying for him¡­ I advise you do the same."

    As the two fled the blood-stained sapling in the summer woods, neither noticed the metal object that rested just beyond where the boy''s outstretched arm had been¡­ the thing''s face was mottled with blood and mud, and already the morning breeze had sent a leaf or two atop it to partly cover its shiny surface. It would sit there, alone, as the sapling near it grew larger and sturdier, until eventually a root would pass over it and grip it in place to the floor. Wild animals would find it and sniff it, but never disturb it. Trees would sprout up and die around it, lives beginning and ending near it¡ªand there it would sit for nearly a lifetime, until finally a wild animal of a different sort discovered it in the glow of a handheld light.

    <center>* * *</center>

    It was the nineteenth of August, 1901.

    Infection had quickly set in, and hopes had fallen. Then came the fevers, and the outlook only worsened. Maude was often by Parker''s bedside, changing the sheets and cleaning his wounds and patting his forehead with damp cloths. She brought out strange folk remedies from her native country of Germany, teas of peppermint and ginger. She spoke soft prayers in her mother tongue and English, sometimes seeming to switch between the two in the same breath. In this period of time, Parker swam in and out of awareness, almost feeling like a man drowning whose head continually bobbed up above the water before plunging back in below the churning surface. He watched as the strange folks in their old-fashioned dress spoke at him, but their words simply didn''t register. Pain racked his body, and his limbs tingled maddeningly. He couldn''t move very well, and each breath was a battle, as though his chest weighed a hundred pounds just to lift for a single struggling gasp. Gradually, though, this weight began to evaporate away, and the attention-stealing searing pains started to dwindle away to a background throbbing. Words began to come through. He learned the names of Charles and Maude. He learned the way their house creaked in the night. He occasionally saw children peeking in from the door, and soon learned their names were Ben and Muriel. They seemed to be about 11 or 12, dressed in dusty formalwear.

    Day by day, more of Parker''s strength and awareness returned. The doctors remarked that Parker''s recovery was nothing short of miraculous. Whether that was meant as a medical miracle or religious miracle was unclear, but Charles and Maude certainly chose to interpret it as the latter. They thanked God profusely for delivering Parker from harm, and for setting them on the path to find him, and Maude''s prayers only became more and more frequent with each passing day. Parker wanted to thank her, but his throat burned white-hot and his jaw refused to move. His cheeks felt as though they''d split each time he opened them, and when he tried, she''d rush in and place a hand on his forehead, saying "shhh, shhh. Don''t speak, your cheeks and throat still need time to heal." And so, quiet he''d remained.

    It was the first of November, 1901.

    Parker sat upright in bed and sipped at his stew. He had managed to dress himself today, a first since his arrival to the home. Over the past few months, his mind had recovered fully, but his body lagged frustratingly behind. His legs refused to move, due to a spinal injury he''d suffered, and the doctor wasn''t sure if he''d ever walk again. His left arm was partially paralyzed, but he found he could still move it through a very limited range of motion, though doing so brought out painful protest from his shoulder. His throat had largely recovered from its slash, but Parker''s voice was permanently ruined¡­ speaking was a rough and guttural thing, hardly distinguishable from a pained burp. He thus spoke as little as possible, and so the DeLanges had been kind enough to place a chalkboard next to his bedside in easy reach from his seated position.

    Once he could write, the questions began. "Where are you from? What is your name? Where is your family?" For all of these, he gave the easiest answer that could be given: I don''t know, he wrote, and with each successive question, he underlined those same three words yet again. He didn''t actually have amnesia, but given his condition, it would be an easier pill for them to swallow than "I come from the future year 1981!"

    Parker had had ample time to think on his situation, and how utterly trapped he was. He couldn''t go forwards, and he didn''t even have the watch anymore. It was somewhere out in the woods, and, truth be told, it was no longer any use to him at all. I guess this is what I get for playing with fire¡­ Is it all that shocking that I got burned?

    He''d also had time to think on the reason he now sat where he sat in his current condition¡­ for the first weeks, he''d wanted to deny what he''d sworn he''d seen, what he''d sworn he''d felt. Could Logan have done this? Parker knew that he could never attack a friend¡ªeven a former friend¡ªso savagely, but what about a person who could choose to feel or not feel at will? Such questions hurt worse than the wounds; in time, as the pain of injuries further faded, the agony of betrayal was what would keep Parker up through clammy nights.

    Charles and Maude would ask every day if he remembered anything new¡­ and he could tell that every "no" set their spirits lower and lower. They were singularly dedicated in Parker''s recovery, but he needed to give them something to hold on to¡­ and so, he chose a name: Jim Duncan. It was a choice that surprised even Parker when he said it aloud, as it was the first kernel of a plan that began to form deep in the now-crippled boy''s mind.

    It was the third of March, 1916.

    Years passed, and Parker''s ''memory'' never recovered. The DeLange family, which had once been eager to find Parker''s home and family, instead resolved themselves to simply adopt the boy and give him as good a life as the one he''d forgotten. They were generous folks, and Parker quickly grew to love and respect them for the selfless caretakers that they were. Charles could be quite strict, and Maude was hopelessly naive in many things¡ªand both displayed an alarming amount of ignorance to the world, but Parker supposed that was typical of the times¡ªand yet, they were willing to overlook Parker''s inability to walk and speak. Parker supposed he could overlook their faults in turn.

    Parker, under the name of Jim Duncan, worked the family''s accounting books, spending many of his afternoons hunched over a desk scribbling at paper until his hands were stained a deep blue. His adopted brother Ben had grown from feisty child to cocksure young adult before his very eyes, and Parker supposed that even he must''ve changed, though it was always harder to see inconstancy in the self. Soon, a gorgeous red-haired woman from Virginia had entered the picture. Her name was Rita, and she gravitated towards the arrogant young huntsman in a way that stirred a certain jealousy in Parker. Nobody had ever looked at him with such desire, and Parker doubted anyone ever would.

    Within the year, Ben married Rita and had a child on the way. On the day their son was born, Muriel¡ªParker''s adopted sister¡ªwheeled his creaking chair through the snow to the midwives and they placed the newborn baby in Parker''s arms. Horace, they had named him. "Isn''t he beautiful?" Rita asked. Jim Duncan, the cripple in the wheelchair, nodded his head, though it set searing pain rippling through the scars in his face and neck. In that moment, Parker realized he had spent nearly as long in the ''past'' as he had in the ''present.'' He would soon be more a resident of this time than the far-off memory that was the 1970s and 1980s.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    He looked into the wide eyes of the baby, a true denizen of the times, and touched his face. If you can live through these decades, then maybe I can, too, Parker thought. He smiled his best, mangled smile, an expression he so rarely wore of late. The baby began to cry.

    It was the twelfth of September, 1928.

    It was a celebration of Maude DeLange''s birthday, and relatives from all over the state traveled to celebrate. Family gatherings at the DeLange estate were always Parker''s brightest days, as they were the only days he truly felt seen. Out in the city, people looked away from the scarred cripple in the wheelchair. With every parent covering their child''s eyes or every person looking away from Parker''s gaze as though terrified to make eye contact, Parker felt more and more like the monster they thought he was. Jim Duncan was the cripple, the wretch, and on Parker''s lowest days he began to associate himself more with that newer name than the old. Who even was Parker Cambell in a year many decades before he was born?

    At family gatherings, he wasn''t beloved like most other members of the family¡ªParker was an outsider to the family in truth¡ªbut there, he was at least accepted. Cousins would chat idly with him, waiting patiently for Jim to write out his answers or shake his head. The children would walk up and ask questions, always variations on a theme:

    "How big was the bear that got you?"

    "Does it hurt even when you''re sleeping?"

    "Uncle Jim, my pa says it wasn''t a bear that got you but was a mountain cat instead. Who''s right?"

    "How come you don''t remember stuff, Uncle Jim?"

    Only Horace, already mature for a twelve-year-old, seemed to resist the call to ask questions about his injuries. He''d instead ask about the accounting work, and about Charles and Maude, whom Parker still lived with. With Horace, Parker felt more and more like Parker. He took a liking to the boy relatively quickly.

    Later in the evening, Parker watched from the porch as young Horace slung a rifle over his shoulder, accompanying Charles and other men of the household to hunt venison for tonight''s big meal. He wished he could go out hunting with them, that he could stand over young Horace and tousle his hair and help him aim his rifle like Ben was doing right now. Horace was the right age for Parker''s plans¡­ would he unpack his burden onto this small and innocent child? Would he embroil the boy in a situation fraught with danger, saddling him with a dilemma that left him torn him between familial obligation and moral obligation?

    I''m not even true family, Parker thought. He decided that he could wait to make that judgment call. If there was one thing Parker had in excess, it was time¡­ more than fifty years of it, to be precise.

    <center>* * *</center>

    It was the sixteenth of September, 1948.

    Horace, now 32, pushed the wheelchair along the leaf-strewn dirt trail, keeping to the parts that were the flattest and free of stubborn roots. The two were chatting about the end of the Second World War, an event whose ripples were still traveling circles around the world. "Don''t you think it''s only a matter of time before other countries use atomic bombs against us?"

    Chatting with Jim while out and about was no easy feat, especially because nodding brought the man a great deal of pain, but the two had arranged a system. He watched as Jim extended his good arm to the right: no.

    "But why not? It worked well enough for us, making that a pretty great example to follow."

    Jim stuck out his arm to the left: yes. He then waved his hand around, as though writing. Horace stopped pushing the wheelchair and waited as Jim pulled the pen from his pocket and began to scribble on the notebook in his lap. Mutually-assured destruction, he wrote.

    "What''s that?"

    The world saw how well the bombs worked¡­ soon, everyone will have atomic weapons. Once the world has enough stockpiled to kill <u>everyone</u>, they''ll be too afraid to push the button. Nobody would shoot in a room where everybody has a gun.

    Horace nodded, stroking his chin. He wasn''t sure how thoroughly he agreed, but Jim had proven himself the wiser of the two time and time again. Horace felt more certain every day that he was the only person in his whole family to truly know this man in the wheelchair¡­ there was a depth here, and a wisdom latent that besoke an eerily clear image of the world and its workings. Jim had somehow known that the Japanese would attack the U.S. and pull it into war. He''d mentioned horrible atrocities in Europe before the press even ran the stories. On any topic Horace could think of, it seemed Jim already knew several years'' worth of study beyond what Horace did. Perhaps the crippled man had ample time to read?

    Their discussions of politics and philosophy became a favorite pastime for Horace, every day tackling some new and challenging topic. Jim was as progressive as progressive gets, arguing fiercely for ideas that seemed strange to Horace. He wondered if somewhere out there, a family was missing and mourning the loss of this genius man¡­ the two could even pass Jim''s family on the trail, and nobody would know. Jim, because of his amnesia, and them, because who could see a lost child in this scarred older man?

    "I don''t know if I tell you this enough," Horace said, "but I do truly enjoy our chats like these. You''ve got a wisdom to you that I wish the rest of the family could see."

    He watched the old man frown and stick his arm out to the right: no. He waved his hand in a circle, the signal to continue wheeling forwards. And as they made their way back onto the bumpy forest trail, he watched as Jim tried¡ªand failed¡ªto subtly wipe a tear from the one eye that could still cry.

    It was the fourth of May, 1973.

    Horace pushed the wheelchair from the theater, mind racing. He and Jim had just watched the newest Eastwood release, High Plains Drifter, and what had been a relatively normal cowboy flick¡ªalbeit one with a strange coicidence of names at the beginning¡ªhad ended with an unexpected gut punch. With an umbrella for the rain, he helped the old and frail man into his car, a sporty thing he''d driven all the way down from New York for his visit to Jim and the rest of the younger DeLanges. Once Jim was settled in the passenger seat and Horace had climbed into the driver''s, his hand hovered over the ignition. "We need to talk," Horace said. The old man remained silent and unreadable. He didn''t shake his head, nor did he put up a hand towards no in protest¡­ he just sat there, in the pattering of the rain overhead, waiting.

    This particular movie had been Jim''s choice, and the weight of what that might mean was beginning to settle on Horace. In the movie, a mysterious and unnamed cowboy played by Clint Eastwood enters town. He has dreams where a federal marshal¡ªcoincidentally named Jim Duncan¡ªwas whipped to death in the street. The audience soon discovers that the townsfolk were in on a conspiracy to kill the departed marshal. Eastwood''s character plunges the town into chaos and rides out as the city burns. There, as he''s leaving, a man tending a grave asks for his name. Eastwood responds that he already knows it: Jim Duncan, back from the grave like a revenant to get revenge on those who had wronged him.

    There, in his car with the old cripple seated to his right, Horace began to feel dots connecting that struck an uneasy chord deep within. The name on its own was a wild coincidence, but that seemed only the tip of the iceberg. There was the real Jim Duncan''s unexplained injuries, that sense of him clawing his way back from death''s door like a revenant all his own. There was the man''s uncanny certainty to the world''s uncertainties, that sense that he somehow always knew what came next. At first, Horace had thought the man simply a genius who could read the world as plainly as Horace might read a handwritten note. In time, Horace began to realize that Jim was somehow¡ªin a way that shook his own theology¡ªmore of a prophet, always right when he''d had no business knowing things with such certainty. Horace frowned, recalling back to how Jim had called every single presidential election before it settled and most nearly every major military campaign. Horace was relatively certain he''d used the phrase ''mutually-assured destruction'' decades before the political scientists and journalists first uttered that dread phrase to describe the mounting Cold War, and hell, Jim had been right about the whole Cold War thing, too.

    "You knew that Eastwood''s character was named Jim Duncan before we saw this movie, didn''t you?"

    He sat in silence for a moment before extending his arm to the left. Yes.

    "Had you seen this one already?" Horace asked.

    He extended a hand to the right. No. And then, he extended a hand to the left. Yes. He held up one finger, as though to say wait, and then he opened the glove box. He removed the paper and pen within and started writing. In his old age, arthritis began to set in to the man''s good wrist, and Horace could tell that the writing brought him great pain.

    Saw movie years ago, he wrote.

    "But it just released," Horace said. "Last month, I think."

    Jim''s lips formed into a wan smile.

    Do you want to learn my past? Jim wrote, hand shaking from the pain and exertion¡ªor was it anticipation? Nervousness?

    "Before your accident?" Horace asked, searching through Jim''s eyes for some sort of confirmation. "Everyone does."

    With a trembling palm, he drew a line crossing through the word past and wrote ''future'' just above, so that the question now read Do you want to learn my future?

    Horace frowned, confused. He momentarily thought that the man was beginning to lose it in his old age, but he knew that whipcrack wit was still burning behind his searching eyes. Not crazy, merely cryptic¡­ same as always, Horace thought.

    "I don''t understand," he said aloud, hoping for clarification. He watched as his adopted uncle''s hand began to scratch its way across the page.

    I''ll tell you of something that happened 70 years ago, and something that happens 8 years from now. The hand then scratched a second line below. But if I tell you, I''ll need a great favor of you. He thought for a moment, before adding a third line. A great and terrible favor.

    Horace swallowed, reading the note. "What kind of favor?" he asked, his throat suddenly feeling all-too-dry and stiff.

    A hunt, Jim wrote.

    A hunt for the bear that got me.

 Chapter 30 - Promises Kept

    Horace,

    This shall be the final and most detailed of my letters, to be delivered after my death by Mr. Carlsburg of Raleigh, North Carolina. I have spent most of my life wearing the face and name of Jim Duncan, and that is the name I intend to wear to my death and have written upon my tombstone. However, I beseech you to remember the promise you made to me that night after the movies. Remember well your vow to avenge the murder of the part of me that once bore another name.

    On the pages that follow, I will include physical descriptions of myself in my youth and that of my associates. I will include addresses of residence for those I can remember, but these 7 decades have obscured many of the details. Once detail that I am certain of, however, is the timeframe: July 16th, 1981. I held onto this date and repeated it to myself as nearly a mantra in my desperate recovery in your grandparents'' guest bedroom. That was the last day I spent in what was formerly my present before it became the distant future.

    As I have explained, it is dangerous to meddle in the current of time. One action so simple as throwing a stone, could reroute the very coursing river of history to flood a fertile plain and drown the herds that graze. And then, there is the terrifying notion of paradoxes to consider. We''ve discussed these at-length, so I trust that you know what is at stake. You absolutely cannot interfere with events that lead to my banishment to 1901. It is for this reason that you must remain unseen until the late afternoon of July 16th, 1981. There will be a police ambush sprung at Best Friends Veterinary Office. At that moment, I leap back in time a single day, and from that point in the past, I travel back an additional few days and finally to the year 1901. Once that vet sting operation is triggered, you may consider yourself ''activated.'' From that point, on, time is of the essence, as your quarry will only gain in strength.

    After the ambush, he will be near the vet''s office, preparing to move our bicycles from a hiding place beneath a large tree. I cannot remember precisely where it was, but I trust that you will be able to locate it. Logan Kessler is to be considered armed and very dangerous. In light of him attacking me, I assume that he also attacked my friend Jackson Trent and likely has his device, which permits him to read minds. Again, these devices will be detailed at length in the pages that follow. Be advised that Logan may be able to read your intentions. You will need to strike without hesitation.

    I know that you may find what I ask¡­ theologically challenging. The Lord once commanded "Thou shalt not kill," and I ask you now to do precisely that. And yet, as I have said before, I remind you to recall the winter of ''47, where the aggressive grizzly terrorized the woods near your grandparents'' cabin. Remember the responsibility that fell on your shoulders as you joined the hunting party, tracking, trapping, and neutralizing the threat it posed. It is no sin to kill a rabid and dangerous wild animal¡­ and make no mistake, Logan Kessler is more aligned to those than he is to humankind. It is an act of protection, and God surely smiles upon those who protect.

    You may think I have called you to this task in anger, hoping you will take vengeance for me. You might think that cause unjust. I would counter with this: it doesn''t matter what my motivations are. What matters the most, and what the Lord will see, is this: "what does the act mean to you?" If you can see it as a protective act, the neutralization of a threat with tools so nefarious he could outrun the law and hurt untold innocents, then the Lord shall see you as an arbiter of His will. You know I''m not the religious type, but I know enough to recall that the Lord smiles upon those who protect the weak.

    And even if you can''t justify it theologically, remember well my pain. Remember the winces on my face when I was loaded to and from my chair. Remember the sound of my gasping voice, and the scars that tortured my nerves with electric pain for uncounted years. Remember the soiled bedsheets and clothes¡­ remember my misery I have borne for all these decades. If nothing else, remember that Logan is the reason I have suffered such a fate, and remember that he has chosen to feel no remorse after the fact. Remember that he will inflict such misery upon others. It falls uniquely on your shoulders to be able to stop him.

    Thank you for granting this final request of a man now dying, and a boy already dead.

    With love,

    Jim Duncan. Parker Campbell.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Horace returned the often-read letter to his glovebox and watched the ambush unfold. And thus, it begins, he thought, setting his car in motion. Time to find the boy with the bicycles.

    It didn''t take Horace long, as the bikes were originally stashed mere blocks away from the scene, and one boy moving bikes two at a time across several trips was far from subtle. The description in the letter matched him perfectly, leaving little doubt in Horace''s mind. He felt the rising tremble of anticipation, but he stilled his own eagerness¡ªor was it anxiety¡ªto begin in favor of cool-headed caution. He had his rifle packed in his trunk, but he knew he couldn''t shoot the boy right here in the center of the road¡­ he hoped this would end without Horace locked away in a jail cell. He could follow the boy and wait for an opportune moment to strike, some chance when the boy would be alone or in the woods with only his friends. After neutralizing Logan, Horace could show the letter to the rest of them and let them know what had happened to their friend. Jim hadn''t been able to decide if he wanted that ending. "Is it better for them to think they lost yet another dear friend, or to feel the biting betrayal of the monster that lurked beneath in that most vulnerable and tragic time?" the old man had asked ponderously. He had finally left it to Horace to decide.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    In Horace''s mind, they deserved the truth.

    He stepped from his car and took to the streets, tossing a coin to a homeless man on the corner and making idle conversation. As he spoke, he watched through the corner of his eyes as the Kessler boy walked down the road and made a left turn. Without a parting word to the beggar, Horace was on the move, tailing the Kessler boy as far back as he would dare. Strange, Horace thought. He''s moving back towards the vet''s office?

    Horace slunk even further back as the boy drew near to the buzzing of police outside the vet''s. He didn''t want to risk being seen by the policewoman he''d met, as he''d surely be a memorable face¡­ so instead, from far back across the street, he climbed into his car and watched in stillness. He saw Logan be led inside the building. Then, after a few minutes, he emerged with Nora Campbell, the two speaking back and forth. She stepped into her car, and spoke into her radio while Logan stood idly just outside the squad car. She then seemingly instructed him to sit down, and there he sat, right on the curbside. After four or five minutes of waiting, Nora answered her radio once again and began to speak with Logan, who was now standing up. After a brief exchange, she patted him on the shoulder and sent him on his way.

    Horace raised his eyebrows at the brazen cleverness of whatever stunt had just unfolded, wishing he could''ve heard the exchange. Somehow, in a span of ten minutes, Logan had gone from suspicious to exonerated, and all it had taken was a radio call back to the station. So he''s certainly competent, Horace thought, once again stepping out onto the sidewalk. With how easily he just handled the police, I really need to make sure I''m careful.

    He was back on the chase, following on-foot at a safe distance as Logan wound his way through town. Horace would slow whenever he approached some convenient form of cover, be it a sizeable roadside tree or an alley between structures, and he quickly found the practice useful when Logan momentarily paused to survey his surroundings. Suspicious type, it seems. Guilty ones usually are.

    Horace ducked into an alley as Logan spun and surveyed his surroundings, eyes flitting from road to foot traffic to windows. He had been quick enough to dodge the boy''s glance, but it had been a close thing. Once in the alleyway, Horace realized he didn''t know when would be safe to return to the street¡­ what if the boy was still facing his way?

    You can be seen once, he thought. It''s twice where the problems begin. He gathered his courage and stepped back out onto the road, relieved to see Logan''s back as the boy advanced back down the road. He made another turn ahead, and Horace began to remove possible destinations from his mental map of the town. With another left turn, one location jumped to the top of the list of possibilities, and Horace couldn''t help but laugh at the irony. I suppose I deserve this, oh Lord, as no worthy work is ever easy¡­ just please, though far be it from my station to ask anything of you, let it not be so. And if it is to be so, let Your judgment not harm the innocent. Let me be Your hand, but aim that hand only at the wicked.

    He watched Logan make the final turn onto the residential road that solidified the certainty in his mind. He was heading there, of course¡­ that place in town he''d wanted to avoid the most, as it came with its own set of difficult questions and complications: it was the DeLange residence, the sleepy mountain home of his own relatives.

    Horace turned around and began walking back downtown at a brisk pace, scrambling for his car. Logan would get to the DeLange home in about fifteen minutes, and Horace could arrive in similar time if he reached his car in the next five. He would need his car, as it was both his weapon locker and escape route, but as he ran he felt a dilemma take hold. He was, in that moment, momentarily torn between two courses of action. He could stick with his plan and stake out the DeLange house, waiting for the boy to leave and attack him then. He didn''t like option one because the risk of being spotted by a family member who might recognize him was uncomfortably high. Option two was that he could simply return to his motel room and try to pick up the trail again tomorrow. He didn''t like option two either, as it went against Jim''s instructions¡­ the old man had told him he needed to strike fast, or Logan could gain more and more powers that would make him impossible to stop.

    Oh, Lord, give me a sign¡­ what am I to do? Am I to march upon my own family''s home with destruction in my heart, like the angel of death? Is their door marked with lamb''s blood? He knew that it was fear that drove him away from option one. He also knew that fear and righteousness were entirely separate spectrums, and that he couldn''t delude himself into believing avoiding fear was chasing the more righteous of the two paths. Is Jim''s vengeance worth risking my own family? But then his mind argued against its own conclusions. No, not vengeance¡ªstopping someone with a wicked heart.

    He was so focused on this internal argument that he nearly bowled straight past the woman who was staring at him. "Horace? Is that you?" she asked, standing there with a paper bag in her hands clutched to her chest. Recognition settled across her face and it lit up in a warm smile. "I thought it was!" she said, moving in for a hug.

    "Martha, what a pleasant surprise," said Horace, bringing her in for an embrace.

    "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Didn''t even tell us you were stopping by?"

    "Actually, I was hoping to surprise," Horace said. "Was heading to the DeLange residence as we speak."

    "Oh! Me too," Martha said, gesturing to her bag of food. "I was planning to bring over some dinner¡­ Italian, which is young Ron''s favorite. He seemed to have some kind of fright today, so I thought I''d bring this to cheer him up. Would you like some? There''s plenty extra."

    The Lord oft puts us on unexpected paths, Horace thought. It seemed option three was opening up, and though he felt uneasy, he had enough faith to know things would work out as they were meant to. "That would be lovely," he said. "My car is just there up the road. Would you like a ride?"

    He took the bag of takeout from her hand and opened the passenger door. Once she was seated, he opened the trunk and placed the bag on top of the hunting rifle still in his trunk, just beside the box of extra ammunition and his briefcase of correspondences between himself and Jim Duncan. He then slammed shut the trunk, started the car, and set off on the road towards the DeLange estate, uncertain of what future he would bring with him.

 Chapter 31 - The Arctic Sea

    Nora sat on the hood of her car, puffing at a cigarette. It tasted ashen and burnt to her lips, but the buzz it brought was a needed comfort after such a disastrous afternoon. Her emotions had looped and hurtled through a rollercoaster worse than any she could remember, from the dread of discovering usable forensics that she feared might implicate her son, to the elation of her sting operation somehow working, to the frustration of the perps somehow vanishing when surrounded by police on all sides¡­ not to mention, the sudden appearance of the Kessler boy, and the solid alibis he presented for himself and most of the rest of the gang. Nora had done her due diligence, of course, and called to follow up on as many as she could¡­ the Perpetumart call checked out, clearing Wade Kerrigan and Shaun Valdez. Logan himself said he''d been journaling at the coffee shop a couple blocks away, and the owner confirmed it, though the timeline was a little fuzzy¡ªLogan did leave in time to reach the scene of the crime, but Nora didn''t count him among the suspects because he''d arrived outside the police line far too quickly to be one of the fleeing suspects. Ron DeLange was allegedly at his grandmother''s house, though calls to Martha''s home hadn''t been answered. At least, when Nora called Ron''s mother, Clara, she confirmed that he''d gone over to visit his grandmother, and that the boy had now come back home. The only loose end was her own son, Parker. Logan had said he went to the station looking for Nora¡­ nobody there had seen him.

    She remembered seeing a National Geographic magazine in a doctor''s office. Framed in that bold, yellow rectangle had been a polar bear, stranded on a floating chunk of ice in a deep, blue sea. The article attached to the picture had been explaining that an unusually warm summer had left the bear, and others like it, stranded as the ice melted away. She imagined what it might be like to turn around and watch the ice crack and crumble into the churning waters, the small island of solidity crumbling away smaller and smaller as panic rose greater and greater. Right now, sitting on the white rectangle that was the hood of her car, Nora felt a sense of kinship to that bear. She felt like the ground was crumbling out around her, leaving her trapped and isolated. The past few days had been riddled with crimes and events that simply didn''t make sense. Impossible timelines, invisible attackers, her son at the center of some ineffable web, and now a gang of suspects that had somehow disappeared from a closed trap like Houdini himself had been under one of the masks.

    "What the Christ is going on around here?" she asked to nobody in particular. An officer to her right grunted in sympathetic bafflement. Both watched as Jackson Trent senior and Michelle Trent walked out of the vet''s office, the former leaning on the latter for support. The two approached Nora.

    "Almost had the sons of bitches, we did," Jackson said.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Have you notified their parents? Put out an arrest warrant?" Michelle asked.

    "For the boys?" Nora asked.

    Both of the Trents nodded in unison.

    "No, we haven''t, because they''ve just about all got alibis that check out," she said.

    "Bullshit," Jackson replied.

    "Just about all?"

    "Two of them were verified by your own boss, sir," she said to Jackson. "One was visiting grandma like a good grandson should. Hell, the only one I don''t have an alibi on is my own son, since he wasn''t where the Kessler boy said he was¡ª"

    "We saw him in the morning," Jackson blurted. "Riding his bike, heading towards the wood."

    "Oh?" Nora asked, feeling more cracks in the ice.

    "Oh yeah," Michelle replied. "We were driving to the station this morning, before all that business at our house."

    "When you came to pitch the sting op?" Nora asked.

    "Yuh-huh," Jackson replied.

    "Was Parker riding in the same direction as you guys, or heading elsewhere?"

    "Different direction," Michelle answered.

    Nora felt a fresh, spindly crack prod its way across the ice. Parker was the boy who bought the hoodie connected to the General Store robbery. Parker was the only boy whose alibi seemed to fail around this new incident. Parker, who showed up the night of the warehouse blaze. Parker, a good friend of the missing boy. Parker, who''d lied to her face. It all pointed inexorably back to him.

    Nora swallowed.

    "Look, one of the others here will have to give you a ride home. I gotta follow up on something¡­ We''ll speak soon." She excused herself and started up the car, snubbing her cigarette in the door''s ash tray. As she reversed out, she made eye contact with the judging stares of both Trent parents, that grieving desperation still lingering just beneath the surface. And then she was alone, driving home.

    As she pulled into her own driveway, she remembered that the Kessler boy had mentioned the gang meeting up at the DeLange home. If she worked quick enough here, she might be able to intercept them¡­ she simply had to know first.

    She practically kicked the door to Parker''s room down as she stumbled in, forensics kit in-hand. She then began to apply the delicate dust to hard objects most likely to have been touched: the back of his desk chair, several books removed form the shelf, a baseball she''d watched him toss idly while lying in bed. Most had loose fingerprints, but Nora wasn''t interested in those. The book held a partial palm print, but the thing was warped and badly-preserved. Finally, on the back of the chair, she found a solid-enough print. She looked at its pattern, scrutinizing it closely. She then pulled out the photo of the black paint smudge from forensics. As she glanced back and forth between the two, she heard the crackling of ice giving way to immense weight. She felt the cold sting of icy water surround her and wash her deep into its numbing grasp. She dropped the photo and sank to the bed, mind racing.

    And then she burst to her feet, already back in-motion. She had to reach the DeLange home before he¡ªand the rest of his gang¡ªleft.

    She''d have to arrest him, simple as that.

 Chapter 32 - Reunion

    Horace walked into the DeLange home with a wide grin. He greeted Clara¡ªhis niece whom he hadn''t seen in several years¡ªwith a warm hug and asked after her son, Ronnie. "Oh, he''s doin'' fine," came her soft voice with its mild Southern drawl. "Such a bright boy, he is. He''s currently in his room; said he wasn''t feeling too great tonight."

    If Martha gave off the impression of a gnarled oak tree, her daughter Clara was an Aspen, pale white and narrow. Their home was small as it only housed Clara and Ronnie¡ªthe boy''s father, a coward by the name of Andrew Tufts, had run off just before Ronnie was born. Clara now regarded her mother. "I wish you would''ve called ahead to tell me you were bringing food¡­ I''ve already got chicken in the oven, and it''ll be done any second now. What are we gonna do with all this extra?"

    As if right on cue, a knock came from the front door. Clara hurried off and found Logan standing at their doorstep. "Hey, ma''am. Is Ronnie here?"

    She led him to the kitchen and gestured to the table. "You can have a seat¡­ Ronnie''s not feeling so great, but I''ll let him know you''re here."

    Once Logan sat down, Martha immediately began preparing a place setting for him. "Oh, no, you don''t have to," Logan said. "I had a late lunch."

    "Nonsense, dear," Martha said. "Horace, would you grab one of those serving platters from the top of the cupboard? Clara''s reach is better than mine, that''s for sure."

    Horace removed the platter and set it down on the table, him and Logan exchanging appraising glances. Horace didn''t think that the boy had any reason to distrust him, and Horace did his best to hide his own recognition. He introduced himself as an uncle to the family, and Logan, as a friend to Ronnie.

    "There''s a few more of us coming," Logan said to Martha.

    "That''s fine, dear; with some help, maybe we''ll actually finish all of the food!"

    After another knock at the door, Wade and Shaun entered. "Sweet set of wheels in the driveway," Wade said as he entered the home. The two boys were shuttled to the kitchen table as well, taking seats next to Logan. Both seemed surprised, but not ungrateful for the unexpected meal. Wade tucked a napkin into his collar as Clara reappeared, Ronnie in tow. She tended to the oven and removed a tray, the room suddenly filling with the delicious, herbal aroma of a baked chicken breast¡ªrosemary, garlic, and the warm under-notes of butter. Ronnie didn''t notice the scent. He instead did all he could to avoid outright gawking at Horace and Logan, now sitting across from each other, right in his kitchen. Dread twisted in his stomach.

    "And Parker?" he said weakly, not even at anybody in particular. He hoped beyond hope that the boy would be here, and that his discovery in the photographs was just a horrible misunderstanding. Or, even if he was right, he hoped that it was something in the future, something he could still prevent.

    "Not here yet," Wade answered, grabbing the serving spoon in the plate of spaghetti. Ronnie''s stomach heaved again, his appetite utterly gone.

    "I''m sure he''ll be just behind. In the mean time, you boys dig in," Clara said. "Wouldn''t want it getting cold."

    At that point, Horace seemed to notice that Ronnie had entered the room, and he walked over to shake his hand. "Young man, do you know who I am?" he asked.

    Ronnie yanked himself away from his anxiety and tried his best to present a controlled demeanor. "Uncle Horace," he said. "Brother to Grandpa Hank."

    "Bright boy indeed," Horace said to Clara. He then turned back to Ronnie. "Your mother told me what a fine young man you are. It''s great to finally get to meet you."

    As the group sat, Horace requested that the family allow him to say grace, a tradition they happily obliged. They then dug in with gusto, food heaping into mounds on their plates. Horace gave the family his prepared excuses to why he was in town¡­ a short fiction about a new client in a city just down the highway from Boone.

    "Where''s Parker?" Ronnie asked, interrupting his uncle''s story.

    "He went to the station, remember?" Logan said. "There was this whole police line at the vet''s office¡­ maybe he got caught up in that business."

    Horace regarded Logan, and again Logan regarded him in turn. He watched as the boy put down his fork and began to fiddle with something in his pocket. Was that just there the soft hiss noise the letter described?

    "Can you believe the gall of them, to drag the boys in for questioning like that?" Martha said, a clear note of anger in her voice. "And then today, after that business at the vet''s, they called Clara to see if Ronnie had been there!"

    "I explained, in no unclear terms, that he was with family, and that they''d better leave poor Ronnie alone in a time like this or they''d hear from me," Clara added, shaking her head indignantly.

    Martha gripped Horace''s arm and whispered to him softly. "The boys, they had a friend go missing a couple days back. Still no sign. It''s been hard for them," she said.

    "Oh, ma''am, he already knows," Logan said. "After all, he helped us search yesterday."

    Horace looked to Logan, surprised. He seemed nonchalant. "Yeah," Horace said, "I got into town last night. Figured I''d wait until I wrapped up my business to come say hello. And when I got in, I heard about the missing boy, so I volunteered to join the search."

    "It''s so funny that you visit us today," Martha said. "Just earlier today, Ron and I were looking through old photos, and he was asking about you and Jim."

    Horace once again tried to hold back his surprise, but his facade was surely cracking. "Oh?" is all he managed, shoveling another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

    "That old man gave me the heebie-jeebies," Clara said.

    "You never knew him like I did," Horace said nearly instantly, a defensive note in his voice.

    "Bread, please?" Shaun asked Ronnie, but the boy made no move to grab it. He was staring at Horace with a still-deepening frown, so Shaun made the executive decision to lean over the table and grab it himself.

    "What was he like?" Ronnie asked at long last, breaking the spell.

    "Well," Horace began, thinking back, "he wasn''t the monster people made him out to be. He had a gentle heart, and a mind more brilliant than anyone around him knew. My only regret is it took me so many years to see past the scars he wore¡­ he was a good man, and he would''ve wanted to see you doing well."

    Ronnie wiped at his eyes, grateful that neither his mother nor his grandmother seemed to see. Logan coughed loudly, but Shaun, seated just to his side, heard the telltale hiss of the Empathizer being used discreetly from his pocket disguised under the sound. He cut a hole in his pocket or something? Either way the cough makes sense, Shaun thought. Wouldn''t want the grown-ups asking why Logan''s pants were hissing. Shaun then started laughing to himself at the mental image. Feeling he''d figured out his friend, he returned to his food. He, of course, couldn''t have noticed the Thought-Enunciator that Logan had been pointing at Horace within his pocket, as that device was without sound. And though he could have, if he''d been looking, he didn''t notice Logan''s change in posture, the way his back straightened and his legs seemed to wind like springs ready to burst him upwards into action.

    "You all right?" Logan asked of Ronnie, noting now the wiped-away tears.

    "Yeah," Ronnie said, "just allergies I think." He looked to Logan, trying to read his face for answers. What''s the connection here? Why is Horace suddenly in town? How does Parker end up where he ends up? Is he already there? Logan''s face was, as ever, frustratingly neutral.

    Horace regarded Logan and then Ronnie in turn, seeing the moment pass between them. Logan was a charmer and seemed perfectly ordinary, if not slightly arrogant, but Horace knew the Devil was nothing if not a smooth-talker with a silver tongue. This was, undeniably, the spawn of the Devil. He knew he would have to shoot that boy tonight, even if it tore him up inside to do it. After seeing his demeanor at this dinner table and knowing the horrible things he''d just done¡­ Horace''s mind was set more certain now than it had ever been before.

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Wade chewed thoughtfully, watching the chain of uncomfortable stares. He saw Logan stare at Horace, and Horace at Logan. Ronnie looked to Logan and then back to Horace, and even he took glances back and forth between the others, as though a horrible and secret conversation were passing back and forth between all three. On top of that, something was niggling in the back of Wade''s mind, a detail that was fighting its way to the surface of his consciousness.

    Shaun burped loudly. "Excuse me," he said. And just like that, the tension of the moment was momentarily lifted, as Clara gasped in playful indignation and Martha began to serve up an additional portion of chicken to the boys.

    The meal gradually wound down, and Martha was the first to stand. "Well, boys, it''s been so nice to see you¡ªand Horace, I hope you stop by before you leave¡ªbut I''ve got to get back to Phoebe now¡­ she''ll need her evening walk."

    "Did you drive here?" Clara asked.

    "No, Horace gave me a lift, but I can walk home. The exercise keeps these old legs working," she replied.

    "Nonsense, I''ll drive you," Clara said. "Give me just a minute."

    Martha protested weakly, but, with great feigned reluctance, she eventually acquiesced. As the door closed behind the two and the faint rumble of the garage door hummed through the walls of the home, a fragile stillness settled over the remaining boys and that older man. They all felt that once the women left, something would happen, and the knots of tension told them it wouldn''t be pleasant.

    The humming stopped, the garage door now open. An engine roared distantly, and a car sputtered away. The rumbling began once again, and then the garage door clicked shut. The four boys and Horace sat in silence, waiting. It was Shaun, of all people, timid and unshure Shaun, who spoke up first.

    "Ok, why is it starting to feel like everybody knows something here that I don''t?"

    Horace stood, brushing crumbs from his lap and beginning to collect dishes from the table. He scooped the extra food from the plates into a plastic bag, and then began to tie the bag''s neck methodically. "Well, boys, I''ve got something important to talk about, and I''d like to do it while the women are out. Give me just a second to take out this trash bag," he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. He then disappeared out the kitchen''s side door.

    "We should leave, now," Logan said.

    Ronnie murmured something, too softly for the group to hear.

    "What is going on with you two?" Wade asked.

    Again, Ronnie murmured.

    "No time to explain," Logan said, "but this morning, at my coffee shop, Parker stopped by and said he thought he was being followed by a bald man with a permanent frown¡­ said he felt unsafe. Like this guy was looking for the devices. And the guy he described sounds a lot like him." Logan was impressed with how easily the lies came to him, but he supposed necessity drove ingenuity. He needed to turn the group against Horace, and he needed to do so immediately or everything would unravel.

    "What, you think," Shaun began, trailing off. "Parker too?"

    Ronnie finally spoke up, finding his voice clear and in its full strength. "Parker isn''t coming back tonight, or ever again."

    "What do you mean?" Shaun asked, turning towards his friend. "Is he dead?"

    "Not like you think," came Horace''s voice, level and grave. None of the boys had heard him slip in through the back door and advance through the household on silent footsteps. In his hands, he now held a wooden hunting rifle, which he gripped tightly as he pointed it towards Logan. His finger flexed near the trigger, ready. In his mind, he recited that prayer he''d given countless hundreds of times before, the words a benediction to the act of protection:

    Oh, Father High, I pray to you,

    that my one shot shall send out true.

    May it strike them without pain,

    and send them high to Your domain.

    Shaun flickered to invisibility, his empty chair tipping backwards. "Now, boy, stay back¡­ it''s not like you think," Horace said. "Logan has been manipulating you all."

    Logan frantically raised his hands, his palms empty. "This man killed Parker," he cried in protest, his voice warped by genuine terror.

    "Go on," Horace said, looking at Ronnie. "You figured it out, didn''t ya? Tell them." His finger slipped over the trigger, appraising its cold metal.

    Ronnie stared at his hands in his lap, not even seeming to notice the weapon in Horace''s hand. "Parker¡­ I saw photos of him," he began. "From the 1920''s."

    "From what?" Wade asked, incredulous.

    "I think¡­ he was hurt, or attacked, and he fled back in time. Really far. Whether by design, or accidentally¡­ he went too far, and he couldn''t come back."

    "This boy here tried to kill him," Horace said. "And I have been sent to deliver God''s justice unto him."

    Wade gripped his protectionizer and stepped slowly between Horace and Logan, hands raised in a placating gesture.

    "Step aside, boy," Horace commanded, but Wade merely backed up. He continued to move protectively until Logan was just behind him, effectively shielded.

    "One thing I''d like to know," Wade said, "is this: why should we trust you when you''ve already lied?"

    "And which lie was that?" Horace asked.

    "You said you got into town last night, but that''s your car outside, right? We saw that car stalking the Trent''s home earlier that morning. Returning to the scene of a crime?"

    Horace blinked. "It''s not like that. I was¡ª"

    Before Horace could finish explaining that he''d only lied to avoid offending his sister-in-law, who wouldn''t approve of his lack of visits, everything changed in a span of heartbeats.

    Thub-thump.

    In the first heartbeat, Logan''s hands darted downwards. One, his left, gripped firmly to Wade''s shoulder, while his right reached for his own waistband. Horace recognized the posture and body language of a man reaching for a stashed weapon¡ªhe''d seen it plenty of times on the hunt, when a boar or bear wandered closer than the party had realized¡ªand Horace also knew that the innocent Kerrigan boy gripped the protecting device. That meant there was only one thing to do: suppressing fire, to prevent Logan from taking aim. Horace''s rifle discharged, casing ejecting from the side as cordite smoke puffed into the small kitchen. Arriving at the speed of judgment, the bullet pounded into Wade, who barely managed to keep hold of the Protectionizer. He thudded backwards, his shirt shredding to tatters as the bullet struck an inpenetrable object and exploded into hot, razor-sharp shrapnel. One small piece tore upwards and dragged a gash in Logan''s index finger. Another piece flew out and seemed to deflect against empty air, before a small trickle of red began to spill from open space. It had hit Shaun, still invisible, though it would be another ten seconds before he even noticed the wound.

    Thub-thump.

    Horace''s hand hammered downwards for the bolt and began to prime the rifle for its second shot. Logan''s right hand flicked upwards from behind his back, thumb clicking the hammer into place. His left hand pulled Wade close as a human shield while he aimed beyond the boy''s shoulder, leveling the weapon at Horace. Both triggers clicked in synchronicity, twin booms setting the boys'' ears rattling. Horace had adjusted his aim to the right, knowing that Wade was an effective shield¡ªand also acknowledging the folly of seeking a headshot, hard-to-hit targets that they were. He instead sought to shoot Logan''s arm or weapon, but his shot had been quickly aimed, and his bullet only grazed along Logan''s forearm shallowly before striking Wade yet again. Logan''s bullet was better-aimed, striking Horace on the right side of the abdomen. The man felt as though he''d been punched by a great fist¡ªor, perhaps, a tree entire¡ªand he immediately stumbled backwards. Both Ronnie and Shaun began to flee the room, feet dragging them slowly away as though moving through molasses.

    Thub-thumb.

    Wade, struck by a second bullet, momentarily released the protectionizer, and he stumbled forwards and grabbed at it as it tumbled through the air. Logan watched Horace''s hand lever the bolt yet again, saw Wade grab at the tumbling stone, knocking his fist into it but raising his other hand, ready to catch it. Logan saw himself move as though a spectator. He lurched Wade''s shoulder backwards, throwing the boy off balance and misaligning his attempt to grab the stone from mid-air. Instead of closing around it, his fist merely struck into it, sending it upwards. Horace, seeing the stone tumbling, lowered his aim¡ªhe wouldn''t risk shooting with Wade unprotected. But now Logan needed only flex his arm downwards for a point-blank killshot¡­ and aim downwards he did. He fired, and bullet left revolver, racing towards Wade''s back. This time, it entered, unimpeded.

    Thub-thump.

    Wade slumped backwards into Logan, eyes wide. The Protectionizer tumbled and clattered down to the floor, bouncing near Logan''s feet, a small trickle of blood alongside. Horace eyed the stone and knew he wouldn''t be able to get to it before Logan did¡­ and to shoot at him would risk shooting the Kerrigan boy yet again, something Horace could never live with. After a split second''s hesitation, he retreated to the living room, taking cover beyond the room''s entryway.

    And just like that, time seemed to resume its normal rate of passage.

    Wade cracked a pained smile. "Ok¡­ that one hurt," he wheezed, prodding his chest with his hand. His breath was ragged and bubbling, shallow as the grave. He fell to his knees.

    "I think he shot me¡­ Is it bad?" he asked Logan. He then collapsed onto the ground, fully prone. Logan reached over and snatched the Protectionizer from just beyond the spreading pool of blood, eyed the doorway where Horace had retreated to, and then finally turned to the dying boy.

    "You don''t have to answer," he said weakly. "I can tell it is." Logan met his gaze. Ronnie and Shaun had both fled, it seemed¡­ and by the lack of charging attacks from the old man, it seemed Horace had fled as well. It was just Wade and Logan, here in the DeLange kitchen, smell of gunsmoke mixing with the aromatic chicken and italian sauces, stained with the dark iron note of blood.

    "I''m scared," Wade choked out. "Can you do me one last solid, with that pen of yours?" He gripped Logan''s hand and held it tight. "Take the scared away?"

    Logan pulled out the Empathizer from his pocket and looked at it. Outside, he heard the report of gunfire, but the sound could hardly break through the maelstrom of his thoughts in that moment. Wade looked at the Empathizer and his eyes were wide with a desperate form of gratitude. He nodded his head as though saying ready.

    Logan gripped the device and breathed deeply. He pressed the Empathizer to his own side, not Wade''s, and pushed the button. As the battery filled with sickly, pale blue, he drained himself of the last of the pity he felt for the bleeding thing before him. He pried Wade''s trembling hands off of his own and stood, wiping the blood on a napkin from the nearby table. His ears rang from the gunshots, but he could still hear the weak protests from the form on the floor¡­ Logan just didn''t care.

    Without even a glance over his shoulder at the boy dying fearful and alone, Logan pushed his way out the back door into the rising winds of the night. Crickets chirped and in the distance, a dog howled wildly. Nearby gunfire shattered glass, and there was a primal yell of a shaking, deep rage, but Logan was now a being of singular purpose. He didn''t even turn his head towards the commotion; the woods beckoned him. He''d finally acquired the item he needed for the next stage in his plan: it was time to repay an old favor.

 Chapter 33 - Beneficiary, Benefactor

    For not the first time, Logan felt strangely prisoner to his own choices. What he was about to do, he had also already done. And so, what if he chose not to do it? Could he?

    He felt the reassuring weight of the gun tucked in his pants as he walked deeper in the woods. What if I took it and blew my own brains out, right here and now? He noticed with a muted fascination that the idea of suicide didn''t even seem to repulse him much¡­ there was no dread, no fear, no sense of guilt at the sadness it would cause those he knew. All that there was, the only safeguard against that fatal thought, was the handcuff of reason. I can''t get what I want if I''m dead, he reasoned, and the fact that he was right was enough to push the idea away.

    But we''ve gotten distracted, here, he thought. Could I if I wanted to? And then, in that moment, an idea took root. I survive today, he thought. I know this because I saw things I still haven''t done. So I wonder¡­

    He pulled the steel revolver from his belt and eyed it. He checked the chamber, and it matched his recollection: he''d fired two shots of six.

    Am I really about to do this? he thought. Am I about to take such a stupid risk?

    But then the voice of reason answered back. It''s no risk. You already know the outcome.

    He sighed and shook with a full-body sweep of rattling anticipation, resolve solidifying. He then looked away and spun the barrel of the gun wildly before sliding the cylinder back in place, not seeing whether a full chamber or an empty one was currently aligned with the hammer.

    Ok, universe. If I die, this is me taking control¡­ this is me breaking from the rails. This is my last act of protest, proof that I have a choice. That I can affect the outcome. If I live, then the rails can''t be broken¡­ and at that point, I''m rolling forwards, for better or worse.

    He pressed the cold metal barrel to his temple and savored what might have been his final breath¡­ the damp and earthy mountain air had never tasted sweeter. He then pulled the trigger.

    Click.

    He expelled a hot breath, face reddening. His mind cried out to lower the gun, that he''d proven his point, but a deeper, louder voice insisted. One more. One more shot. Try to break free. See if you''ve got a choice, kid. See if you can break the rules.

    His finger tightened, and then pulled the trigger a second time.

    Click.

    He stood there in silent disbelief, the center of a rising tornado of dread, of helplessness, of anger. He shook with his fury, and he felt once again that rising tide of helplessness¡­ but this was no mere tide. This was a tidal wave, and it swallowed him whole, soul and body. He despaired in it, and in its darkness, he raised the gun to his own head once again¡­ there were only two empties. A loaded chamber was guaranteed ready to fire straight into his skull.

    But he knew that he survived, and the universe had made it clear that today was not the day he died. At least, not this today. Not this Logan. He lowered the gun, submitting to it. A few uses of the Empathizer had him soon grounded once again. He opened the cylinder and saw the last two had been the only two empty chambers¡­ he was prisoner, after all, and fate was the pair of biting metal shackles he could never break free of. And in that moment, he thought of the hole in the beach he''d told Skinny about. He saw that hole, then and there, and the hole in the beach yawned wider than ever before, a gaping chasm of wet sand tumbling down and collapsing in on itself. Water splashed its salty spray, and the sand bit sharply at tender skin¡­ his mind was crumbling, and Logan knew he was helpless to stop it. He knew he had started down this path to take control, but Logan could momentarily see that he had never before had less control than he did now, in this moment. He no longer feared death, as he thought surely no torture could be greater than that which he felt right now in the waking world. But there was work yet to do. The rails yawned and extended before him. And so Logan set to it.

    He wound the Time Watch back for the evening of July 12th, 1981. He then shattered the display against a rock and disappeared in a crackling flash, traveling to that night that was both in his past and had been his inevitable future.

    When he arrived in the darkened woods, he set out for the light of town, walking along in the cover of woods towards the Coffee Street Warehouses. He soon arrived and assessed the building''s perimeter, looking for guards. There was a guard booth near the only gate into the complex, but Logan knew that he wouldn''t be taking the main entrance. He walked a fair distance down the fence near to the woods and found a suitable spot. It was out of obvious view of the guard booth, and though he knew that there were occasional guard patrols, this was no Fort Knox¡­ he waited in the darkness for one to pass, and then he set to climbing the fence. The barbed wire that would ordinarily deter a climbing robber was no match for the Protectionizer gripped in his right hand. It snagged and snared at his clothing, but his skin remained unharmed. Once over the fence, he shuffled his way to the structure itself and found an important-looking doorway. After three minutes of fumbling with a makeshift lockpick¡ªa skill he''d only learned in the past few days thanks to a library book and some trial and error in his home¡ªhe managed to slip his way inside.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    Much to his relief, no alarm rang. He walked through the darkened building and soon found his way to a massive room stacked high with boxes. Numbered signs pointed towards shelves and stacks of box after cardboard box, arranged in towering columns and expansive rows. He pulled the notebook from his jacket and looked for the entry about the box. He''d written down its tracking number from the label, a decision that now seemed vital. He looked at the signs on the wall indicating where the 0601 shelves were located. Once there, he traced his hand along the rows of boxes until he found the correct serial. Hello, there, he thought. He picked up the box and it gave the correct rattle. The thing was heavy, weighing maybe twenty pounds. He grabbed it and the one behind it, preparing them in a short stack. He pushed the stack towards the door he''d entered from, happy to discover they slid along the smooth floor without much issue. Once he had them near the door, he knew it was time for the second part of tonight''s work. Break room, break room, he thought, making his way through the hallways of the building. The glowing light of a vending machine gleamed through the window on the door of one particular room. Drink Pepsi ¡ª A Refreshing Break! the machine''s lit-up front panel declared.

    Logan made his way into the room and immediately began rummaging through the cabinets. Come on, come on, tell me we''ve got more than a few smokers in this damn place¡­ and then, bingo. He found a drawer that had small lighters and a large package of strike-on-box matches. He grabbed the lighters, the matches, and several rolls of paper towels from an adjacent cabinet. He returned to the room stacked high with boxes and walked to its opposite end, far and away from the exit he hoped to leave from. This needs to make a good distraction, he thought. But will it be enough?

    He thought back to the revolver with its two empty chambers and shuddered. It''ll be enough¡­ it already had been.

    He placed the paper towel rolls against a box at the bottom of a stack, surrounding the box like kindling. He then pried open the lighters and splashed their small reservoirs of lighter fluid against the box''s cardboard and the rolls. He then removed a small handful of matches, leaving most in the box. One was lit by striking it against the box, and, while it burned, he stashed the box against the kindling paper towels. He then tossed the match.

    Immediately, the lighter fluid caught, and it swiftly lit one of the rolls of paper towels. The heat set the large match box aflame, which burst with a miniature rush of power as the phosphorus match heads within caught. The fire that raced upwards along the lighter-fluid-splashed wet side of the cardboard boxes caught in earnest, and soon a flame was creeping up the stack. Logan set out racing across the room, barreling towards the opposite door.

    As he stepped out into the night air, he hoisted one box in his arms and ran to the fence. He tossed it over, and then looped back for the second. At this point, he thought he heard a voice in the distance shout "Fire! Fire!" Time was running out.

    He launched himself against the fence and scrambled his way up, once again relying on the Protectionizer''s protection against the barbed wire. Once on the outside once again, he ran the boxes, one at a time, deeper into the woods, settling them in a small stack against a tree. He trembled with adrenaline, and felt another rising pang of frustration at his slavery to his path. He fumbled with the Empathizer, dropping a battery in the dark, before loading it with a second and managing to calm himself. Slow down. Breathe. Level-headedness will get you through this. Hide the stack for now, and save the rest for tomorrow in the light. He then grabbed some loose fronds and branches and began to cover the stack, doing his best to camouflage the boxes against prying eyes. He knew he had to move them to a very particular place, but he also knew that he wouldn''t be able to find his way in these unfamiliar woods in the dark of night, and he also knew the vicinity would soon be crawling with police. He made a mental note of where the stack was hidden and then began to make his way back towards civilization, moving along the edge of the woods.

    He watched from the malevolent dark as police set up their perimeter, and Parker''s mother began to survey through the scene. Orange light rose to burn away the dark, so Logan slunk backwards to stay in its black embrace. He knew what would soon come, and so he positioned himself well to have a prime view. As he took cover beneath a twisting shrub, he watched as six boys on bikes rode up to the scene and surveyed it from a distance. At their head was that form he hadn''t seen in days, but what had felt like years¡­ Skinny. He watched the gregarious youth head out with Parker towards the police line, and then he watched as the two returned to speak with the rest of the group. Even the past version of he himself was there, though Logan couldn''t bring himself to look at the boy. The group as a whole chatted excitedly, though Logan couldn''t hear what they were speaking about. He felt a strange sense of jealousy looking at the six of them, as though they all had something Logan currently lacked. He withdrew a battery that held a deep, verdant green and one of a sickly black-blue¡­ had those been envy? Guilt? He felt them no longer, and tucked them into the dark of his pocket. He then glanced back up, and made eye contact with Ronnie. Logan froze, uncertain if he''d been spotted. But then Ronnie''s eyes turned onwards, scanning in the darkness of the woods, as though he felt Logan''s voyeur gaze.

    He was glad to watch the boys leave as they rode off into the night. Logan then opened his notebook, reading it by the green glow of the battery. He found the calendar he''d created, complete with days marked when past-Logan had visited the shack in the woods, even including approximate times. The days where past-Logan hadn''t visited would be time spans where current-Logan could enjoy the structure''s shelter. And whenever past-Logan approached the cabin, as indicated by his calendar, current-Logan would be sure to flee the space, avoiding those critical direct confrontations with his past self.

    Tomorrow, he would move the stack of boxes over to the tree near his home. He could still picture the distinctively twisted tree: that place where, in the dark of night, he''d found that box of blessed empty vessels, something that had proven necessary to stabilize himself. And perhaps most importantly of all, there had been Dad''s revolver placed gingerly on top¡­ Indeed, he had been beneficiary of a strange gift that night. It was now time to be the benefactor.

    Charity to the self¡­ now that''s rich, he thought, setting out for the shack in the dark woods. Now let''s get some sleep¡­ it''ll be a tough few days ahead.

 chapter 34 - The Box in the Woods

    Songbirds announced the arrival of the morning of the 13th, and their over-chipper tweeting set Logan''s teeth grinding. He charged four batteries of red before he''d even made his way outside of the shack, but standing there in the fresh and dewy morning air, head newly leveled, he felt a return of calm control.

    Today was a day of walking, and of hard labor. Batteries were heavy, and while he could manage that weight for short bursts, the distance he had to travel was significant. That was why he set to it without any further delay¡ªbetter to try with the echoes of sunrise still splayed across the sky, rather than wait for the approach of the heat of midday.

    His first priority was getting the boxes as far from the warehouses as he could: he carried a box for about 5 minutes, set it down, and then doubled back to retrieve the second. He''d then march onwards with the second for another 5 minutes, set it down, retrieve the first, and on and on the morning wound. With arms trembling and shirt soaked with sweat, he finally found the tree he remembered.

    He set the boxes against it and collapsed to a seated position against the tree, breathing heavily. After a few minutes of recovery, he set to arranging their position as close to his memory as he could. Once satisfied with their arrangement, he opened the lid and stared inside, remembering the extra item in the gift that would catalyze planning and drafting to actual action and commitment: Dad''s revolver.

    He still had it tucked to his waistband, and his first thought was that he could simply place the one he wore into the box. He quickly shrugged the idea off: the puzzle pieces didn''t fit together that way. If he placed his into the box, then the revolver he received that night was never Dad''s revolver at all¡ªand yet it looked and felt just like it, so that made no sense. No, for the revolver to have any continuity, he understood now that he would have to be the one to retrieve it himself from Dad. Logan swallowed, grasping the implications of that statement.

    Logan-of-the-past would leave his home with a bloodied nose, having just endured the abuses of his father. Dad had his revolver then. When that Logan got to the tree in the dark of the night, finding the box of batteries, Dad''s revolver was already there, waiting for him. The timeline got fuzzy, but present-Logan did have the Time Watch. He had an idea for how to make it all fit together.

    Night fell for the 13th of July, and Logan watched from the embracing dark as his past self returned home from the general store robbery and successful retcon operation afterward. He would be inside for a few hours more.

    Eventually came the shouting, the clattering, and a single shattering note as tonight''s fight unfurled¡­ it was a scotch glass thrown across the living room. Past-Logan retreated to his bedroom to begin his writings. Present Logan waited, trembling with anticipation.

    At long last, he saw it: his past self slipped out into the dark, flashlight in hand. He was headed into the woods to unwrap the gift that Logan had recently left, though that gift was not yet complete. The final piece waited for him just inside.

    As present-Logan drew nearer and nearer to the door, it seemed to grow larger and larger before him¡­ here was his childhood home. Within that door, he would find the towering pillar of authority that had loomed over him his entire life. Dad was a cruel man, but he was also family. A quick withdrawal from the Empathizer and Logan could hardly remember why that thought had slowed him down. Dad was an obstacle, the continuity of the revolver was a problem, and tonight''s act was the solution.

    He pushed open the door and stepped inside. It didn''t take long to find Dad¡ªdrunk, just as he remembered, and pouring himself another glass of gin.

    "Didn''t I tell you to stay out of my sight?" Dad slurred, frowning with confusion as he noted Logan''s suddenly different wardrobe.

    Logan, as part of deep-rooted instinct, wanted to shrink back and away, retreat to his bedroom or garage or anywhere to avoid that furious gaze¡­ but that was the reflex of the weaker Logan that was, not the strong Logan of the present.

    He reached for his waistband and pulled the revolver, pointing it at Dad. His father''s eyes bulged in confusion, in rage, and his hands crept towards his own holster, feeling the weight still tucked there.

    "I don''t understand," Dad slurred, staring at the weapon. "That''s my gun. I know my gun."

    "You don''t even know your own son," Logan said, stepping in close to pull the weapon from his father''s holster. Dad didn''t stop him. Logan tucked the extra, second revolver into his waistband, and then he gestured forward. "To the garage¡­ we''re going for a drive, now."

    He led his father through the house, gun held to his back. He expected his father to fight him off, or at least maybe play the tough guy, grumbling about the dangers he''d faced in Cambodia or the times he shrugged off the threat of death like it had been dandruff brushed from his shoulders. Instead Dad walked meekly to the car and got into the driver''s seat¡ªnot so commanding once separated from his gun. In the rear-view mirror, Logan could see his wet eyes still bulging and intense.

    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    From inside the house, a call sounded: "Logan, are you sure about this?" His mother''s voice, a detail he''d overlooked in tunnel vision. It was clear that she knew what he was up to. She''d likely overheard or somehow saw the confrontation. Her question didn''t have disapproval in it, not even a pleading note to stop him¡­ Dad was no kinder to his wife than he was to his son. Logan decided she was probably unsure of whether she wanted him to do it or not.

    All things considered, she should be there in the car with them¡ªfewer loose ends was certainly safer¡ªbut Logan couldn''t go get her without letting Dad get away. You can''t chase someone down while holding another at gunpoint¡­

    And so, thinking again of the two empty chambers in the revolver¡ªknowing things would work out because they already had worked out¡ªLogan took a calculated risk: "I''ll be back in a half hour at most¡­ don''t be here when I return," he called to the inside of the house. "Go stay with your sister for a week, maybe two. Wait for things to calm down."

    Inside, his mother took several seconds to respond. "I love you," she said quietly. As Logan felt no love in return, he called nothing back, merely nodding to his father to put the car in gear.

    Through the winding streets of Boone they drove, Logan watching the orange shadows cast by the streetlights dance across the car''s interior. "Left," he told Dad, directing the two onto a rocky, gravely road that traced the perimeter around a lake, glistening smooth and black in the midnight light.

    "You know why I keep that gun so well oiled?" Dad finally asked.

    Logan shook his head, knowing that at long last they came to the part where he would beg for his life or make his desperate attempt to escape. Logan was unworried, as he knew he would have the weapon in the end, and so he indulged it. "Why?"

    "In Cambodia, after clearing a nest, we''d sometimes take prisoners of enemy combatants¡­ make em play a little Russian roulette for our amusement. You know how that game works?"

    Logan nodded uneasily, his shell of calm momentarily rattled. His father watched in the rear-view mirror.

    "You watch so many people play it, and you start to wonder what it''s like. You''ve known it wasn''t easy for me to come back from war," Dad said. "The shit that happened to us¡­ the shit that we did¡­ still gets my heart racing to think about it, still brings the nightmares most nights."

    "Park here but leave the engine on," Logan instructed, and Dad did.

    "So many of my pals died, fighting for the American dream¡­ turns out, that''s being stuck in this dead-end smalltown nowhere for the rest of my life with a wife and kid that hate me, no prospects, no future, rotting away day by day."

    Logan wanted to interject¡ªshout that it was his Dad''s own fault everyone hated him¡ªbut he pulled away the pitiable emotions with another hiss from the Empathizer.

    Dad continued. "You know, on your second birthday, I''d finally had enough. I locked myself in my study with a bottle and the revolver, and I stared down the barrel¡ªthat''s how I knew it when you had it aimed at me, I know the inside of that barrel like nothing else¡ªand I loaded a single bullet, just one. Decided I''d ask God if he was done with me, if I could just be done with it all already. I spun the chamber, as one does, thinking on those poor babbling locals we''d had play roulette for our kicks, and then I put the barrel down my own throat."

    Logan felt a deep chill that penetrated even the neutrality left from the Empathizer, realizing how he was truly this pathetic man''s son. Trembling, he again used the device on himself, though it took another three batteries to withdraw all of the pitiful emotions.

    "I pull the trigger, the gun clicks, but nothing happens. I''m crying, I think that God decided to save me, but then I notice the bullet''s spot in the revolver. It had been waiting there, ready to pound its way through my head, but the hammer had caught on some rust. A misfire."

    Dad looked up to Logan in the rear-view mirror again, holding his gaze now.

    "Yet another fuckup¡ªmy life''s a real parade of those. From that day on, I kept that gun oiled and cleaned because I was hoping I''d eventually have the guts to try again. And, if I did, I''d want that shot to finally send home. But it''s hard to do it a second time, you know? Hard to shake the feeling that you survived because you were meant to¡ªor because you were damned to."

    That was a feeling with which Logan could sympathize, and Logan at last understood that his father wouldn''t be making any desperate plays to survive, wouldn''t even beg for his life¡­ a part of him had been long courting this moment, and in Dad''s eyes there was almost a relief that it was here.

    Dad sniffled, pausing for a while to collect his thoughts. "In the army, we used to say a man was made by the way that he went¡­ Will you tell Lisa¡ª"

    Logan fired the weapon once, twice, and a third shot besides. There was no catharsis, no relief, not even so much as an internal stirring of guilt at having killed his own father, monster though he was, as such reactions would have required feeling. Logan felt nothing, emotional palette freshly cleansed with the Empathizer''s soft touch. He then stepped out of the car and opened the driver''s door, wedging his dad''s leg against the gas pedal. The engine revved. He then leaned over Dad as he gasped his final ragged breaths, and Logan switched the car into drive.

    The car lurched forwards and bumped its way across the grass, sliding into the black waters of the lake. Logan watched it sink, breathing heavily, standing alone in the dark until he could see no more ripples, no more bubbles rising to the surface. He brushed his hands on his pants, felt the weight of the second revolver in his belt, and he began to set the proper time on the Time Watch. He would have to flash back to a few hours prior and deliver the weapon into the box he''d set out this morning before his past-self opened it around now.

    Once that was settled, he would go off to the woods, preparing for the tasks of the days ahead.

 Chapter 35 - Multiplicity

    Peeing in the woods was one thing, but when nature called for other affairs, Logan walked into town, careful to stick to areas where he thought the boys were least likely to show up. He used whatever public restrooms he could find, even occasionally splashing his face with water and foaming soap from the dispenser. He knew he looked unkempt physically, but he remained calm and orderly internally¡ªwell, at least, with a little help from the Empathizer. Food was something he''d prepared for on the day of the 16th, before he went to move the bikes from near the vet''s office. His backpack was full of canned meats and vegetables as well as a few packs of jerky, all purchased with his own savings. He had a water canteen that he refilled at water fountains in town during his few sparing runs to civilization. His backpack also housed an even more essential item for his continued wellbeing: batteries, and he watched that stock more closely than he watched his own water supply.

    He had watched in the dark of woods as Skinny was shot on the 14th of July, and, once his past self had fled to attack Parker, fire ax in hand, Logan the Outsider had crept to the cabin''s dusty window to watch his former friend expire. He watched himself return and dig a deep grave for the body near the shack. He even watched the following day from a distant hill as past-Logan dragged a deer carcass into the shack and gutted the thing, an attempt to cover up any forensic evidence there. The idea was to drown out blood with blood, making it seem like a hunter had simply used the space, not a murderer. He''d left the pelt and hooves near the shack to complete the scene. Neither Logan had any idea if it would slow police in the slightest.

    Later that day, Logan''s battery stock ran critically low, and rising dread at what might happen when he ran out meant Logan was using more and more batteries to keep himself level. Vicious cycle, that, he thought. He waited for a time he knew past-Logan was out of the home and took some from his house. Can I steal from myself? he mused, refilling his pack.

    Soon, freedom from living in the woods loomed just beyond the horizon. The 16th arrived, that critical day where so much had happened over so many iterations. This would be Logan''s third run at the same day: the first time, he had been trapped in the vet''s office sting, and the second time, he''d sent Parker back in time, gone shopping for provisions, visited the coffee shop, and moved the bikes before heading to the DeLange residence for dinner. He remembered that as he had fled the DeLange estate, he''d heard shooting and shouting from nearby. As the evening drew nearer, and, with it, the inevitable departure of the Logan who would be journeying to the warehouses to steal and set fire, Logan the Outsider became increasingly certain that the nearby shooting had been him.

    It made sense, after all. Logan couldn''t let Horace live, as he would surely tell the boys¡ªor possibly police¡ªall that he knew. It was all unraveling too fast to control now. He had to take control. He had to make sure the remaining three loose ends couldn''t flee¡­ it was time for him to make his final play. He had the Protectionizer and the Time Watch, so he felt just about invincible. He looked at the stone. Not just ''about'' invincible¡­ as invincible as invincible gets.

    He loaded all six chambers of his revolver with ammunition from the cabin and even packed additional rounds in each pocket. He next prodded the groove of scabbed tissue under his arm where Horace''s bullet had trailed. It stung to the touch. Not good¡­I might have to get that looked at. He then checked his watch, waiting for the right window of time to leave. And then he was on his way, closing in on the sleepy DeLange home in its peaceful, halcyon road that was about to erupt with gunfire, blood, and violence.

    <center>* * *</center>

    From outside, he caught glimpses through the window of a group happily dining and chatting and joking. Their blind joviality set Logan''s teeth near grinding, and he had to withdraw two batteries'' worth of red before he could regain his composure. He sat in perfect stillness just beyond their yard, ears attuned to his surroundings. He heard the rumbling of the garage door as a car sputtered out from the garage¡­ Martha and Clara DeLange have left the building, he thought. He then heard the opening and slamming of the trunk of the car in the driveway. The old man getting his rifle, he remembered. He''d be creeping back into the house now¡­ the fireworks would start soon.

    Logan waited until he heard the first gunshot, and then burst to his feet. He walked around the perimeter of the house, positioning himself near the side door where Horace would most likely flee. He then took cover behind a tree and waited.

    More gunshots rang out, and then came the shattering of glass. Thirty seconds later, a door was kicked open, and frantic footsteps raced away from the house. Logan rounded the tree and raised his weapon, feeling a twinge of pain from the wound on his arm. It cost him the shot as his bullet flew wide off-right, and his second was overcorrected too far to the left against the sprinting target.

    Horace''s mind was racing. His blood whooshed against his ears. His feet pounded against the hard dirt of the floor, each footfall a jolting shock that he heard and felt in his jaw, in his teeth as he ran full-tilt to cover. He had been sure he left the Logan boy behind in the kitchen¡­ who was this new shooter? And then his mind settled on that dreadful question: did he kill the other boy?

    There was no time for such considerations. Horace couldn''t even risk turning his head as he ran for his car. His side burned a raw, wet pain where he was sure he''d been shot by Logan. He couldn''t yet tell if it was a killshot or not, but his legs still worked, and so Horace ran, miraculously scrambling but not falling face-first as bullets exploded against the wall around him. Two fired shots had missed, but Horace didn''t want to push his luck for a third, so he leapt off and to the side as he rounded the corner of the house, using it as temporary cover. He then ran diagonally, staying within the corner''s cover, pushing his way until he had covered the lateral distance to the car. He then crept low and pressed his back against it, opening the doors for additional cover. He then propped himself and his rifle up, aiming down the rear of the car.

    Ronnie burst from the front door, quickly seeing Horace''s defensive position. He ran over and ducked near his great uncle, also using the car for cover at his back. "Stay low," Horace commanded, watching the corner of the house. He then passed Ronnie the car key from his pocket. "If you can reach the ignition from cover, switch her on." He saw someone begin to turn the corner and shot, his aim steady and true. It struck Logan with deft precision straight to the center of this chest, causing him to stumble backwards into cover. "Not another step!" Horace shouted. "Or I''ll put another to knock that rock from your hands and put a third right between your eyes." The engine turned over as the car roared to life.

    Logan didn''t turn the corner, but he yelled across it. "Ronnie, if you toss me the ring and Shaun''s plug, I can be on my way. Nobody else has to get hurt," he said, still mentally deciding if he''d keep his word.

    Ronnie twisted the ring on his finger, still struggling to believe any of it. "How could you do this?" Ronnie yelled, but the accusation in his voice felt pitiful, weak. He was confused, he was scared; he was disbelieving, hurt, and perhaps most of all in that moment, he was drained. "How could you do this to us?"

    Logan ignored the questions. "There''s another way this could shake out," Logan said. "I wait here for your mother to drive back, and maybe I just shoot her instead. How''d that sound?" Logan called.

    This was mask-off psychopathy, and to hear such cruelty from a voice once so familiar sent a chill down Ronnie''s spine. "You wouldn''t," Ronnie shouted in reply, not even sure if he even believed it.

    "Would I?" Logan asked.

    "She''s done nothing wrong!" Ronnie said, his voice cracking with pain. "She''s innocent. A sweet woman who never meant anyone any harm."

    "Now, now, now, tsk, tsk, Ronnie. You should know better than to try appealing to emotion with me¡­ I. Don''t. Have. To. Feel." Whether for dramatic emphasis, or for genuine need, Ronnie heard the hiss of the Empathizer from just around the corner. And Ronnie knew then that his friend was gone, long dead, and this twisted thing meant what it said. It shot Wade, and was likely the person responsible for Skinny''s disappearance. It was probably the reason Parker wound up decades in the past scarred to hell and back. All along, the biggest threat hadn''t been some interloper¡­ it had been their own friend, and they''d somehow been too blind to see it. Ronnie pulled the ring off his finger and felt the colors go dull, taking the last of his energy with it. The treadmill his thoughts had been flying along had suddenly had its plug pulled, and now he felt his understanding come crashing down against it. He looked at that ring, an unassuming thing with its bands of colored metal. He felt a deep longing for the days before these damned things had entered their lives, and brought their evil with them¡­ and then he swallowed hard, and threw it towards the corner of the house.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Logan saw the small projectile plop into the green grass just beyond the corner. He walked over, squeezing the protectionizer tight, and was not shot as he rounded the corner. The old man understood the exchange and it seemed he''d tolerate it. Logan dropped to his knees to rummage for the ring, which had gotten lost beneath the high blades of grass.

    His hand settled on it and he smiled as he slipped it on, the world seeming to spring to life in vibrant colors and patterns. It was the first true burst of joy he''d felt in a very long time, and Logan basked in its natural, yellow glow as the world sang to him. He was soaking it all in, this incredible spectacle, when the moment shattered. With a crack and a sudden force that blasted him forwards face-first into the grass, Logan realized he''d been shot from behind. Not where the old man and Ronnie were positioned, but from the house next door. He rolled over onto his back, feet pointed towards the threat, and pulled his weapon into a low stance, eyes sweeping low. Another round struck him and sent him rolling. Neither broke the skin, as he continued to hold his Protectionizer, but they certainly set him rattling as the bullet''s energy transferred into his body.

    "Mr. Lampert!" Ronnie cried, "get back!"

    But the neighborhood hero who''d responded to gunfire next door assumed his two shots had neutralized the threat. He lowered his gun and was caught altogether unaware as Logan raised his own yet again and fired his weapon, aiming for the center of his chest. Mr. Lampert''s robe blew back as though a sudden gust of wind had gotten underneath it, but this wind was crimson and wet, and Mr. Lampert dropped in its wake. Logan raised himself to a seated position as he heard the squeal of tires on pavement from behind him. They''re fleeing, he thought, standing up and assessing the collapsed neighbor. It was only then that he noticed the engine wasn''t getting quieter¡­ it was getting louder.

    The 1979 Mercury Cougar XR7 smacked into Logan with all the power the screaming engine could generate after gliding backwards down the driveway in neutral and then flooring it. Logan''s ring-sharpened reflexes had him squeezing the Protectionizer with every ounce of strength he could muster while he clutched at the gun in his other hand. Miraculously, both held. The collision with the front right of the car''s hood had him sprawled against it, face and upper torso along the hood while his hands and legs were pressed to the bumper, but the car seemed to crumple in with the impact more than he did. He clung to the Protectionizer desperately as the car continued forwards, hot engine shaking Logan''s entire world as it took him on a merry death ride towards its unknown destination. He couldn''t see it, nor could he hear it, but he knew something lay ahead¡­ a destination he''d arrive to with far too much speed.

    Car met tree at 35 miles per hour, twisted fragments of metal bursting outwards like a grisly puff of confetti. The sturdy wooden poplar creaked but remained upright, loose leaves shaking free and raining down over the crash site. The car was ruined, smoking and rattling as it died. In the front seat, Ronnie lay unconscious, bleeding from his forehead. And between car and tree, breathing heavily but otherwise unscathed, Logan screamed in primeval rage, the wood of the tree dented around him like the impact crater of an angry meteorite. The loose and hot metal had twisted about his body, pinning him between the car and the tree like a bear in the jaws of a bear trap. His hands were pinned low, still clutching the firearm and Protectionizer, though he could raise neither. He felt the rising tide of despair, of guilt, of that soul-burning helplessness¡­ but Logan couldn''t reach his Empathizer. He couldn''t move much at all. He could only stand there against the wood and watch Ronnie bleed in the driver''s seat, hatred and bile rising up within him.

    "I''ll kill you for this," he shouted, his voice a screaming parody of what it''d once sounded like. "And your mother. And your grandmother. And her dog, your uncle¡­ everyone." He then looked up and saw Horace standing there, regarding him with something that reeked of pity. Weakness, Logan thought. He should kill me¡­ but he can''t. He''s chained to his emotions¡­ while I''m chained only to fate. Sirens began their wailing call in the distance. Someone''s heard the trouble, it seems.

    He watched the old man walk to his car and open the dented trunk, removing a briefcase and a length of rope. He then approached the tree once again, and Logan spat at him with a hateful, burning stare. His rage burned away to fear, however, when the old man set to work. At first, Logan thought he was merely tying him to the tree. He''d started behind the tree, and then had looped the rope around the tree back to the other side. Logan could hear the man tying the rope on the other side into some knot, and could even feel the cord of rope itself move with each twist, but he couldn''t see. Then, as he began to pull the rope tighter and tighter, winching it in with his knot, Horace lifted the rope until it sat against Logan''s neck. He then returned to the far side of the tree and began to tighten the rope, pulling hard.

    The breath squeezed from Logan''s body as his head went tight and his vision went red. The pressure against his neck was unbearable, and though it didn''t cut his skin, it pressed his windpipe shut all the same. Logan jerked left and right, arms snapping up and down against their unyielding prison as his feet tried to kick free. A halo of dark began to creep in from his periphery.

    "Now!" Horace shouted, and Logan felt the gun in his hands beneath the bumper suddenly wrench free. He hadn''t seen anyone near, and so he hadn''t had his guard up, but it suddenly made perfect sense¡­ Shaun must be down by his feet, reaching under the twisted fender. He fought against the rope held tight to his neck and the rising pressure in his face and head¡­ it seemed he might explode any second. Shaun reached further underneath the twisted fender and found the latch of the watch and managed to slip it off, despite Logan''s flailing attempts to stop him. He then started to pry at Logan''s balled fist around the Protectionizer.

    Tires squealed on the pavement as the approaching police vehicle came to a quick halt and a lone officer jumped out, gun raised. What she saw was surely a grim sight¡­ someone was pinned between a car and a tree with a rope looped around their neck, suffocating. "Drop the rope now or I''ll shoot," Nora Campbell shouted. Horace ducked against the tree and recovered his rifle stashed there. He wouldn''t peek out and shoot her, because he knew this woman was only upholding the law, which was surely God''s work, but he couldn''t let her know that¡­ she''d surely charge in and arrest him. Best to shoot wide and get her ducking for cover. That might buy him a chance to escape. Plus, that voice; it was so familiar, he thought. And then he placed it. The woman at the auto repair shop. The woman who had been Jim Duncan''s own mother, according to the letters.

    The hairs on the back of Horace''s neck suddenly stood up as he heard a voice whisper in his ear. "Fourth and Mullover in about an hour," it breathed, before suddenly adding one more thought. "Get ready to run." To his side where the voice had come from, there was nobody at all¡­ the invisible one, he thought. He nodded.

    Then, the voice was gone, and Horace was again alone on the back of the tree. "Step away with your hands up!" Nora shouted, voice hoarse. She stepped forwards, eyes looking for a sign of the threat. She could move to the rope, but that would put her at risk¡­ which was more pressing? To relieve the boy''s choking, or to catch the man who''d tied him?

    "Go!" shouted a sudden, disembodied voice to Nora''s right. Horace ran. At that same moment, the gun in her hand was suddenly knocked with an unexpected force, as though someone had tackled it with all their might¡­ but there was nobody present. As the gun flew free from her hand, Nora twisted with its momentum and felt the whoosh of passing air as the invisible form sailed by.

    "The hell?" is all she managed as she fell to the grass on her side. She watched her gun glide away and launch across the neighbor''s fence, as though it had been thrown. Only then did she see the prone, crumpled form on the ground. She turned her head and watched the man with the rifle and the case vanish into the woods, and though she knew she could chase him down, the boy tied to the tree would soon suffocate to death. Knot first.

    She stumbled to her feet, not chasing after her gun, and scrambled over to the rope knot at the rear of the tree. She untied it with trembling fingers and let the slack rope tumble down, feeling a great weight lift from her as she heard the boy''s gasping, grateful breath in its wake. She then went to him, checking him for wounds against the car. Miraculously, there were none. "You''ll be ok," she said, not quite believing her own words. Surely there was deep, internal trauma, right? "You''ll be ok," she repeated, and then began to wonder if she was speaking to the boy or to herself. "You''ll be ok."

 Chapter 36 - Sacrifice

    Logan laid still against the tree, breathing heavily. His heartrate thundered in his head and his body trembled, but he kept his head lulled lazily downwards while the police woman babbled in front that he''d be ok¡­ he was feeling pretty far fuckin'' from it, lady. Still, he needed to appear helpless and broken, nearly dead, or she might stay on guard. So, he leaned his head limply and acted as feeble as he could, internally smiling as she first checked Ronnie''s breathing¡ªhe was still unconscious in the car¡ª and then went back to her car to call for backup. Logan knew what part might come next, and he trembled in anticipation at the quick play he''d have to make. Was Shaun still watching? Was he creeping only inches away, ready for Logan to try something? He imagined that yes, the boy probably was, but he had to try it all the same. If he was quick enough about it, he might be able to make this work.

    Logan faked a wheezing cough for noise cover. In that moment, he dropped the Protectionizer, which fell to the dirt between his feet with a soft thump. He moved a foot to cover it instantly, digging it down into the dirt with a twist left and right. He then listened intently. No charging invisible footsteps, no creeping in the grass¡­ If Shaun was nearby, he either didn''t seem to notice or hadn''t made his move yet. Game time.

    Logan wasn''t able to pull himself free, because he was trapped between a rock and a hard place¡­ well, a tree and a metal hunk of car. Neither would bend to him, and, with the Protectionizer, he couldn''t bend either. But he remembered back to a summer in his youth, when he''d seen a bear trap sprung with a hunk of rotten, maggot-covered meat in it. Apparently, a coyote had gotten its leg caught in the thing. But, rather than dying in the trap, the clever beast had done what needed to be done¡­ it had gnawed off its own leg, and limped away to freedom beyond. It was Logan''s turn to do the same. The tree wouldn''t give, and neither would the car¡­ but he could. He wound up by shifting his torso back against the tree. He peered into the car and saw Nora fiddling with her radio, glancing downwards. He had his opportunity, and it was time to take it.

    He lurched forwards and twisted as hard as he could, leveraging his bodyweight against his arm with every ounce of strength he could muster. He felt an eye-watering pop as he did so and wanted to scream out in pain¡­ take control, he told himself. You''re not helpless. You''re not trapped. Do what needs to be done.

    He tugged at the dislocated arm by twisting his body and felt immediate, searing pain, but he powered through it. He was able to move the thing at a wider angle than he''d previously been able to, bending it outwards in a way that would''ve required impossible shoulder movement. As he slid his arm forwards and outwards, the skin cut and scraped against the metal, but, instead of stopping against unbreakable skin, his arm was able to slide laterally as the metal bit in one centimeter¡ªnow two¡ªas Logan worked it. Then, all at once, it was free. He felt Nora''s gaze swing upwards, so he let his head swing limply to the side and closed his eyes. From her distance, she couldn''t see much over the crumpled hood of the car, but she could still see his head. Once she looked back down, Logan began to shimmy his body outwards and upwards¡­ metal scraped against bone along his hip. He wanted to scream out in pain, but he bit his tongue instead until it bled. He pulled his body up, blood lubricating his ascent, until his legs were free. And at that moment, he heard violent banging on the window to the police car in the driveway.

    * * *

    Nora was startled by a sudden series of furious knocks against her window. She looked up, expecting to see someone frantically fighting for her attention, but there was nobody there. It was at that moment that she noticed Logan Kessler was no longer pressed to the tree.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    She swung her door open and propelled herself out, eyes searching. She finally saw him standing up from the ground, as though he had been picking up some object from the floor. Was there some second weapon?

    "Don''t move!" she shouted, but Logan simply turned and ran towards the cover of the woods. She reflexively reached towards her holster before remembering that''s right, no weapon, and then she was running in pursuit. The boy had had a generous head start, and though he was wounded, once the soft grass gave way to the rough roots and brush of the forest, neither could maintain the full-speed desperate sprint they had started with. As he bolted through the forest, Nora just barely maintained a visual on him as he darted between distant trees and vanished around towering rocks. In the distance, Nora saw the thick cover of trees suddenly end. The boy''s run us right towards a cliff, she thought. As she drew nearer, both of them could now see the drop: it was a rocky ledge that gave way to a fall of about 35 feet, ending on twisting rocks and a large tree trunk lying along the cliff''s base. Both could also see that the edge they were running along ended ahead in a sharp corner. Logan could try and turn away, but that would give Nora the chance to run on an intercepting diagonal. Much to her surprise, the boy stopped, looking down the cliff. He stepped towards its edge.

    Nora closed the final distance between them and approached, arm outstretched. "Don''t do anything stupid, now¡­ fall onto those rocks wouldn''t end well. Just come back to the car with me," she said, stepping forwards slowly. Logan balled his fist tight and muttered something unintelligible to himself.

    He then stepped over the edge.

    Nora screamed, surging forwards as her stomach twisted in knots. She scrambled to the edge and peered over, fully expecting to see a grisly red spill, the kind of sight she would immediately regret seeing, the kind of scene that would keep her up at night in a cold sweat. Instead, this week of endless inexplicable twists had yet another impossible surprise for her: the boy was running on his feet away from the base of the cliff, seemingly unharmed.

    Nora looked left and she looked right, scanning for some kind of way down that wouldn''t involve a massive detour or a fatal plunge. As was just her luck of late, there was none. Logan had somehow dropped down nearly 40 feet onto twisting rock, and was running away from the scene.

    Am I losing my goddamn mind, or is this whole town?

    * * *

    The jump had been a leap of faith.

    In all their testing of the devices, none had thought to assess whether the Protectionizer could help against injuries from falling. But there, against that cliff, he''d had two options. Option one was fight Nora. Having the protectionizer was a huge asset, but he had a lame arm and she could likely easily overpower his one good one, invincible or not. One pair of handcuffs later and it would have all been over. Option two was to take a leap of faith and see just how far the device''s protection extended. It might have ended with him dashed against the rocks, dead as dirt. But it seemed his faith in the self had been rewarded, and he savored the taste of that freedom as he ran.

    Oh, how he ran. His ears rang from the impossible jolt at the bottom of the fall; his arm screeched in pain with every twist of his body; his hip was scraped to the bone and it cried out in agony with every footfall, and, oh God, there were so many footfalls yet to go. But still, Logan ran, putting as much distance between himself and Parker''s mother up on the cliff. A few uses of the Empathizer seemed to help with the pain as he withdrew the rage from his mind¡­ it still hurt, but the anger had been bellows that further stoked the flames of pain. The relief was instant and it was palpable.

    Only seconds after clearing his mind, he felt it bubbling back up like a wave of nausea. He moaned in impotent dread at what might come next. The game was up, the noose of the law closing in. They''d send folks to his house to arrest him, and he couldn''t fight off the entire town''s police force with one arm. They''d get their dogs sniffing through the woods and squeeze the air out of any hiding space like the rope around his neck until he was either dead or captured¡­ and Logan didn''t much like either of those options.

    Dark was near to falling, and Logan couldn''t fathom wandering blindly through the woods as wounded as he was. He found his general bearings and began to head towards his shack. Skinny and Parker both had known where it was located, but dead men tell no tales¡­ no one else knew where his Fortress of Solitude stood. He figured he''d at least be safe for the night there. Come morning, he''d set off.

 Chapter 37 - Mr. Creaks

    It was the fourth of February, 1970.

    "Take a seat, Cambpell."

    Police Chief Clyde Pemberton carried himself with the straight-backed pride of a new appointee¡ªa little stiff, but Nora could hardly fault him, being even newer herself. She sat at the desk, hands in her lap, still not quite used to the bulk of the police vest and holster. It seemed to hang awkwardly from her frame, but she supposed certain comforts only come with time.

    "When''d you start again, Sunday?"

    "Monday, sir," Nora said.

    "Day three," Pemberton said appraisingly. "How are you finding everything?"

    "Nice enough, though the rest of the boys at the station seem to have no idea how to act around me¡­ half won''t do a single thing I ask, while the other half seem bent on treating me like their mother, or explaining every little thing¡ªas though pulling my shirt over my head is a mystery I''d struggle to solve without them."

    "Yeah¡­" Pemberton said, shaking his head, "some adjustments take time. Be patient with them?"

    Nora nodded.

    "Now, Campbell, you''ve had your couple days of grace period to settle in, but, as the new hire, there''ll be a certain baseline of¡­ less desirable calls you''ll be first pick for."

    "New hire gets the shit," Campbell said, nodding. The Chief''s eyes boggled at the profanity.

    "Sorry," he said, "not used to such language from a, uh¡ª" he cut himself off before he could do any more damage. "Right, like I said, adjustments may take time."

    Nora waited patiently. "So¡­ the gruntwork?"

    The Chief shook his head to clear it. "Right. As you know, crime rates aren''t high in sleepy old Boone, so most calls are pretty mundane. People here have got different thresholds for when to call the police than do city folk, not that we ever minded being the gentle hand of the community."

    "So far the only crime I''ve seen was petty theft from a gas station shop."

    "I saw your report," Pemberton said. "Grand theft candy bar is often about as bad as it gets. One thing you''ll learn is that we got regulars¡ªpeople who call us often for not-so-urgent affairs. We tend to them as often as our schedules allow, but, with matters as peaceful as they are, that turns out to be pretty often."

    "And today I meet my first regular?"

    "Someone who''s been calling for the past few months¡­ his are always interesting calls to take, since he''s got a different voice every time he calls in."

    "What does that mean?"

    "He writes notes and gets people to call us, on account of being dumb¡ªcan''t talk a lick, as I understand it. Old as an oak. We call him Mr. Creaks. A bit freaky looking, but harmless."

    "And what is the nature of his emergency?" Nora asked with mocking seriousness.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Nora had head it said that pets take on the characteristics of their owners¡ªand, in her experience, that seemed to hold generally true.

    Mr. Creaks had no pets, but he had a wheelchair, and it was as rickety and creaky as he was¡ªor, maybe more accurately, he was as rickety and creaky as it was. He was wrapped in a heavy blanket to ward off the winter''s chill, though the supermarket interior was relatively balmy. Mr. Creaks shivered regardless.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    As Nora pushed his chair forwards, she dragged a shopping cart behind with her free hand. Patrons got one look at the old man and milled out of the way, some openly gawking. "Didn''t your mother teach you it''s impolite to stare?" Nora asked one particularly wide-eyed customer. He sheepishly scurried away.

    Periodically, Mr. Creaks would raise a hand¡ªsomething Nora had learned meant ''stop here''¡ªand then he would raise a wisp of an arm to point at something on the shelf. Nora would remove it and add it to the cart. She walked to the latest of such indicated items, some breakfast cereal in a box more colorful than most Woodstock posters.

    "My son loves this one," Nora said, adding it to the cart. "I try not to buy it too often for him, since it''s got more sugar than literal candy."

    She saw Mr. Creaks shift as he grabbed his pad and pen, scratching out one of his infamous notes. "No mother to tell me no," he wrote, and a mischevious smile broke out across his scarred face. Nora returned it with her warmest.

    "Perks of being old," Nora replied. She pushed the chair and cart forward again, advancing down the breakfast aisle. Apparently the old man had a private caretaker he often relied upon, but whether due to budgeting or schedule conflicts, it seemed he had gaps in his help. What''s worse, he seemed to have no real family to lean on: his adoptive family had cousins in the Boone area¡ªNora couldn''t remember their names¡ªbut it seemed none had a direct relationship with the old man. If not for city help, Nora had no idea what he''d do. She felt a stirring of pity for him. She wanted to speak up¡ªto ask him something about himself, engage him in any way that might make him feel less lonely¡ªbut before she could, she saw him begin the scrawling of yet another note,

    "Your son, tell me about him," the note said.

    "The gosh-darn center of my world," Nora began. "Just turned five, so he''s still got a lot of mischief in him, but that''s starting to mellow now. Inquisitive, generous, and not a mean bone in his body. Loves to help people¡­ you shoulda seen his face light up when I told him I was gonna become a police officer. For the rest of that night, I felt like the coolest person in the world. It was all he''d talk about all Christmas," Nora remembered.

    Mr. Creaks reached up to dab at his eye. She''d heard of eye injuries occasionally tearing up, and he had his handkerchief packed away in moments¡­ but then the handkerchief was right back out, dabbing a second time, a third. He was crying, Nora realized. She halted her push and moved to kneel in front of him, but he stuck up a stubborn hand and wheeled it forward, a gesture she''d learned meant keep going.

    "Are you sure?" Nora asked, and Mr. Creaks roughly nodded his head, a gesture that seemed to bring physical pain. He then stuck up the same note: "Your son, tell me about him," accompanied by the rolling hand gesture. And so, Nora continued.

    "Loves to read¡ªchews through a new kids'' book every other day, to the point where all the librarians know his name. He walks around like he owns the place, and he''s got the layout memorized, too. Knows right where they keep the picture books, and then he''ll spend a while gawking at the scifi novel covers. He wants to finally read one this year. Do you read, sir?"

    Mr. Creaks pointed, and Nora passed a loaf of bread into the cart. Then he began writing. "Little else I can do," the note said.

    "Any recommendations for what book to buy him?"

    Mr. Creaks appeared thoughtful for a moment, and then he wrote his response. He folded the note and wrote "Some recommendations" on the outside, handing it to Nora. She pocketed the paper.

    "Thanks, I''m sure he''ll love them."

    Mr. Creaks was already scribbling his next note. "He seems fortunate to have such an attentive and kind mother."

    Nora patted him on the shoulder. "That''s sweet of your to say. Were you close with your mother?"

    Mr. Creaks stared out, thoughtful. "She was a lot like you," he wrote. "Lost her when I was young. Cherish your time."

    Nora nodded, an idea forming. She walked to the front of the chair and knelt down, looking him in the eye. "Say, why don''t you come over for dinner this week? You could meet Parker, and my¡ª"

    but Mr. Creaks was already shaking his head. "Too kind," he wrote. "Maybe some time."

    He smiled as far as his scarred face would allow, and then he wrote his next note. "But it was lovely to meet you, Officer Campbell."

    He held her gaze, and Nora swore there was a familiar look to those eyes, a trace of someone she knew. It was suddenly driving her crazy, the way that those ancient eyes seemed to peer at her with uncanny familiarity. "¡­Are you sure we''ve never met before?"

    "No," Mr. Creaks said aloud, voice like torn paper. Nora hadn''t even known he could speak.

    The two finished their shopping trip, and then Nora helped him into a city transportation van that idled in the parking lot¡ªits destination unknown to her. It wasn''t until after she saw it leave, watching the lone, hunched silhouette within disappear down the road, that she realized something strange: he''d called her Officer Campbell, but she''d never told the man her last name. She''d only introduced herself as Nora.

    Oh, wait, duh¡ªname''s on my badge. Still not used to that, she thought, chiding herself for her own stupidity, looking for mysteries when there was just a strange old man. But something about him was still undeniably familiar¡ªshe''d have to ask some more about him during his next call. Despite the fact that it was "rookie gruntwork," she was looking forward to nothing more.

 Chapter 38 - The Ring

    Horace was twenty-five minutes late to their meeting.

    He''d spent the better part of an hour in the bathroom of his motel room, tending to the bullet wound he now bore. The thing had been a lucky miss, that was for sure¡­ a clean in-and-out that had ruined his clothing but wouldn''t kill him. Or, at least, not yet.

    Horace had splashed it with disinfectant, but perhaps it was too little too late¡­ the upcoming days would tell. He''d then managed to stitch himself using a fishing hook and the dingy bathroom mirror, remembering back to watching his father help stitch a cousin after a rifle accidentally discharged on one of their hunting outings. It burned like the devil, but a few pain pills later and he started to feel himself once again.

    After washing the blood from his hands and changing into something dark¡ªfor camouflage, and also so that it wouldn''t be ruined by further bloodstains¡ªhe made his way to the boy''s chosen intersection. He found it empty save for the occasional pedestrians milling their way among restaurants serving dinner as night set in.

    Suddenly, a voice whispered to his ear, crystal clear despite the apparently empty corner. "Alley, fifteen feet behind you."

    Smart kid, he thought. Cautious, too.

    Horace made his way to the alley, where he watched the boy materialize out of thin air. "You ok?" Shaun asked, gesturing to where Horace had been shot.

    "I should live," he said. "You?"

    Shaun nodded. "My leg got hurt but I think I''ll be ok."

    Horace put a hand on the boy''s shoulder. "It was a brave thing you did today."

    Shaun nodded again. "Logan¡­ did he¡­" the boy began, before trailing off before the weight of the question.

    "I''ve actually got some things for you, here," Horace said, opening the latches on his case. He opened it to reveal it was replete with papers and letters in sealed envelopes. Horace took out the entire stack of documents and handed them to Shaun.

    "I made a promise to a mutual friend of ours¡­ these papers will help explain what''s going on. I''ve got to go do a very dangerous thing, now, and I don''t want to risk these. You take care of them, yeah? And if I don''t come back to this corner within four hours, you read them, and you give this sealed envelope to Nora Campbell. Can you do that?"

    Shaun stared at the sealed envelope, its wrinkled paper the color of oatmeal. On its front, a single word was written: mom.

    "That can''t be from," Shaun began, trailing off again.

    "You give me four hours. I''ll either explain everything myself, or the letters will. One more thing, son. Can I have that invisibility toggle of yours? It''ll make my work much easier, being able to use stealth like that."

    "You''re gonna go after Logan, aren''t you?"

    Horace nodded gravely. "I''ve gotta finish this. And when it''s done, I''ll gather the lot of these things and destroy them all. They''re dangerous, and we don''t deserve them."

    Shaun bit his lip. This device was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years, if not his whole life¡­ a chance to be a superhero. A chance to be powerful. But he also knew that not everyone used power for good. Maybe something that made superheroes also was bound to make supervillains. If heroes necessitated monsters, maybe the world was better off with just people.

    He gave Horace the Invisibility Plug, and it truly felt like he was giving a part of himself up with it. He''d never read another comic book again, though he didn''t know that yet at the time. He put aside his childlike notion of heroes as he looked at the bleeding, haggard man before him¡­ a man who had made compromises to his beliefs to chase out what he thought was right. What he''d do next wasn''t good, but perhaps it wasn''t bad, either. He clutched the documents in his hand and wished him luck. "Be careful," he added.

    "I''ll see you soon," Horace said. And then he was off, walking down onto the street with his hunting rifle slung over his back.

    <center>* * *</center>

    An entire page of Jim''s writing had discussed the structure Horace now headed towards. The letter had described a small cabin, hidden out in the woods, where Logan would sometimes go shelter from the world. The letter detailed how Jim¡ªas a child¡ªhad once found the troubled youth hiding away in that cabin while the rest of the town thought he''d run away for good. Now, with the law having good reason to apprehend Logan, he''d surely have few places to go. The cabin seemed like a great candidate to check.

    So convinced was Jim Duncan that the cabin would be significant for Horace''s work that the old man had gotten his late-life caretaker, Brianna, to take him for a stroll through the woods beside Boone in his best off-road wheelchair. He''d told her that it was all for his study of poetry, and that he wanted to immerse himself in nature. Truth be told, Brianna didn''t seem to mind the outdoor hikes, as she grew to dread Jim''s stale bedroom air.

    That had been back in the 60''s, according to the letter. He''d left town from the closest landmark he could remember and directed her the best his distant memory could guide. After the second day of hiking around, he''d found the small shack, which actually stood cleaner and sturdier than he''d remembered. It was a recent thing in those years.

    He wrote down detailed instructions to locating it, which Horace had long ago committed to memory. He knew the landmarks to seek out, several of which had featured accompanying drawings in his instructions: there was a tree that had absorbed a bicycle tire near its base, a stone formation that resembled an alien UFO, a miniature stream that ran through a corridor of stone and tumbled into a small valley ten feet below. Now, in the dark, he found those landmarks by flashlight''s glow and made his way deeper into the woods, closing in on the cabin. For the final stretch, he clicked off his flashlight and navigated by moonlight alone. He worried about this part, wondering if he might miss the thing entirely. However, it was a cloudless night, and the crescent moon''s light soon glistened on the sloping metal roof of a lone structure ahead in the gently creaking woods. Bingo, he thought.

    Horace set his briefcase at the base of an ash tree. In it, the Time Watch sat wound and ready for his contingency plan, but Horace wouldn''t dare wear the cursed thing. He then toggled the Invisibility Plug, plunging himself into that strange etherealness. Despite the complete dark of the rural woods, his vision became even darker, murkier somehow. He could see just about nothing but the faint glimmer of light on the structure''s roof, but that would have to suffice. He held that light in his eyes and crept towards it.

    He froze in place as his boot clanged against something metal. If the boy had been awake, and listening, he might have heard that abnormal jolt in the night¡­ Horace peered down at the black swirling murk near his feet and couldn''t see anything. He knew that if he turned the invisibility plug off, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight, he could probably discover what his foot had glanced against. But if the boy were awake and listening, re-materializing right outside his cabin door would not be the wise course of action. Horace knew the cabin had a window on its side, but he couldn''t see it in the murky darkness. Invisibility was his cloak, and he drew it tight about his shoulders as he stood silently in place. Is there a pair of eyes there, staring out into the night, searching for me with wicked intent?

    <center>* * *</center>

    Logan held his breath, peering out the window towards the innermost of the four bear traps he had set. Those small circles of metal glinted faintly in the moonlight, and as his eyes strained against the shadows he could see the jaws hadn''t snapped shut on any of them. All four were still primed. Still, something had struck one and roused him from his fitful half-sleep; the sound of that metal was unmistakeable. And now, as he glanced at the four traps, he could see no nearby solid object that might have struck them. There were no pinecones that might have tumbled from a tree, no collapsed branch that might have rattled one. His stomach dropped as realization set in. Shaun is here, and he''s invisible.

    He looked around the cabin, scanning for a powder he could throw to find the invisible attacker. Seeing none, he then looked for a suitable liquid. Logan had used all of the sodas and drinks he could find to help wipe away all the blood that had pooled here from Skinny''s murder and the deer carcass both¡­ he''d have no help there. Exasperation rising, he instinctively reached for the Empathizer, but then he paused. A glowing battery could give me away, he reasoned. I need to think. His fingers dropped to his pocket and pulled out the Intelligence Ring. He avoided wearing the thing, as it kept his thoughts racing like a sprinter running downhill, always threatening to tumble flat onto his face. When he wore the ring, his mind lapped back to the horrible things he''d done, and it always summoned that horrid four-part melody that set his teeth grating: buzz, rattle, patter, click, buzz, rattle, patter, click. It summoned to his mind the wet crunch of an ax biting into Parker''s shoulder, and of the helpless fear the eyes of a boy bleeding out on a kitchen floor in the arms of someone he''d once thought his friend. No, Logan couldn''t wear the ring and retain his sanity. But oh, how he needed it now.

    As he slid the Intelligence Ring onto his right hand, which hung limply from his lame right arm, he felt the electric sensation of pain mingle with a jolting of a new energy that pulsed up his arm, right up into his spine, and straight into his brain. The ineffable buzzing of his boosted thoughts made the room spin, and immediately his mind stumbled around in sloppy disorientation, fixing on the demons he had banished to the darker portions of his psyche. But within seconds, he tamed the rampaging thoughts like the calming of some bucking mustang, and he temporarily felt the beast once again under his control¡ªeven if only for a time. He gritted his teeth and willed that ring now to grant him with some kind of idea, anything to save his life. It was a prayer not to God but to himself, to his own wisdom¡ªor to the cleverness of the ring, if there were such a difference. And then, a smile cracked across his face so wide that Horace might have seen the moonlight glinting off his teeth if not for the artificial darkness of invisibility. The idea he''d needed had come, and it was so deliciously simple he was astonished he''d not thought of it before.

    Logan imagined then the infernal eye of Sauron that towered over Mordor on its onyx-black column of hellish rock, peering for the sneaking hobbits that crept towards Mount Doom. When the hobbits slipped on their ring and went invisible, the eye could sense their presence¡­ if not in sight, in mind.

    Logan''s hand gripped the Thought-Enunciator in his pocket and his smile bled with self-satisfaction, recalling the poem from the Lord of the Rings as he set to his work.

    One Ring to rule them all,

    He raised the device and pointed its satellite dish towards the furthest bear trap. Only silence returned.

    One Ring to find them.

    He turned it to the next bear trap, silent as well. Mordor was an expanse before him, and his eye searched with unfaltering focus.

    One Ring to bring them in,

    He pointed it to the third, and he heard the frantic mental stream of an unseen figure deciding whether to creep forwards or stay put.

    and in the darkness bind them.

    Setting down the Thought-Enunciator and grabbing his revolver in his left hand, Logan raised the gun and fired straight through the window at the third bear trap. The glass exploded outwards and his ears rang in protest, but Logan was already on his feet. He bolted to the generator behind the shack and reached for the cord, but a voice in his mind, perhaps the ring''s, protested. Don''t pull that, he thought. That will help them see you, but won''t help you see them. He nodded, agreeing with himself. He instead crept back into the cabin, keeping low to the ground. As he did so, the wood near his head exploded with the impact of a rifle round, sending woodchips flying. He dove into the shack and covered his head. He had a dilemma, he now realized. His right arm was just about useless. He could squeeze the Protectionizer in his good left hand, and have effectively no means to work his weapon, or he could place the Protectionizer in his wounded right, and at least be able to fire his gun. He decided on the latter, his right hand squeezing the protective device faintly.

    He hoisted the gun above his head and fired blindly out the window once. He''d reloaded the gun hours ago, meaning he''d started with six shots tonight. He was now down to four.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Horace remained sprawled prone on the ground, a position he''d dropped to after the window exploded outwards from the first gunshot. He had his rifle trained forwards in a position that reminded him of a sniper''s, waiting for movement. The first bullet fired had missed him, miraculously, but some shards of glass hadn''t been so inclined¡­ Horace felt the white-hot sting of broken skin at several dots along his face, neck, and a particularly sharp point somewhere near his right rib. When he''d dropped, he felt a tearing at the gunshot wound he''d stitched not even a full hour ago¡­ he wondered if it was open and bleeding again. No time for a medical examination, he thought. In the murky dark, he thought he saw the boy dart from the shack''s rear back into its front door, and he fired at that retreating form. A miss, he noted as it struck the wooden side of the shack. Who''d have thought being hard to see makes it hard to see, he mused. The air above him ripped with the passing of a bullet fired blindly from cover, not posing any particular risk of hitting Horace. From here on the ground, his face mere inches from the strange ring of metal, Horace could now identify the bear trap he''d nearly stepped on¡­ he shuttered at the thought.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    He needed to advance, but he didn''t want the boy knowing precisely where he was running. And so, Horace fired his rifle at the shack, levered the bolt, and fired again, the thunderous crackles hiding his footsteps as he scurried up to the shack''s edge. He pressed his rifle against the thin wooden wall and listened.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Within the shack, Logan again set down his revolver and picked up the Thought-Enunciator. He knew the blindfire had been to hide Horace''s movements, and so it was time to figure out where the rat had scurried to. He began a wide, circular sweep from the center of the room, moving the device slowly as he rotated. As he turned to the south wall of the cabin, a foreign voice entered his mind: the old man''s. Was that click his weapon being set down? the voice asked, tense and determined in equal measure. Logan imagined a laser beam shooting from his device. He twisted slightly to the left, and slightly to the right, listening for precisely where the voice dropped out. Judging by the angle he could turn before losing the man''s thoughts¡ªwider than he had anticipated¡ªhe could judge the old man to be close. Very close indeed.

    His left hand was a poor shot and he knew it. So, Logan set the device silently in his pocket and began to creep towards the wall, wanting to line up his shot as closely as possible. As he stepped, his foot struck a battery that laid dull and unglowing on the floor. It skittered as it rolled, clanking into the leg of one of the shack''s chairs.

    A monstrous bang! immediately filled the space as the wall seemed to burst into a spray of wood debris and heat. Logan felt as though a train had struck him in the face. He was propelled away from the wall and spilled over onto his back, world spinning and lurching as he toppled. I am alive, Logan thought numbly, mentally checking his body for wounds. It seemed as though neither bullet nor sharpnel had punctured him at all. His awareness prodded at his hand and discovered yes, it somehow still clutched the Protectionizer. And then, in what seemed like a mere heartbeat, the pressing weight of an invisible foe was on top of him, pinning his arms down against the ground.

    A rifle materialized on the ground to Logan''s left; It seemed the old man had let it go, ending its invisibility. While Logan''s left arm was pinned against the ground, he angled his wrist to point the gun at Horace''s weapon. He then fired his revolver into the rifle, erupting in a small burst of metal shrapnel and wood. Horace yelped as the fragments of hot metal and wood bit at his unseen flesh, but even these only glanced off of Logan as he still gripped the Protectionizer.

    Seizing the momentum, Logan jerked his weight to the right and rolled over on top of the invisible foe, the two still locked in a tight grapple. Horace''s arm was clasped tight around Logan''s left arm, and unexpectedly, the man was alarmingly strong, but Logan struggled with every ounce of strength he could muster. He tilted his left wrist lower and lower, aligning the gun slowly but inexorably towards where the man''s head might be. He was winning, and they both knew it. He saw only empty air beneath him, and so he spat, noting where the dribble of saliva plopped to the wood, and where it struck seemingly nothing at all. There you are, Logan thought.

    The gun crept inwards degree by miserable degree, the old man''s strength beginning to wane. Finally, it arrived to range, and Logan squeezed the trigger, the short range blast momentarily blinding and deafening both of them. As the flash cleared, Logan saw the sheared off flesh of the man''s ear, and the trickle of blood from an insivible spigot¡­ he''d fired too soon.

    Two left in the chamber, Logan thought. As he continued to press the hand inwards, he felt the man''s other hand prying at the Protectionizer in Logan''s weakened right. Just¡­ a little¡­ more¡­ Logan thought, body shaking with exertion. He twisted his left desparately and squeezed as tightly as his right could manage. The gun rotated past the trickle of phantom blood, and even another degree beyond that point still. It would surely now be aimed at the man''s head.

    Logan squeezed the trigger, and again, both were blinded by that deafening boom and blinding flash¡­ but as the bullet raced towards Horace''s invisible skull, it struck against the man''s Protectionizer-protected face and exploded into shrapnel, hot shards of metal blasting back into Logan. And this time, they found purchase in Logan''s exposed flesh. He''d lost the struggle for control of Wade''s device.

    One small shard found Logan''s right eye, moving through it with the resistance of a hot knife plunged into a tub of butter. Logan screamed as he recoiled, wanting to claw at his face, but both arms were still gripped tightly. And as his mind raced and he screamed and wailed and shook in wrath, he felt the tide of their struggle again begin to turn.

    <center>* * *</center>

    Horace pried the gun from the screaming youth''s grip and managed to again roll him to underneath as the two grappled. He then withdrew his hand from the boy''s clearly-wounded right arm and pressed his forearm against Logan''s throat, squeezing the device as he pressed the air from Logan''s neck. The boy''s right hand scratched and clawed ineffectually at Horace, who now felt the strange protection cover his body completely. The boy''s struggles weakened rapidly, and soon Horace managed to wrench the gun from his left hand. The boy''s arms fell limply to his side.

    Horace pressed down harder on the boy''s throat and trained the weapon at his head, before loosening the press against his neck. Logan gasped a narrow breath like a swimmer who had been trapped deep underwater.

    "All the devices," Horace said. "No games, or I shoot. Give them to me."

    He watched as the boy bit back the urge to scream, one eye wild with animal fear and the other squeezed shut, bleeding. Horace saw the gun he held pointed at this boy''s head and thought how can this be God''s will? How can killing someone like this do an ounce of good in the end? Horace shuddered and bit back the sense that maybe this vengeance being right was as much him lying to himself as much as it was Jim''s lie. This was cruel; this was vindictive. This boy deserved prison, but not death. Or, if he did deserve death, it wasn''t Horace''s call to make¡­ only the Lord''s. And now that the boy was disarmed, the system could serve the justice he deserved. He resolved himself then to not kill the boy¡­ but he would bring him back to town, and turn him in to the policewoman Nora Campbell. And then, he would take these devices and throw them straight into the ocean, making certain that such temptations never fell into vulnerable hands again.

    With the gun pressed to his temple, Logan compliantly slipped off the ring from his finger, which spun as it clattered to the floor. Next came the Thought-Enunciator, set next to the ring. Finally, with great reluctance, he removed the Empathizer from his pocket and set it to the side, a few batteries rolling on the ground with it. Keeping the gun pointed to Logan''s head, Horace used his other hand to scoop up the three items and placed them in his inner jacket pocket. Horace then stood and toggled the Invisibility Plug, materializing from the dark.

    "Stand," Horace commanded. Logan stood slowly and swallowed. "Out the door," Horace instructed, and Logan walked out the shack. As Horace left, he grabbed the lone flashlight and shone it at Logan''s back. Horace had light, and Logan didn''t. If he ran, he was as good as found.

    Horace instructed him forwards, staying behind the boy with the gun trained on his back. When Logan had arrived near to the tree where Horace had stashed his case, he instructed the boy to stay still for a moment. Horace retrieved the case, opened it, and placed the strange artifacts gingerly inside. As he snapped it shut, Logan began to sprint away desperately, bolting with all the skittish energy of a wild animal trapped in a situation it couldn''t comprehend. He fled, blinded by the light, stumbling into trees and scraping against shrubs as his feet carried himself forwards. Horace jogged and was easily able to keep pace, keeping the light trained on the boy''s back. "Stop running," he called, but the boy stumbled onwards. "I''m growing tired of this," Horace called, but still he ran.

    Logan''s feet carried him forwards into the dark. His shadow danced left and right in front of him, hiding trees and bushes that he smashed into repeatedly as he ran, and yet he couldn''t stop. It was all unraveled. His Empathizer¡­ gone. He felt the swelling of the tides, and he knew that he was crumbling under their motion¡­ his mind stood on the brink of snapping for good. He had one hope left, a desperate hope beyond hope that could still win him the day¡­ the body in the woods. What if it has a weapon? Or, better: what if there were more than six devices? What if there had been a seventh one, and we simply hadn''t noticed? There had to be, it wouldn''t make sense unless there was one¡­ there had to be one. Just had to be. On and on his desperate mind raved, clinging for some sliver of hope. In truth, the only thread that kept Logan''s mind from crumbling irrevocably was the certainty that there was such a device, a blind faith in spite of a total lack of evidence. He couldn''t rationalize failure, because failure would mean spending the rest of his life with this surging tide of burning hot emotions, a feeling tantamount to someone holding his mouth open and pouring boiling water down his throat day in and day out. Those unfair colored chains would stack up in every waking moment around his neck until their suffocating weight drove him mad. It''s just ahead now, he thought. Just ahead.

    As the boy scrambled ahead, bleeding, Horace came to recognize exactly where Logan was heading. He''d memorized all the maps in Duncan''s letters, and this landmark they headed to was the site of what would''ve been Horace''s contingency plan. Near the peak of the ridge Logan now stumbled up was the spot where they''d found the corpse with the devices. If too much had gone wrong, but Horace survived, he was to go back in time to July 1st, 1981, and steal the devices before the boys could find them¡­ paradoxes or not. It was the backup chute, the last straw. It had been just east of Cliff Rock¡­ and now Logan stumbled past that dark tower of stone, honing in on the clearing.

    Horace felt a deep, resonant pity for the boy, driven by desperation back to where it had all begun. Perhaps he was searching for another device? A desperate way to deny his fate and escape from consequences?

    Horace tucked the boy''s gun in the rear of his waistband and walked after him, shaking his head in sorrow. I am sorry, Lord, for torturing this boy so. I will repent¡­ Oh, Lord, how I will repent.

    He crested the hill just behind Logan and watched as the boy dropped to his knees in a clearing. The sour, acrid stink of death blew in the gentle breeze to Horace''s nostrils, and he had to fight the urge to vomit there and then. Logan didn''t seem to mind. He crept over a dark, rotting thing, a body that had had a month to decay in the sweltering summer heat. Horace was grateful that the shadows hid much of the details¡­ he wouldn''t have wanted to see anything that gave off the scent that now assailed his senses.

    Logan leaned over the slumping, bloating thing, hands desperately pawing at his clothes for pockets. The clothing was wet, cold, soggy, and sticky, and Logan felt squirming motion where his hand dipped into empty pockets. He tried to slide a hand under the thing''s back, but quickly found that it had rotted to the floor¡­ it seemed body and ground made a nearly watertight seal he couldn''t easily slip beneath.

    "Are you finished yet?" Horace asked, walking near to the corpse on the ground and the desperate scavenger above it. He kept a safe distance out of arm''s reach, waiting for the boy to tire of picking through the corpse. "I''m sorry, son," he said. "It''s over."

    To see such misery broke Horace''s heart, and the smell of death shook his whole mind. He longed for the buzz of a smoke, and hoped literally any new smell might drown out that horrible smell. He pulled a cigar, still wrapped, from his jacket pocket and turned his back to the wind to light it, holding his lighter in one hand and the cigar and briefcase in the other.

    Logan pressed his hand to the small of the corpse''s back and felt it enter a wet, lukewarm stew that set his skin crawling. He retched dryly, but he still pushed his hand forwards, prodding for some final secret the corpse guarded. And then, when all seemed finally over, his hands found the comforting weight of cold metal. A seventh device¡ªhidden beneath the corpse all along.

    He yanked it out, looking at the deep-red-stained sticky thing he held in his hands. His spirits soared as he identified it as a weapon¡ªsomehow, so very similar to Dad''s. It was as if fate wanted him to have it, as if fate had given him a chance to take it all back¡­ it was time to make good on the treasures the world offered.

    He aimed the revolver at the stooping back of the man lighting his cigar. He squeezed the trigger and the gore-covered hammer clicked to the round in the chamber, and its flash was the most beautiful light Logan had ever beheld. The bullet ran through Horace''s spine and punched into the briefcase he held before him¡­ and then he was gone in a brilliant flash of white light and a crackle that seemed to issue from the pounding of God''s own hammer against the anvil of the world.

    Logan sat, stupefied, as he crept forwards to the spot on the grass where Horace had just been. A fine layer of black soot drifted lazily in the air, sprinkling down softly across the grass and trees and indeed even Logan''s skin. It only took a moment for the truth to set in: they were gone.

    There was a weighty moment of stillness marked only by the boy''s ragged breathing in the forest that echoed with the receding crack of the jump through time. Logan was perhaps too stunned to feel anything at all, but then he felt the first trickle of black-tinged regret. It wasn''t yet an emotional construct, but rather one fashioned out of cold, logic-based self interest. His plans had unraveled; his goals were now unattainable, and consequences would be coming. For those reasons, and those alone, Logan began to wish that he hadn''t done any of it¡ªthat he''d borrowed the damn things, or that he''d stolen them in the night, or that he and the boys never opened the case at all.

    The regret pooled within him as he felt a new trickle of purple-tinged despair, and Logan realized something disquieting: the emotional dam that had held it all back in his mind was already cracking away¡­ then came the spray of guilt, and then came the flow of shame, and then came the flood of hatred and the deluge of terror and the surging column of rage and the tidal wave of dread, an emotional breach that he knew would surely break him.

    He screamed a primal, enraged shriek that tore at his throat and threatened to be the last noise his throat ever made¡­ but soon the scream was choked out by the sobs, and how the sobs came in wave after violent wave. He pressed the bloody barrel to his own temple and squeezed his eyes shut tight, telling himself this was long overdue. He squeezed the trigger and awaited relief, but the empty chamber only clicked in its wordless defiance¡­. Dad''s son after all.

    <center>* * *</center>

    It was July 1st, 1981.

    Horace materialized in the clearing with a flash of light, looking down at the briefcase that now sported a bullet hole in its front panel. I had the only gun, he thought, feeling something immediately very wrong. His own weight seem to increase more and more by the second¡ªor was gravity becoming stronger? He tried to step backwards, towards the unexpected gunshot, and even managed two stumbling steps, but his left leg seemed to be entirely boneless, made of Jell-o. He toppled to the floor, falling onto his back, clutching at the briefcase as gravity seemed to press down harder and harder. I can feel it coming, Lord, he thought, knowing that death hovered just beyond. Please, forgive me for my misdeeds. And then his eyes widened. The final details slotted into place: Horace had succeeded, but so, too, had he failed¡ªthe problem''s solution was also its cause. The Lord''s plan, as ever, proved an unchangeable thing.

    Logan''s gun, still with one round in its cylinder, pressed to Horace''s back as a point of icy cold in the spreading warmth of blood against the grass. Six items in his case, and a seventh beneath his back. As he rattled his final, parting breaths, and Horace closed his eyes, at long last ready to meet his creator, a boy of twelve watched with eyes full of terror and fascination. A traveler had appeared and then had crumpled to the ground. He flashed back to the comic books he had read and his child''s mind was already racing for its explanation¡­ was that an alien in the woods?

 Epilogue - The Breeze

    In the great valley of the Appalachian Mountains, Boone sat quiet with the mid-night stillness of deep and dreamless sleep. But stirring in its slumber, the town murmured with the calls of nocturnal animals, the gentle rustling of canopies of trees, and the occasional sigh of a passing automobile in the dark. Logan Kessler, once a boy yet now a monster, had been tormented by the music of his misdeeds. But as the sun neared to rise, a new symphony was beginning, and its instruments were ready for their debut. First was the steady, marching drumbeat: a regular, electronic beeping kept vigil over a boy with head wrapped in white bandages while Clara and Martha DeLange slept peacefully in hospital chairs near the bedside. Ronnie was recovering well, only suffering a minor concussion. Nearby in the same complex came the next sound: the rattling of a metal fragment on a metal tray, as a coroner removed a bullet that had punctured a young man''s lung. There then came the wailing of the Kerrigan mother, and the midnight sobs of the Trent father who felt a grief for the loss of his son and the spindly grip of the nighttime pain whose hold was sometimes stronger than his wife''s embrace upon his back. There was the sound of a shy boy telling a positively unbelievable story to a police officer, a mother, as she burned her way through cigarettes and tamped them silently on the glass tray to her right. The next sound was the unfolding of crinkly aged paper by her careful hand, lifting the handwritten letter adorned with a single word on its front: Mom. And with that crinkle came a furious crescendo to fortissimo as new voices joined in the second movement.

    There was the wailing of a chorus of police sirens in a shifting harmony, the roar of engines and squealing of tires as they cleared the Kessler residence. There was the barking of dogs as on-foot police officers raced towards the shack described in the letter, and even the trembling rumble of a helicopter rising over the woods. There was the shrieking laugh of a madman covered in gore, whose own ears rang with the imagined sound of churning waves washing over and through him, flattening the sand further with each rising crash¡­ and then there was the serrated click of handcuffs slipped over trembling, bloody wrists.

    As the sun peeked over the horizon, the final sounds that comprised the last movement played at a much slower tempo, and these sounds were perhaps also the softest. There were three of them, and these three were perhaps the most important to the whole piece of music.

    The first was the sniffle of crying wrangled under control, and the near inaudible pat of a supporting hand placed upon a shoulder. It was Michelle Trent''s hand upon Jackson''s, as the two sat up in their plush, white bed and began to wonder how shall we carry on when we''ve lost so much? The answer to that question was in the love he felt beneath that gesture¡­ its sound was rejuvenation. The pain bit and it bit sharply, both physical and emotional pain dominating Jackson''s mind, but the warmth in that gesture began to do something unexpected. It began to transmute that pain like carbon, trapped beneath the weight of a mountain, might turn to diamond. The hurt was an unpleasant thing, but he wouldn''t trade it for the world¡­ he would rather remember, and be inspired by that loss to carry on even more. After all, he had to live for Skinny now, to take his boisterous smiles and stories to as many as he could. An emotional spreading of the ashes, he thought. And for the first time in days, he smiled with genuine warmth.

    The second sound was the whispering thud as a bundle of flowers was tossed to the floor in front of a strange tombstone. Nora Campbell wrung her hands, looking at the unadorned marker, and felt simultaneously absurd for believing anything about this and the hollow loss that came with that belief, if she accepted the boy''s story as true. Nora had thought "boys and their imaginations" as he had begun, and then she had switched to "this boy might be legitimately crazy" as he started to produce the bundle of documents he''d brought. But then, when she had read the letter labeled Mom, filled with so many stories only Parker could know, the tears had begun and they hadn''t fully stopped for hours beyond. When she set down the letter with trembling hands, she''d sent the boy home, and, after some mental deliberation, she submitted an anonymous tip for Logan''s whereabouts. She knew nobody at the station would believe such a story. So why am I here? she wondered, looking at the gravestone. JIM DUNCAN, it said along the top in blandly embossed letters. 1885-1972. "If you''re down there," she whispered, before pausing to think. "In the grave, that is¡­ and not just somewhere out in town¡­" She licked her lips and swallowed, knowing that Parker hadn''t come home last night. "If that''s you in there¡­ I wanted to say I''m sorry. I''m sorry I didn''t help you¡­ I''m sorry I let this tombstone get all cracked and eroded. I''ll care for it now¡­ keep it as clean as you deserve. I love you," she said, sitting in the grass before the unassuming marker. "I love you." She then removed the book she''d brought with her¡ªone she''d found in Parker''s bedroom, apparently mid-read. It had been one he read through when he was a young boy, and evidently had returned to only recently. On front of the tombstone, she gingerly placed the book: The Time Machine, by HG Wells. Then she gasped, eyes wide, as she flashed back to the strange grocery trip with the ''regular'' who had never called again. He had passed a note with book recommendations. The Time Machine had been his selection, the reason she''d bought it for Parker. "Mr. Creaks," Nora choked; the tears returned, and this time it was a flood.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    The third and final sound was the crackling of flame. Shaun looked at the small firepit in Clawson-Burnley Park, listening to the sound of laughter drifting in the breeze. Children ran through the nearby playground, and a whistle came from a nearby community game of soccer, followed immediately by the cheering of a crowd. Shaun opened his backpack and flipped past the comic book in the front pocket. Finally, his hand closed on the first piece of construction paper he sought, and he pulled it out. The paper was thick and colored a vibrant purple. A drawing of six men in colorful costumes and fists raised heroically spanned the entire page, rendered as though the cover to some brand-new comic book. He tossed it in the fire, watching the licks of flame race up from the heroes feet to the title he''d written at the top in bold, 3D lettering. "The Incredible 6 and the Misterious Alien Artifakts," he''d proudly penned. As it burned, he pulled more sheets from his backpack. The first was a drawing of the Empathizer in close-up, which Shaun tossed in without hesitation. He savored watching the fire blacken and destroy the thing, feeling a visceral shudder as it did. Next was a sketch of Logan holding his device proudly and soothing a crying woman¡­ "Dr. Feel Good!" the title exclaimed. He burned that one, too. The next was Skinny wielding the Thought-Enunciator with an exaggerated satellite dish attached to the end of it. "Captain Mindread!" wrote the text on the top, and Shaun couldn''t help but smile¡­ what was it that the pastor had said at the memorial? "Skinny will always be in our thoughts¡­" He laughed at that, and, for a moment, his laugh was indistinguishable to that of the children playing nearby.

    He looked at the drawing of Skinny, and then to the one he''d made of Wade deflecting sword blows like they were pool noodles, labeled The Invincible Boy, and then the picture of Parker battling a dinosaur labeled Father Time. He looked back to the flame. Do I burn these? he asked himself. Or do I want to remember them?

    And then, as though Boone itself made the decision, the wind gave him his answer. It gusted upwards and the pictures took flight, tumbling through the breeze as though animated once again. Shaun ran after them as they raced around trees, whirled through the playground, danced across the lakeshore, and pretty soon Shaun realized he was no longer chasing after them¡­ he saw the greenery so full of life, looked at the families pushing strollers, and then back to the pages of memories that flitted with the breeze, and he decided then that he ran with them. He made no effort to grab, no effort to catch them¡­ and he certainly no longer wanted to burn them. He only ran alongside as they took triumphant flight through the park, and floated up in the drafting air to the cloud-ringed skies above.

    And finally, after glorious fanfare, the orchestra was silent.