Henry Franks(37)

He shook his head. “Not even a little.”

“See, that’s why we’re looking for your father’s school.”

“Why?”

“Maybe that will help us Google you,” she said. “That’s reason number two.”

“Is that the best you could come up with?” he asked.

“It’s short notice; I’m sure I’ll come up with something better eventually.” She laughed. “I always do, don’t I?”

“Usually,” he said, trying not to laugh along with her.

She bent over the pillbox, studying the medicine piled in each compartment. “Nightmares?” she asked.

“About my daughter.”

“Elizabeth?”

Henry closed the pillbox and pushed it to the side. The small piece of paper caught on the corner and he spread it open.

Justine picked it up and read off the names. “Victor. Elizabeth. Christine. Frank. ORD. CME-U, I remember that one. That wasn’t much help to Google either. Is this your research list?”

“What there is of it.”

“Who’s Victor?”

“Elizabeth’s father.”

“Ask her for last names,” Justine said, handing the piece of paper back to him.

“Who?” Henry folded it up and put it under the pills again.

“Elizabeth,” she said. “In your dream, ask her.”

“I’m not sure … ” Henry said, and then fell silent. “They’re not that type of dream, I guess. Does that make sense?”

“They’re your dreams, Henry,” she said. “Can’t hurt to try.”

“They’re not.”

“Not what?”

“My dreams,” he said. “Though I once asked her my name. That’s how I learned about Victor.”

She looked up at him and then reached out for his hand, running her fingers up to where the pin had left its mark on his skin. “Ask her for me?”

He nodded.

“And no more pushpins.”

Henry pulled them out of the wall, one by one, and lined them up on the desk. Their metal tips were stained as they bumped against each other. When he’d pulled them all down, he rolled them into her hands and watched as she dumped them in the trash with the wadded-up tissues.

“Better?” he asked.

She smiled. “Have you told your father?”

“About?” he asked.

“The numbness?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I tried a couple of times, but no.”

Justine clasped his hand again, pulling him toward her. “Can I ask for another favor?”

He nodded.

“Tell him?”

Henry smiled but didn’t answer.

“Promise?”

“Yes,” he said. “Anything else?”

The sun peeked out from a cloud and for a moment the room lightened. She tilted her head to the side, her tongue resting on her lower lip. “You could kiss me again.”

The clouds closed back up and a sudden breeze brushed the branches against the window. Beneath the scrape of leaves and wood on the glass, the wind hissed and, if he listened hard enough, it seemed to moan, rattling the shutters.

Henry ran his fingers over her cheek, tracing the curve of her skin from where her earlobe met her jaw, down her neck, and back to the soft skin hidden beneath her hair. His thumb rested behind her ear and he could feel her breath against his lips.

“God,” she said, soft and warm against his skin, “I hope you can feel this.” She pulled him just that much closer, her arms clutched around his shoulders, and kissed him.

The wind shook the door, almost as though it was testing the knob, trying to get inside.

NOAA Alert: Erika Category Three; Eastern Seaboard Alerts:

Florida to South Carolina Miami, FL—August 27, 2009: The National Hurricane Center has reported that Hurricane Erika has reached Category Three on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale with maximum sustained winds of 125 mph as it continues on its path toward the eastern seaboard of the United States. Hurricane alerts have now been issued by the National Hurricane Center from Key West, Florida north to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

Hurricane force winds extend outward to thirty miles from the center and tropical storm force winds extend outward over 125 miles.





twenty one




When Henry turned the corner into the kitchen the next morning his father was already at the table, elbows on the edge and his face deep within the steam of his coffee.

“Dad?”

William waved the fingers of one hand but kept staring into his mug. “Morning,” he said, though the word was slurred and soft. With an obvious effort, he shook his head and looked up. “Morning,” he said again.

Henry stood at the refrigerator door, looking back at his father. Thin hair streaked with gray lay flat against his skull, the ridges of the bone almost poking out of the dry pale skin. The circles under his eyes had grown and his smile was nothing more than a brief twitch of his lips.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Henry said, then turned back to the refrigerator.

“Just tired,” his father said.

“I didn’t say anything.”