Special topics in calamity physics - By Marisha Pessl Page 0,17

he was up to tonight?" he asked. "From the look of the bullet wound, he was shot at close range, which could mean it was an accident, his own gun maybe. He could have been cleaning the barrel and it accidentally discharged. Some semiautomatics can do that. . ."

Dad stared down at poor Dr. Mike Feeds until Dr. Mike Feeds was cross-sectioned, positioned on a spotless examination slide and firmly clamped to the specimen stage.

"My daughter and I know nothing about that human being."

"But I thought—"

"He happened to mow our lawn twice a week and did an inadequate job at that, so exactly why in Christ's name he chose to drip up onto our porch is beyond my comprehension. Of course," Dad said, glancing at me, "we understand the situation is tragic. My daughter was more than happy to save his life, getting him proper treatment or what have you, but I will tell you quite bluntly, Dr. . . ."

"Dr. Feeds," said Dr. Feeds. "Mike."

"I will tell you, Dr. Meeds, that we are of no relation to this individual and I will not involve my daughter in whatever it was that got him into such a predicament—gang warfare, gambling, any number of those insalubrious activities of the underworld. Our involvement ends here."

"Oh, I see," said Dr. Feeds softly. Dad gave a curt nod, planted a hand on my shoulder, and steered me through the smudged, white double doors.

That night in my room, I stayed awake imagining a humid reunion with Andreo surrounded by Philippine figs and peacock plants. His skin would smell of cacao and vanilla, mine of passion fruit. I wouldn't be paralyzed with shyness, not anymore. After a person had come to you with his/her gunshot wound, after his/her blood had been all over your hands, socks and jeans, you

were tied together by a powerful bond of human existence that no one, not even a Dad, could comprehend. jNo puedo vivir sin mi vidai No puedo vivir sin mi alma! (I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!)

He ran his hand through his black hair, oily and thick.

YOU SAVE MY LIFE STOP ONE NIGHT I MAKE YOU COMIDA CRIOLLA STOP But such an exchange was not meant to be.

The following morning, after the police called and Dad and I made a statement, I made him drive me to St. Matthew's hospital. I carried in my arms a dozen pink roses ("You will not take that boy red roses, I draw the line," Dad bellowed in the Seasonal Flowers aisle at Deal Foods, causing two mothers to stare) and a melted chocolate milkshake.

He was gone.

"Disappeared from his room 'round five this morning," reported Nurse Joanna Cone (see "Giant Skink," Encyclopedia of Living Things, 4th éd.). "Ran a check on his insurance. The card he gave was a fake. Doctors think that's why he hightailed it outta here, but the thing is" Nurse Cone leaned forward, jutting out her round, pink chin and speaking in the same emphatic whisper she probably used to tell Mr. Cone to stay awake during church, "he didn't speak aworda English so Dr. Feeds never got outa him how he got the bullet. Police don't know either. What I'm thinkin', and this is just a hunch, but I wonder if he was one of them illegal aliens who come to this country to find steady work and a good benefit program with disability and unlimited sick days. They've been spotted in this area before. My sister Cheyenne? She saw a whole slew of them in a checkout aisle at Electronic Cosmos. Know how they do it? Rubber rafts. The dead of night. Sometimes all the way from Cuba, fleeing Fidel. You know what I'm talking about?"

"I believe I have heard a few rumors," said Dad.

Dad made Nurse Cone call AAA from the Recovery Unit desk, and when we returned home, Andreo's truck was being towed. A large white van, discreetly marked Industrial Cleaning Co., was parked under our banyan tree. At Dad's request, ICC, specializing in the sanitization of former crime scenes, had driven the half hour north from Baton Rouge to attend to the trail of Andreo's blood staining the walkway, the front porch and a few maidenhair ferns.

"We're putting this sad incident behind us, my little cloud," Dad said, squeezing my shoulder as he waved to grim-faced ICC employee Susan, age 40-45, wearing a blinding white slicker and green rubber gloves that extended beyond her elbows to her