Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,33

that. And beneath the half-frown and the double chin, a faded T-shirt with half an O and an RD.

ORD?

Henry stared at the letters, blue and yellow against a gray background.

“Breathe.”

His computer hummed to life when he pulled the wireless mouse over. From beneath the pillbox he spread out the paper and added the letters to the random list. Elizabeth. Victor. Frank. Christine. CME-U. And, now, ORD. He hunched over the keyboard as he clicked open Google.

ORD.

Chicago, O’Hare airport; no. Fort Ord; no. He scrolled through the pages then froze, his fingers hovering over the keys.

ORD.

Livets Ord University, affiliated with Oral Roberts and located in Sweden; no. Then, in Google blue: STANFORD UNIVERSITY.

“Breathe.”

Henry clicked and clicked, exploring the maze of the various Stanford websites, deeper and deeper into the alumni sections, looking for … what? He didn’t know what he was searching for or why, couldn’t even figure out if ORD was a clue or not. There was no rhyme or reason to his clicking, each link taking him wherever it might. His tears fell on the keys, his breathing spiraling out of control.

Stanford.

“Breathe.”

Then, there was no place left to click, every avenue requiring registrations and passwords he didn’t have. He shuddered, struggling to draw a breath. His palm slapped against the desktop and his keyboard hopped into the air. The pills, in their plastic coffin, rattled and he dry-swallowed them all at once, coughing as they rubbed against his throat.

He stared at the monitor, resting his finger against the Stanford logo, the red S staring back at him. His finger slid down to rest on the desk and then pushed his mouse to put the computer back to sleep.

Staring at the blank monitor, he sat there, unmoving. He blinked, once, twice, then rested his head down on the keys. With a shove, he pushed himself backward, the wheels squeaking over the wooden floor. The chair bounced against the wall and Henry bounced with it.

He crawled into bed fully dressed, pulled the covers up over his head despite the heat, and tried to convince himself that pretending to sleep was as good as the real thing. Anything not to dream again.

NOAA Alert: Erika Upgraded

to Hurricane; Cuba on Alert

Miami, FL—August 24, 2009: The National Hurricane Center is reporting that Tropical Storm Erika has now been upgraded to a Hurricane as wind speeds have topped 100 mph. After the storm made a northward turn in the direction of North America, the government of Venezuela stopped broadcasting Hurricane Alerts for the coast. The projected path has been updated to indicate landfall in Cuba and the Gulf Coast by the end of the week.

A Tropical Storm alert has also been issued for the Netherlands Antilles islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao for the imminent arrival of Tropical Storm Danny, with sustained maximum winds of 65 mph.

eighteen

Henry woke on the floor, tangled in blankets. Memories of a nightmare disappeared as he struggled to cling to his dream. An image of a touch, the feel of a glance, but nothing made sense as he kicked the sheets off. While he brushed his teeth, however, all he thought of was a kiss.

The sun was already hard at work burning the dew off the grass as he walked to the bus stop. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, balancing on the curb. Along the road, a handful of other kids congregated apart from him and all he could do was watch as they laughed at a joke he couldn’t hear.

Justine walked along the street, kicking a pile of grounded moss as she wandered from side to side, keeping in the shade of the trees that lined Harrison Pointe. As she approached she grasped her backpack, holding it in front of her like a shield. She stared at the ground between them, studying his shoes. Her mumbled “Good morning” was barely audible.

“Justine?” he said, his hands deep in his pockets as she took a step back from him.

She looked over her shoulder, to where her mother stood on their front porch, and, without looking at Henry, took another step away. Before she’d taken a third, she stopped.

“Damn,” she said as the bus pulled up.

Kids piled up the stairs, jostling to reach the same seats they always sat in. The clatter of latched windows being forced down echoed through the bus. The benches squeaked.

Henry sat, slid over next to the window, and watched as Justine worked her way up the aisle. Staring at her feet, she bumped into the