

### The Counterfeit Father

A Tony Pandy Mystery

by

PV Lundqvist

Text copyright © 2014 PV Lundqvist

Cover and design by Rob Peters

Published by Stick Raven. All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

No part of this book may be reproduced—by any means—without the written consent of the publisher, unless it is for the purposes of writing a review. Then short excerpts are permitted.

Any trademarks/product names mentioned in the text are incidental and should not be construed as an endorsement or critique of said product.

This is a work of fiction. The author asserts the right to claim this body of work, without qualification or explanation, and all the characters herein as a product of his imagination.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

For my father, Bob.

Nothing fake about him.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books by PV

# \- 1 -

Tony Pandy had 1,086 haters on this one webpage alone.

(Call the Guinness people), he thought. That's GOT to be a record for a thirteen-year-old.

He had to dig deep, too. Anonymous commenters on the Internet don't upset themselves, you know. He had to resort to making anagrams of their screen names—like 'Mark Fender' becoming _Fake Mr. Nerd,_ or 'Really Clever Name' becoming _Clearly Never Male_.

And those were just the ones that were allowed through.

Sometimes Tony had to pretend to be several other people to get around forum restrictions. It was work. But, come on, 'YouAreWrong42' needed to be slammed as _Our Yawn Ogre,_ and 'Bleed'nHeart' had to be outed as a _Bra Held Teen._

But what was really crazy-making was his signature move: a sudden change of opinion. He would start agreeing with his enemies and disagreeing with his allies, and then sit back and watch the angry posts multiply.

On the Internet, nobody was supposed to change their mind.

But before he posted his accomplishment on TrolledIt!—with screen shots (pictures or it didn't happen)—he logged on to his super-secret email account.

There was a message from Juniper with a cupcake background:

Want to hang out on DC, 7pm?

LYL,

Juni

LYL = Lick You Later.

That popped the cannula right out his nose. He pinched the air tube back into each nostril.

(As _if_ she ever would.)

DC stood for Dino Cogs _,_ a holographic pop music group from Korea. If you imagined a boy band composed of manga characters you wouldn't be too far wrong. On their website was a chat room where Tony had first 'met' Juniper.

Some DC fans had been picking on her for saying—of all things—that the animation of the bass player was far cuter than the other three members of the band. The disagreement got ugly when one of them suggested she should SUICIDE HERSELF by leaving her fan on all night with the door closed.

This guy really believed 'fan death' was possible.

Tony had typed into the chat box,

SWINGING IN ON A GRAPPLING HOOK MADE OF REASON.

He asked the offending fanboy, is that why so many drivers die on the highways each year? They turn on the air conditioner and suffocate? And what about air travel? Do planes leave their windows open all flight?

Fans in enclosed spaces don't kill people! IDIOT!

Tony then declared that the bass player of the Dino Cogs was _so too_ the cutest animation.

Because he has a mohawk. And mohawks are cuteness squared.

For that, Juni gave him a full page of:

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

But then she began type out questions. Like, how did he hear about the band? What's his favorite song? Did he ever see them in concert?

Which was embarrassing for Tony. He hadn't known what the Dino Cogs _were_ before that day _._ He had only been on their site to find people to turn into poopsocks.

Did he admit that?

(Nah.)

He was a Pandy: Omitting the truth was the family way.

Tony flipped a switch and the amber battery light came on. With his good hand he grabbed the knobby joystick that controlled the motor and backed his wheelchair away from his computer desk.

And not just any ordinary wheelchair. No. There were cup holders, sheepskin upholstery, and a bin in the back like a trunk.

Tony fished a laser pointer out of the glove box hanging from the armrest and pointed at the mini fridge on the floor.

Bonaparte, six pounds of trained Capuchin monkey, chattered back a question from within his massive cage.

#$%#?

"That's right. Go get me a drink."

Bony scrambled across the metal crossbars—upside down and sideways, didn't seem to matter to him—and arrived at the closed gate.

Tony picked up the remote control for the cage.

Hesitated.

Once past the gate, Bony was free to roam his bedroom. Anything could happen.

(Let the contest begin.)

The gate levered open and the monkey scrambled under and out.

Tony put the red dot of the laser pointer back on the little refrigerator.

The monkey wedged his finger-toes into the rubberized insulation that held the fridge door shut. He pulled on the handle. Didn't budge.

He pulled _harder_.

The door flung open, smacking Bony back onto his diapered behind. The door closed on the rebound.

#$%#!

"Fo _cus_ ," Tony said.

He knew the monkey didn't understand him, except for a few commands, but it was fun to pretend.

The monkey put his tiny hands back on the refrigerator handle. He pulled, he wedged, and the door swung open.

Tony put the laser dot on a soda inside. "That one," he said.

Bony toppled a can out onto the floor.

"No, the lemon lime."

#$%#?

"Yes, yes."

The monkey hugged the soda and walked it over. He stopped, just out of Tony's reach.

(Haggling time.)

Tony opened up a plastic container full of grapes. Held one up for Bony to see. "Give me the can, and you get a grape."

The monkey looked at Tony sideways.

"It was just that one time," Tony complained. "What a grudge holder." He popped a grape in his mouth. "Extra _joo_ -cy."

Bony took a step closer. Put the can down and waited.

Tony inched forward in his chair.

The monkey jumped up and down, chattering.

"Okay, okay. Half now, half on delivery." Tony thumbed a grape up in the air, and Bonaparte caught it on a bounce. The fruit was too big to stuff in his mouth all at once, but he tried anyway.

"Now, the soda."

Bony was looking all around like he'd never been in this room before. Or perhaps he was ignoring Tony.

Anyone's guess.

"Yoohoo," Tony said, waving a clump of grapes. "For a _sooo_ da."

That got the monkey's attention. Hugging the soda can again, Bony wobble-walked it over to Tony.

The Capuchin lifted the can up,

Tony bent over with a grape,

and Bonaparte grabbed it, letting the can roll away.

"Son of a simian!"

Making his getaway, the monkey jumped on to the computer desk and proceeded to climb up the drapes to the curtain rod. A short hop landed him on a shelf where he put his butt on a pile of books: What Stupid People Believe, 101 Urban Legends for the Incredibly Gullible, and More! What Stupid People Believe: You Can't Make This Stuff Up edition.

The Capuchin swished his tail close enough to a wall poster of a grinning Neil DeGrasse Tyson that he could have been tickling his mustache. Or, on the tail's return swing, poking the eye of the hurricane on Saturn that Tyson was pointing at.

"You can be replaced," Tony told the monkey.

"No, he can't!" squawked his mother's voice through the wall intercom. "The Wish-upon-a-Star people have cut us off. Three monkeys was our limit."

"Mooooom, you promised not to eavesdrop!"

"I wouldn't listen if there wasn't so much to hear."

(Hey, waitaminute.)

Tony had hacked the surveillance system that controlled the intercoms and cameras throughout the estate, effectively locking her out. A pretty good plan considering Mom didn't know how to use redial on her phone, much less reprogram anything.

Someone fixed the intercom. But who?

The groundskeeper Tu Ngu came into the room dressed in his usual ironed, spotless khakis and collared shirt with big straw hat.

He didn't knock first.

(Like he's entering a men's room.)

"Where's my little monkey?" Tu asked.

(And he doesn't mean me.)

Part of the groundskeeper's duties was to take care of the Capuchin—such as what he was doing right now, refilling Bony's food bowl with a yummy mix of fruit, flowers, nuts, and dead beetles.

Yes, _dead_ beetles.

Tony pointed to the now-working intercom. "That your doing?"

"What you expect?" Tu answered in his Vietnamese accent. "I work for your mother. She say intercom no work, I get man to fix."

The flaw in Tony's plan, he realized, was thinking that Mom could be stopped so easily. It must be so great to have a henchman like Tu. Somebody to help you with all the stuff you can't do yourself.

(And I can't get my trained monkey to get me a soda.)

There was a crackle out of the intercom before he heard his mother speak again. "Remember to dress for later."

"I'm not going."

"Tony! You have to go."

" _You're_ not."

There was a sigh on her side of the intercom. "Don't you know I want to? So badly? I...can't."

"I can't either."

The door bell rang out an eight bit tune.

"Who's that?" Tony asked nobody in particular. People didn't normally drop by.

"Your new health aide," his mother answered.

"I already got one."

"He quit."

How could that be? They were getting along so well. It couldn't be because Tony pointed out that the worker's home country ranked 181st out of 195 in sanitary drinking water. And 131st in literacy. Could it? People can be _sooo_ sensitive sometimes.

The thought of having _yet another_ stranger assist him in the bathroom was puke-worthy.

(Ugh, the touching.)

It was humiliating not to be able to take care of his own body. Machines could extend his reach into the world, and his eyes could go anywhere. But sit him on the toilet? Nope.

Tony used the outside surveillance camera to zero in on the health aide.

Some dude. Didn't look murderous.

Tony buzzed the guy in. "I'm on the second floor. Take a left, and I'm at the end of the hall."

"We'll talk about this later," Mom said from the intercom, "when you're on your way."

"No, we won't—"

The intercom clicked off.

The health aide might have had ten years on Tony. Maybe. He had male-model hair, dark jeans, and one of his leather boots was scuffed while the other was polished.

He spoke first. "Sorry I'm late. This estate is enormous."

The leather chair squeaked as the guy sat down. His hands laced together before he spoke again. "Are those computer glasses you're wearing?"

Tony nodded. "My retinal mouse. Works with eye blinks."

"I always wanted a pair, but I was worried I'd look dorky."

Tony stared.

"Not that you do, I mean."

Stared some more.

"It's just I don't wear glasses—"

"What's your name?" Tony interrupted before the guy could dig himself in any deeper.

"Hawes."

"Is that even a name?"

Hawes snapped his gum and smiled. "More of a sound, actually."

(Sassing me back.)

This could be an interesting contest.

"What's that fan noise?" Hawes asked.

"My oxygen concentrator."

He shrugged. "Didn't cover that in my classes."

"It filters out the oxygen in the air and puts it up my nose."

"Cool."

"Did they teach you anything _useful_ at this school?"

"Not so much. Got real good at ultimate Frisbee, though." Hawes played with a bobblehead of Carl Sagan on the sideboard. "You go to school?"

"Dropped out. Well, I mean, right after they _expelled_ me."

"There's GOT to be a good story there."

"My dad made me a two-wheeled tablet holder. I'd stay home, but the virtual me would go to class."

"Where'd it go all caddy wonkus?"

"Got caught smoking in the boys' room."

Hawes laughed. A snorting, horse laugh. "Don't you know cigarettes are bad for you?"

"Especially through a USB port. Fried the motherboard."

Hawes tried to keep a straight face.

Failed.

"Might want to try menthol next time," he said through a snicker.

"School was boring, anyway. I only enjoyed getting into trouble."

Bony chattered down at them from his high shelf.

"Lookit, a monkey," Hawes said. Then he directed this comment at Tony. "You're a regular Pippi Longstocking, you know that?"

"Do you see red hair and pigtails?'

"Not so far," Hawes had to admit. "Hey, did you know we're evolved from monkeys?"

"Maybe _you_ are. I'm descended from apes, thank you very much."

"You sure it's not monkeys?"

"College kids, these days." Tony shook his head. "Did you interview with my mother?"

"Sort of..."

"How's she look?"

Hawes opened and closed his mouth. Started again. "Are you saying you don't know?"

It was Tony's turn to shrug.

"That's weird. I mean, _isn't_ that weird?"

Tony did his best blank stare.

"Well," Hawes continued, "funny thing is, neither do I. I went to the other house—"

"The guest house—"

"Yeah, the bungalow. Housekeeper led me to this room with a camera and microphone. Your mom could see me, but I couldn't see her." Hawes scrunched up his face like he was trying to picture a fourth dimension. "How long's it been since you last...?"

"Eight years."

Hawes whistled long and low. Moved on to a new subject. "Is there an elevator tucked in here somewhere? Because I didn't see so much as a stairlift."

"Nah-uh."

"How the heck do you get downstairs?"

"I _don't_."

"This your whole world, huh?" Hawes whistled again and then pointed to Bonaparte's cage. "Sorta like your pet here."

Bony jumped down to the sideboard next to Hawes as if he had taken offense. He stretched to his full height of two feet, raising his arms over his head and SCREECHED.

Hawes didn't flinch. Instead he drawled, "Chiiill, Kong."

And surprisingly, the monkey did.

"My dad made the cage. Completely automatized."

"Smart guy."

"He was. When he was alive."

"Dangit!" Hawes relaced his fingers. "That wasn't in the ad."

"What _did_ you two talk during the interview?"

"How I was supposed to get you up and out the door today."

"Out. As in, _outside_?"

"Do you a world of good, Tony. Paper only wishes it had your complexion."

The room started to feel warm. A trickle of sweat curved down Tony's back. "I'm NOT going outside."

Hawes came over and put his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and leaned in. "Come on, wind in your hair—"

"There are blow dryers."

"—sun on your face."

"Rather kiss a light bulb." Tony maneuvered out of his reach. "I haven't been outside in years!"

Hawes fell back into his chair. "Overdue in my opinion."

"Who is interviewing who? I think you forget yourself."

"Happens to me, like, all the time."

This contest was slipping away from Tony—he could feel it. He flipped down his retinal mouse and used it to click a web link leading to a page of standard interview questions.

"Do you have any references?" Tony asked.

"Well there's..." Hawes pointed vaguely to the west. "And then again there's..." Pointed to the east. "Not really. Got another, easier question?"

Tony abandoned the list and instead asked, "Why is one of your boots scuffed and the other not?"

"I switch gears on my motorcycle with that foot. I liked that question. You got another?"

"Yeah. An important one." Tony got out his laser pointer. "How do we get Bonaparte to give me that." He red-dotted the can, currently on its side on the floor.

"Easy."

Hawes slid off the leather chair, scooped up the can and dropped it into the cup holder on the wheelchair.

Tony dialed up the mocking tone. "Already, you're siding with your monkey ancestors."

"Come again?"

"The point was to get _Bony_ to give me the drink."

Tony spun his wheelchair around so all Hawes could see was the back of his head.

Not because he was mad. _No._

He didn't want his new health aide to see his now-smirking face. His eyes darted from side to side.

Tony had once read that silence was a great negotiation tactic. It was like a vacuum; people rush in to fill it. And in a contest like this one, the first person to speak _loses_.

(One-one thousand, two-one thousand.)

Hawes broke the silence. "Does that mean I don't get the job?"

Tony spun back around. Put his serious face on and spoke.

"There is one little thing you could do to convince me."

"Not something funky, like making me change the monkey's diaper,"—Hawes shook a finger at Bony—"because those fangs look nasty."

"Nothing that a normal teenager wouldn't ask."

Hawes bit his lip. "And if I do, you'll hire me?"

"Absolutely."

Hawes slapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. "What you need done, boss?"

(For the win.)

"How good are you with shears?"

# \- 2 -

Tony had a towel wrapped around his neck.

"You sure about this?" Hawes asked.

Tony nodded at him through the bathroom mirror over the sink. Hawes turned on the electric razor.

VVVZZZZZ.

"Traditional mohawk or statue of liberty?"

Tony consulted with himself in the mirror. "Like a Mohican. Grab the purple dye while you're at it."

The vibration of the electric razor against his scalp sent a tingle down his spine.

"So what do you like to do, Tony? You know, when you're not receiving free hair sculpture."

Tony was tempted to say 'skeptic' but decided that wasn't exactly an activity. "Debunking."

"Like what?"

"Pseudoscience."

"Fake science? That's a thing?"

"You know, things like ghost hunting, UFOs, astrology. ESP. Stuff that a lot of people believe in but isn't really true."

"Wait, they aren't?" Hawes cut hair through a comb. "I get it: you're trying to educate people."

"God, no. I'm showing them how _stoopid_ they are."

Snip. "That's not very nice."

"I'm not very nice."

"So why do you do it?"

"Because people like that are the first to make fun of what they don't understand."

"You make fun of EVERYTHING."

"Ah, but I understand what I'm mocking."

Hawes applied the purple dye. "No need to buy a new hat with this haircut, Tony—your head is nooot shrinking."

"I look at it this way," Tony explained, "the ability to reason is tacked on to the human brain like an aftermarket stereo."

Hawes waggled his hand in the mirror. "Doesn't quite fit or match the dash."

"Exactly. It's not that people _can't_ think rationally—"

"Then what is it?"

"It's that they choose _not_ to."

Hawes snipped off some more hair. "What _do_ you believe in?"

Tony wanted to jerk the wheelchair back and forth, a habit he had when thinking, but didn't want his ear clipped by accident. "Whatever can be proven. If you can't graph it, it doesn't exist."

Hawes teased and hairsprayed the mohawk into place. Taking a hand mirror off the counter, Hawes showed off his handiwork.

Not spiky, exactly, but a narrow strip of purple hair standing straight up. "Professional," was Tony's opinion.

Hawes beamed. "I did used to be a cosmology major."

Study of the origin of the universe? (Don't think _so.)_

"You mean, cosmetology?"

"Yeah, _that_. You know, like in the commercial? 'Look like a model, or just act like one.'" Hawes put his hands on the back of Tony's wheelchair. "So, do I have the job or what?"

"Oh, yes."

(Henchman.)

Hawes removed the purpled towel from around Tony's neck.

"Now let's get you ready to go out like your mother wanted."

"You mean, to my father's funeral?" Said as innocently as angel wings flapping in heaven. On a Sunday.

A second went by.

"Shut up! You did not just say _funeral_." Hawes looked from side to side while his thoughts seemed to ping pong inside his head.

"Mom didn't tell you?" Flap, flap went the angel wings.

Wendolyn wasn't born a Pandy, but she could leave out details with the best of them.

"You can't go to a funeral like _this_."

Tony put his fingers over his mouth in mock surprise.

"And you knew that!"

"Oops?"

"What a manipulator!"

"Says the man who shaved the head of a child without asking his mother's permission first."

Hawes stood there stunned into silence.

"And to top it all off," Tony said, "this isn't even my bathroom."

Hawes blinked dramatically. "Whose is it?"

"My dead father's."

Hawes looked at the towel like it was haunted.

Tony added, "You must admit, I'm very convincing."

"That trick only works once, Tony-full-of-boloney."

The intercom blinked on and off.

"Mom's calling," Tony informed Hawes. "And because this is a bathroom, you need to press down the button to talk. Cuts down on the inadvertent farting noises."

The intercom blinked again.

Hawes pinched at his lower lip again and again. "Is this a _me_ problem or a _you_ problem?"

"I think _you_. Nobody will believe I shaved my own head."

"No, but I suspect these shenanigans go on all the time. Amirite?"

Tony didn't answer.

Hawes pressed the TALK button. "This is Hawes."

"Is Tony ready to go?" His mother asked.

He took his finger off the button. Now she couldn't hear. "Do I throw you under the bus, Tony? Or do you take responsibility?"

Tony fidgeted with his wheelchair. "Lie for me."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"To keep your job."

"Uh huh. Try a better one."

Tony paced with his wheelchair, accidently wrapping himself up in air hose. "I'm not going to the funeral with this hair, obviously."

"Obviously. But that doesn't mean you still can't go outside."

The intercom light blinked again.

"You wouldn't dare tell my mother."

"Me? I'm the king of dare." He laid a finger on the TALK button.

Tony unwound himself from the air hose as he considered his options. "Okay. You win. I'll go outside."

Hawed pressed down on the button. "Mrs. Pandy?"

"Is Tony ready?"

Hawes covered his eyes. "I'm afraid he's had a setback."

"Is he alright?"

"Nothing that a little rest won't cure."

"Are you sure he's really ill? He can be _very_ manipulative."

Tony was about to reply when Hawes beat him to it. "Don't I know it, Mrs. Pandy."

"Argh."

The intercom clicked off.

"Did she just hang up on me?" Hawes asked.

"She does that."

"Am I fired?"

"If so, that means I was fired from being her son long ago."

Hawes flicked a finger between himself and the intercom. "Do you think I should call her back?"

"Don't bother." Tony started rolling away in his wheelchair. "Mom does the calling, never the answering."

Hawes followed him out of the bathroom and into the hall. "Hey, hey! Don't think I forgot our deal."

"Seriously?" Tony accelerated away. "Because I have."

Hawes chased him down the hall. "You're getting dressed. We're going out." He entered Tony's bedroom and threw open the closet door. "Gawd, do you own anything besides pajamas?"

Tony looked down the central stairs to the first floor landing.

"Carrying you is the only way," Hawes said.

" _You_ put your hands on _me_?"

"Believe me, Tony, I was really hoping for a stairlift."

"And then what?"

Hawes ran down the stairs and opened the door to a side closet. "Your mother did tell me there was," rummaging sounds, "this." Hawes unfolded a push wheelchair and positioned it at the bottom of the stairs. "Still has plastic on the armrests. Never been used."

"Yuck. I'd rather my chair."

"You'd need a crane to lift that bad boy."

"I can wait."

Tony pulled back on his joystick, and the wheelchair went in reverse. Bumped into the back wall, taking a chunk out of the wallpaper.

Hawes walked slowly up the stairs.

Forward, into the banister. Chunk out of the wood. Backward...

Hawes leaned against the stair rail. "What's up, boss?"

Forward, bang. Backward, bang. The wheelchair made a sickening **MERV, MERV, MERV** sound and stopped moving.

Battery died.

(Always doing that.)

"I get that you're scared, Tony."

"It's not that."

"So tell me."

Tony wiped his nose. "I like to pretend the outside doesn't exist."

"What?"

Tony flicked the dead joystick back and forth. "Outside reminds me of everything I can't do anymore."

Hawes nodded vigorously, like he should have realized that himself. "My job is to get you to the best health I can. Going outside means fresh air, mental stimulation, interactions—"

"I interact plenty."

"Typing words into a chat box isn't the same. All the studies support the therapeutic effects of social interaction."

Apparently Hawes had learned something more than ultimate Frisbee at college.

"Nice book talk, professor."

"And a beneficial effect on mood, grumpy-pants."

Tony lifted up his air hose. "Won't reach outside."

"Are you trying to tell me there's no portable oxygen?"

Tony nodded his head. As earnestly as possible.

Hawes opened up the back bin to the wheelchair. "Bingo." Pulled out a metal bottle labeled O2. "I figured you must have some stashed away somewhere for emergencies."

Tony considered his next move. "You don't know how to use it."

"But the beauty of it is _you do_. Why don't you tell me about this rig?" He held up the shoulder straps of the portable breathing unit he dug out of the bin. "Looks like you could go deep sea diving for Nazi submarines in this thing."

Tony shrugged. "You'll find the adaptor kit back there too."

Hawes handed the parts to Tony to assemble. "Look, I get that maybe you'd want family to help you with this instead of me."

"Nobody else lives here but me."

"This whole house? There's got to be ten bedrooms."

"Empty."

"And downstairs?"

"Dad's workshop takes up most of it."

"A tinkerer, huh?"

Tony screwed the O2 bottle into place. "If you call designing complex systems for in-home manufacturing, tinkering."

Hawes laughed. "In-home, what now?"

Tony caught his breath. The changeover to portable oxygen always made him anxious. "Say you bought a cell phone. With my father's machine, you could download the dimensions, add materials, press a few buttons, and voila! A custom case."

"That's cool. Like a microwave, only something new pops out."

Tony nodded. "No going to stores or waiting for delivery." He tried his best to keep his voice sounding casual. Not manipulative. "I could _show_ you."

Hawes cocked an eyebrow at him. "Hey, I'm not falling for diversions. We have the grounds to explore."

"Ha!" Tony folded his arms over the portable oxygen unit.

"Come on, don't you like a mystery?"

"Some mystery. I've lived here my whole life."

"Said it yourself, haven't been out in years. Things change."

"Double ha!"

"I bet you a full week of staying inside we'll find something interesting on this trip."

Tony sat up straighter. "I'll take that bet."

Hawes looked down the front porch stairs to the pavement. "I'd forgotten there's no ramp."

"We _could_ just give up," Tony suggested.

"On our first mystery, The Case of the Missing Ramp?"

"Nice try."

Hawes scratched at his head. "It's almost as if somebody is pretending there's nobody in a wheelchair living here."

"Orrr because nobody in a wheelchair ever leaves."

Hawes spotted some plywood leaning against a tool shed. Dragged it on over. "This'll do the trick. For now."

Tony was wheeled down the makeshift ramp a bit quicker than he would have liked. His good hand came up as if to protect himself from a fall that never came.

"If I remember correctly," Hawes said, indicating to the left, "that way's your mom's house."

"And being that I'm too sick to leave the house—"

"She'd have to have pretty good eyesight, Tony."

"Binoculars. That's what she does all day. Scanning for danger."

"Other way, then." Hawes pushed Tony over to the paved road that parted the woods. "Where's this lead?"

"Eventually, the ocean. Once past the dock it loops back again."

"Got a boat?"

"Nope."

"Who has a dock and no boat? Sounds like a mystery."

"Who has a wheelchair and no ramp? No mystery at all. That's _irony_. And if you liked that, just wait till you see what's up ahead."

A few minutes in, a path separated from the road on the right. A curved white roof could be seen rising above a line of trees.

Tony pointed. "That way to the hangar."

"No plane, amirite?"

"Ding, ding, ding."

"Mystery!"

"Quit it."

As Tony was being wheeled along, he mentally ticked off all the things he hated about the outdoors and why:

Flies. (Plague.) Raccoons. (Rabies). Insects rubbing their whatevers together. (Gross.)—and just how much pollution is in wind, anyway?

Hawes was breathing harder as the path continued upward.

"Getting tired, Hawes?"

"Me? I can go all day. Where's this other path lead?"

"To the groundskeeper's house."

"We won't go that way, then."

Tony shrugged. "Tu's probably at the funeral."

Hawes slowed his pushing. "You don't seem to like him much."

"He's mom's henchman." Tony fiddled with the armrest.

"And you're wondering if I'm one, too, huh?"

"You _are_ her employee. You have to do what she says."

"You're my client," Hawes said, pushing again at full speed. "I do what's best for you."

"Very noble sounding, but my father always said 'trust the money.' It'll never lie to you."

Hawes laughed. "It'll never shake your hand, either."

Up ahead on the left was a pond with a knee-high stone wall.

"Whatddayouknow? You have your own swimming hole."

(Swimming hole? What backwoods is this guy from?)

Hawes brought the wheelchair to a gradual stop. "What's the real reason you didn't want to go to the funeral?"

"I don't own black pajamas."

"Ah-huh. I see we haven't reached the trusting stage."

"We don't exactly know each other," Tony said, always on the lookout for information. "For instance, is Hawes your first or last name?"

"Both."

"And where are you from? That accent is atrocious."

"Down South." Hawes came into view, sly grin on his face.

"That's kind of vague."

"How's this? South of Friendly and east of Nitro."

"Oh, evasion. Very nice."

"Why are you acting like a detective all of a sudden?"

Here Tony was, out of doors, alone with this stranger. His paranoia kicked in. "Where did my mother find you? In line at the methadone clinic? Homeless shelter have a job fair?"

Hawes brought his eyebrows together into a line. "You're kinda mean, you know that?"

"I'm in a frickin' wheelchair!"

"That's an object, not an excuse." Hawes started pushing the wheelchair again. "How 'bout you share something personal, and I'll follow your lead."

Tony considered the question for a minute.

On this very spot was where Tony had last run. He was six years old. He remembered yelling, 'I'm well, I'm well,' to his father. Unfortunately his illness was already making his right foot drag a bit—he stumbled, opening up his knee on a rock.

Just like the one they were passing right now.

"Mind kicking that rock?"

"Sure enough." Hawes booted it into the trees.

Did Tony share this memory?

(Nah.)

Instead he said, "You start."

Hawes cleared his throat. "I lost my father at fourteen. Young, like you. Got my first job that summer, to help my mom."

"Cropping tobacco?"

"Moonshine, mainly," Hawes joked. "You sure like your Southern stereotypes."

"Isn't fourteen too young to work?"

"Too young to lose your daddy, too." Hawes kept pushing the wheelchair along. Light played off a fixture in the middle of the pond. "Hey, what's that?"

It looked like a juicer for giant people. Had to be twenty feet high off the water.

"A fountain, I think. Doesn't work anymore, that I know of."

"A fountain that doesn't shoot water—"

"Don't say it."

"Mystery, mystery, mystery."

"Broken, broken, broken."

They came to a field with overgrown grass. In the middle was a barn, four boards short of ramshackle.

"Was this farmland, originally?" Hawes asked.

Tony couldn't quite figure out why Hawes was being evasive about where he was from. Perhaps this was a way to draw him out.

"Remind you of home?"

"Not exactly. What's inside?"

"My father's hobby was restoring antique vehicles. Or failing to."

"Wanna go over there?" Hawes was halfway into the high grass as he spoke. "Because I do."

"Nope."

"Aren't you curious?"

Tony shook his head and looked away.

Hawes picked at a grass stalk so high it was bent over. His mood turned serious. "You're going to have to say goodbye to your father some time."

"He's dead. There's no point."

"How's that?"

"He can't hear me."

"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, fathers have a way of continuing to live on in your head. I hear mine every time the oil light to my bike comes on."

The wind picked up—just a whiff of salt in the air, this close to the ocean—and blew on his bald scalp, sending a chill through him.

The outside was so annoying.

"Not today."

"Okay, boss. Not today."

"I want to go back home now."

Hawes spun the wheelchair around, heading back the way they came. "This was a fine first outing, don't you think? Maybe after we get a vehicle—"

"My mother will never allow it."

"What if you ask her sweet as pie?"

Tony shook his head. "The funeral was a special circumstance."

"Even to visit your father's grave?"

"Missed my chance."

"Come on, maybe in a week—"

"Leave it alone!" Tony's shout was so loud it echoed.

For a few seconds there was just a faint, repeating squeak of a wheelchair axle that needed lubricant.

"Why, Tony?"

The trip back was all downhill, but Hawes was pushing noticeably slower.

(He's not going to let this go.)

"I don't need any more reminders that I'm dying."

# \- 3 -

"Boy howdy." Hawes kicked at a pebble that needed kicking. "That wasn't in the ad, either."

"And please don't start with, 'There HAS to be something.'"

"I was going to go there," Hawes admitted.

"Stop. Don't." Tony looked across the pond. "I'm going to die. That's a fact. I may lie to other people but not to myself."

"But what if—"

"I'm done! I won't hear it from doctors. I certainly won't hear it from someone with a college degree in hair."

If Hawes was offended by the taunt, he didn't show it. "Even if the prognosis _is_ right, there's diet, exercise—"

"For what? An extra day? A week? Heck, shoot for a month! What's it matter?"

"Depends on the amount of living you want to cram into such a small space."

In his bedroom, Tony stuck a baby pea into the hole of a macaroni. And then another pea to plug up the other end.

Dropped the unit into place.

This cheese was the best glue Tony had ever gotten to work with. Easy to apply, hardened like rubber. He was a couple of macaroni short of completing his master work—the Leaning Tower of Pandy—and well short of finishing his lunch, when he had a thought.

(Mom.)

Dad liked to say that Wendolyn Pandy believed that the whole universe was connected. Every atom and thought. That's why she wouldn't eat so much as a cherry without first considering the tree it could have become.

"But, honey," he would joke, "what about cherry pie?"

That would make her laugh. She'd forget all about her theories that invisible strings were attached to everything like a quantum violin—each pluck a destroyer of worlds—and instead enjoy the cherry.

Now, he was gone. And soon Tony would be, too.

What would happen to her then? She had nobody left. Already a shut-in in her little house—would it get worse? Would she go down to one room, perhaps?

(If so, the bathroom. Definitely the bathroom.)

Tony lived with her when he was very small. She loved taking long baths and endlessly preparing her face for trips she would never take. Tony remembered watching the light beneath the closed bathroom door as he waited for her to come out and play Hungry, Hungry Hippos.

(Loved that game.)

The bathroom smelled of lavender. Potpourri in bowls. Towels in every size.

Would she stop eating? Like he has done?

Who would be there to worry about the woman at the other end of the intercom when his pasta tower was truly complete?

"Oh, man." Hawes said. "More food sculpture." He retrieved Tony's plate, squashing the tower with an unused fork.

"You're paid to deliver the food. Not to be an art critic."

"The point of food is _to be eaten._ "

"Why are you hassling me?" Tony paused for effect. "Employee?"

Hawes sighed. "Don't do this."

Tony folded away the built-in food tray. "That's what you are."

"Should that be my attitude? Eat or don't, pay's the same?"

"I'm just being honest."

"And an employee can't care, one way or the other?"

"You wouldn't understand, Hawes. You're _poor._ If somebody acts like they like you, they probably do. Me? I'm thinking it's the money."

"I feel you. For me, it's my good looks. Do they really love me or the awesome hair?"

Tony laughed.

Then Hawes turned serious. "Is that your excuse for not having any friends?"

"I have friends."

Tony instantly regretted opening _that_ door.

"Oh, really? I've been here for weeks and I've yet to see another car here, ever. Or bike or longboard."

Trying to get Hawes off of the subject, Tony asked, "Why _would_ you care?"

"Let's see. I'm in a caring profession—that involves caring for people—whom after a while I CARE ABOUT."

"Nobody will blame you for me not eating."

"Dammit, Tony—"

Tony hushed up his caregiver with a finger to his mouth and pointed to what was outside his bedroom window.

The brim of a straw hat, bobbing.

Hawes went over to the window pane and rapped his knuckles against it.

The brim ducked down.

"I'll be," Hawes said. "It's Tu on a ladder."

Tony took one of his many remotes out of his glove box and opened the automatic window. "No point in hiding," he called out to the groundskeeper.

Tu put his face in the window frame. "Bah."

Bonaparte chitter chattered from inside his cage.

Hawes said in his aw-shucks way, "I can't tell if the little fella is saying howdy or get lost, Tu."

"Capuchins don't like any of us hairless apes," Tony said.

"He like _me,_ " Tu insisted.

"Did you have one of these little guys as a pet back home?" Hawes wanted to know.

"He a new world monkey. From here. I am not." Wide grin on his face. "You a dummy."

(My dummy.)

"Why are you here?" Tony asked Tu.

"Mother sent me to listen."

Tony had finally put his father's robo-arm to good use, cutting the intercom wires and screwing the face plate back into place. Good luck to anyone trying to fix the thing.

Hawes popped open his eyes like he just had a thought. And it was painful. "Tu gets to see your mother?"

"Nobody gets to see her."

Tu agreed. "Mrs. Pandy pay a lot of money for her privacy."

Hawes rolled his eyes. "And you think that's normal?"

"People believe what their paycheck tells them," Tony observed.

The gardener waved that statement away like a bad smell.

"Seriously, Tu? You don't think so?"

Perhaps now was the time to put some of his research on the groundskeeper to good use. Tony glided over to his computer and, using his retinal mouse, pulled up a document from a folder labeled BLACKMAIL.

"Did you know," Tony began, "there was somebody with your exact name and birth date, also from Vietnam, who used to be a government employee—"

"Minister," Tu corrected. Then looked like he wished he hadn't.

"It says here that this Mr. Tu Ngu liked taking money in return for handing out government contracts. I believe the word for that is bribery."

"Fifteen year ago! A smear, to disgrace me."

"I didn't know you used to be important, Tu," Hawes said.

Tony couldn't tell whether he was mocking the groundskeeper or admiring. Hard to tell with Hawes.

"Terrible lies!" Tu insisted. "I went from head of dam project, in my country, to cutting branches that no longer bear fruit, in yours." A string of very nasty-sounding Vietnamese words fell out of his mouth, directed at Tony.

Tu supplied his own translation. "Wheeled devil."

Surprisingly, for someone who had enjoyed trolling tens of thousands, and had been called hurtful names before, Tony didn't enjoy this confrontation. Face-to-face with somebody he knew in real life was totally different.

"You no extort me, Tony Pandy. Mother know ALL about it."

Tony rolled closer. "Whatever she's paying you, I'll double it."

"You no inherit till eighteen. I'll take Mrs. Pandy. She _nicer_."

(And bound to live longer.)

Tu was smart enough to know that and smart enough to keep that thought to himself.

Hawes laughed out of nowhere like he just got the joke. "That's why you were trying so hard to find out my full name and where I was from. To do to me what you're now doing to Tu."

The groundskeeper took that moment to disappear down the ladder.

Hawes wasn't done. "Ever consider that this manipulation thang you've got going on is why you have no friends?"

Tony opened his mouth, but stopped from making the same mistake as before.

Too late.

"Oh, _that's_ right. You have a friend. What's his name?"

"She's called Juniper."

"Is that even a name?" Hawes said, repeating Tony's line from before.

"More of a sound, really." Tony played along.

"Ever meet her?"

Tony shook his head.

"Invite her right on over!"

Shook his head again.

"Why not?"

Shrugged.

"Use up all your words, Wheeled Devil?"

"I've got everything I want right here."

"Setting aside the fact she's a person and not a thing—really? Never wanted anything else, ever?"

Tony jerked the joystick to his wheelchair back and forth. "Before my terminal diagnosis, I— _skip it_."

"Come on, out with it."

"I wanted to go to college."

"Well, why not?"

"I wouldn't be able to finish. No point."

Hawes tapped his forefinger on his chin. "Or is there?"

The sand in Tony's bedroom was deep enough to bury the bottom of his chair's wheels. An open red beach umbrella was leaning up against the corner near the Tyson poster. Heating up the room was a sun lamp.

"How," Tony asked, "does a beach party relate to college?"

"If not for parties, college would be something you download." Hawes spritzed water into the air with a spray bottle.

"Ah! I'm wet."

Hawes set down the bottle. "Duh, it's the beach."

Even _inside_ , the outside was annoying.

"Shades on," Hawes instructed. "Let's get this party started."

He turned the stereo on and music hip hopped its way out. Hawes rocked his neon-green swim trunks, and Tony swore he could smell suntan lotion.

"I don't like this music!" Tony yelled over the thumpity thump.

"How about classic rock?"

"No!"

"Even my grandma likes classic rock." Hawes threw his head around to the beat. "What are you, more of a pop fan?"

"No."

"What then?"

"Classical."

Hawes whipped the volume knob down to zero. "We are NOT playing funeral music at my party."

"I don't _like_ modern music."

Hawes settled into a beach chair. "Listen, Mozart is nothing more than pop music from when powdered wigs were popular."

"Which is still around after a hundred years," Tony countered. "Come back to me in another hundred and tell me all about how the philharmonic has been replaced by two guys with a microphone and turntable."

Hawes unpacked a beach ball. "Anywaaay, let's try something else." He blew it up to size. "Ready, dorm buddy?"

"Ready."

The ball bounced off Tony's head and back at Hawes.

"Hands, Mr. Pandy, hands. You can do it."

This time Tony connected with a closed fist, making the ball scoot sideways and rebound off the monkey's cage.

Bonaparte screeched.

"Score a point for the freshman." Hawes opened a cooler and twisted the cap off a bottle. "Now for some brew-ha-has."

"You bought me beer?"

"Oh, no. That would be wrong. And illegal. This is a merely a fermented malt beverage."

Tony slurped some down. "Tastes bad enough to be beer."

"Just so we're clear: During this simulated drinking event, there'll be no operating of heavy equipment. I won't be held responsible for you wrapping your wheelchair around a banister."

Tony considered his bottle of (what did Hawes call it?) fermented malt beverage. The label was missing. "Is this seriously what college was like for you?"

"Whenever I could get away with it, Tony. Whenever I could."

"Can we really fit all of college into a single night?"

"You doubt?" Hawes jumped out of his beach chair and rifled through his jacket, still hanging on the bedroom doorknob. He returned with color-coded index cards. "Ready?"

Tony tipped his bottle in Hawes' direction and nodded.

"Instead of teaching you what you'll only forget anyhoo, I'm skipping to what every graduate remembers from college. Pay attention, there'll be a test later."

Hawes squinted as he read. "Number one: No matter how well you dissected that fetal pig in bio, you never did find the bacon." He shuffled to the next card. "Number two: The Pythagorean theorem is _what_ now?"

"Hey, I know the Pythagorean th—"

"Silence, freshman. I'm the TA for this course. 'Number three: Bunsen burners are fun, but little flame throwers aren't everything.'" Hawes took a swig. "Now you drink."

"I'm not thirsty."

"Doesn't matter. Part of the essential guide to college is the ability to learn while intoxicated. Or 'simulated' intoxication."

Tony fulfilled Hawes request. "Is there more?"

"Much." He took another index card off the top of the pile and sat on the rest.

"Have you ever pulled an all-nightie?" Tony asked.

"All- _nighter_. Staying up all night to study? Yes. Like we're doing tonight. Drink!"

They clinked bottles together.

Hawes cleared his throat. "'The Two Biggest Disappointments From College.' This will definitely be on the final, by the way.

"First, coed showers. No thrill, believe me. You don't WANT to know what girls are doing in there. Another?

"Roommates. Always suck. And never, ever tell them that if one of you die the other automatically gets straight A's for the semester."

"Is that true?" Tony asked.

"As true as I'm sitting here. All I'm saying is you better hire a food taster for the rest of the semester if you let that fact drop."

"Are you trying to make me think I didn't mush much?"

(Moosh mich?)

_Miss much!_ Where did his brain go all of a sudden?

"Nonsense." Hawes again jumped up from his beach chair, sending sand everywhere. "Almost forgot."

He pulled a hoodie out of a shopping bag and put it on Tony. The front read, 'Forget U. The university that never asks for donations.'

Then Hawes handed Tony a pennant. He kept the vuvuzela for himself and blew a mighty blast: **VUUUUUUU!**

Tony felt it in his tailbone.

Switching props, Hawes pulled out his phone. "What would college be without sports?" He streamed a college football game from last December. There were lots of _first in tens_ and, _oh, what a hard hit!_

"Who's playing?"

"Does it matter, Tony? Really?" They clinked bottles again. Hawes turned off the broadcast. "School break is over. Back to classes." Hawes picked up the remaining index cards from his beach chair. "Next up, final exams!"

"I rebember all the answers," Tony slurred. His bottle was in the cup holder—tilting.

"Why do we really go to college, freshman Pandy?"

"Parties!"

"Ah, but why do we go to parties?"

"Fomented mall beverages!"

"Ooooo, so close. The answer of course is smooches. Amirite? Nobody gets to graduate without asking at least one guy or girl out on a date."

"Really?"

"It's part of the CORE curriculum. The Health Ed requirement. Look it up if you don't believe me."

"There's no girls here."

"What about Juniper?"

"She's not here."

It was like Hawes was getting dumber the more Tony drank.

"You have her phone number, right?"

"Sort of."

"Call her! What are you waiting for? The afterlife? Where's the phone?" Hawes didn't wait for Tony to answer, instead taking a nearby wireless phone off its cradle. "What's her number?"

"Speed dial 2."

Hawes pointed the phone at Tony like an accusing finger. "Speed dial! _Really_? But you've never called her before?"

Tony nodded.

Hawes twitched his mouth around like he was thinking something over. "What's speed dial 1?"

"Ambulance."

"3?"

"Oxygen people."

"Which number is mine? Dare I ask?"

Tony thought about it. "Phone can hold up to 50 numbers..."

"Save the soul crushing news for later. Tonight, we're calling Juniper."

Tony accepted the phone in his good hand. Stared at it. "I'm not ready, Hawes."

"Dude, you're totally calling this girl tonight."

Tony looked at Hawes.

Hawes arched an eyebrow.

"Okaaay." Tony highlighted the listing for Juniper. Pressed TALK. The phone sung out the tones.

"What are we doing tomorrow, Hawes?"

"Time to give up childish things and go on to graduate school. We'll simulate working for tips at an off-beat coffee shop, living off rice noodles, and growing a beard..."

Second ring.

"...and never finishing your thesis."

"Hello?" she answered.

# \- 4 -

Hawes opened the side door of the rental van and pressed a button. The attached pneumatic lift unfolded and lowered down to the ground.

"What do you think?" Hawes asked.

Tony was up on the porch, by the makeshift ramp. "I'm going nowhere in that overstuffed minivan."

"That's not very nice."

"Why does this _keep_ surprising you?"

Hawes breathed on the side mirror and polished it with his shirt sleeve. "Never was a good learner."

"Get something else."

"No time. We're supposed to go see that girl today. Unless this is your excuse for chickening out. Bluck, bluck, bluck."

"That's your strategy? Bird taunts?"

Hawes went up the stairs and took a knee on the porch so that Tony and he were eye to eye. "What's this really about?"

Tony licked his lips. "What if she doesn't like me?"

"She knows all about you, right?"

(Maybe not about the wheelchair.

Or dying.

Or being younger than her.)

Tony squirmed. "Yeah. Everything."

"What's to lose?"

(My only fantasy girlfriend.)

Hawes paused before he spoke again. "You _do_ want to go, right?"

Tony nodded. He was so excited he even wore clothes that weren't pajamas.

"Okay then. Let's get your mom's permission, and we're off."

(Uh-oh.)

"Don't we have that already?" Tony bluffed.

"I'm pretty sure we don't."

"I'm-pretty-sure-we-do," Tony insisted.

Hawes lost his smile.

Mom was never going to okay this trip. Tony knew that. 'You'll crash! Your dead body in a ditch!' That's why he didn't bother trying.

"She _loves_ the idea," Tony full-on lied.

"No offense, Tony Baloney, but I'll need to hear that from her."

(Okay, plan B.)

Tony opened his glove box and removed a wireless house phone. "Call her. If you doubt me."

Hawes sucked in his checks. "I think I will. Which speed dial?"

"50."

"Hot dog, I have a lower number than your mom."

(Keep telling yourself that.)

Tony propped up his tablet computer on his forearm and started the sound app Phoney Phone. All inconspicuous-like.

Hawes made the call.

"Hello?" His mother's voice came through the phone.

"Mrs. Pandy?"

"Could we make this quick? I'm in the middle of something."

Hawes put his hand over the receiver. "Not in a good mood." Back on the phone, "As Tony probably told you—"

"Yes," said his mother in a bored voice.

"I'm not...done...asking...?"

Tony had tapped the sound file too early. He went back to file 3 and sent it to the phone.

"Could we make this quick? I'm in the middle of something."

"Okaaaay," Hawes began again, "is it all right with you if I take Tony out to visit a friend?"

Mom's chipper voice. "Have a nice time!"

Tony had gotten that recording from when he told his mother he was going dungeon crawling online some months ago.

"It's okay with you?" Hawes asked, into the phone.

(Tap.)

There was the bored 'yes,' again.

Hawes pushed the hang up button. "Your mother is so weird."

"And such a limited vocabulary."

The inside of the van was imitation wood paneling where there wasn't puke carpeting and matching vinyl. There were marks left on the floorboard where a row of seats had been removed to put in metal brackets to lock in a wheelchair.

The on-board oxygen unit was covered in dials, gauges, and toggle switches.

(Steampunk. But not in a good way.)

A small torpedo-like canister stored the frozen liquid oxygen, and a hose connected it to the on-board unit—which it warmed up the air so it wouldn't popsicle his lungs—and another hose delivered the O2 to his backpack unit sitting on his lap.

This was nothing like his oxygen concentrator he had upstairs. Unfortunately, that unit was not portable.

Hawes clapped him on the shoulder. "Know what you're doing?"

"Definitely," Tony lied.

He knew any delay, such as getting another oxygen system, would increase the chances his mother would catch on and cancel the trip.

Tony dialed in his usual air flow rate. If he was reading the gauges right, he should have enough oxygen for four hours.

"How long will it take to get there?" Tony asked.

"Hour. Hour and half."

(Plenty.)

He would have to be careful, though. Breathing hard would use more oxygen with this type of system.

(Stay calm, Wheeled Devil.)

Tony toggled the oxygen on and took a breath. Dusty, but otherwise breathable. The spare oxygen canister got stowed in the back bin of the wheelchair.

Hawes slammed his driver's side door shut, making the whole van rattle. "Alright! Let's get this road trip going."

He started the engine.

Guitars wailed out of the car speakers, and there was singing about the metal tears of Frankenstein.

"Ugh. Can't stand rom rock," Hawes said.

"Never heard of it."

"Come on, those bands with their frilly Lord Byron shirts—all about being warrior poets? Gawd! I still have nightmares from my seventh grade hop."

"That was before I was born," Tony teased.

"Bite your tongue off, I'm not that old. And besides, wasn't Mozart before you were born?" Hawes switched the channel. "Ooooo, dance music."

He put the van into gear, and after a few minutes they arrived at the main gate. The motion sensor swung the gate open.

"What's with the face?" Hawes asked Tony. They could see each other through the rear view mirror.

"I can't remember the last time I was off grounds."

"Well, wakey, wakey, Rip Van Winkle." Hawes pointed to the words worked into the wrought iron on the gate. "I've been meaning to ask you: Why does it say 'Seahome'?"

"No clue."

"Mystery!"

"Stop it."

"Aren't you the slightest bit curious?"

Tony shook his head. "You got me outside. You can drop the mystery bit."

"You can deny it all you want, but I see nothing but question marks around here, and they're all pointing in your direction."

Hawes pulled the rental van out onto the road. Soon they were on the highway, passing cars.

"Which way are we going?" Tony asked. He had an app pulled up on his tablet to track their progress.

"I was thinking I-84, to bypass Newbridgeport. The Loop is longer but less congested."

"I've never been to the city."

Hawes smiled in the rearview mirror. "Next road trip."

They passed a hockey arena. A blue neon sign called it the NEW! NEW! home of the Silver Seals.

Hawes tapped on the window in the direction of the arena. "It's wheelchair accessible."

"I hope this ride isn't going to become one long, boring commercial for what a cripple can do."

"Finding out what people want and giving it to them? You should try that some time."

The traffic bunched up. Hawes swerved into the right hand lane and accelerated past a truck that seemed to be poking along.

The traffic ahead was full of red tail lights.

"Uh-oh," Hawes said.

"Problem?"

"Traffic's jammed. Must be a hockey game today."

Tony checked on the air tank gauge.

(Still good.)

"No problem," Hawes continued. "We'll take this exit and go around."

There was no street sign, but— _if asked_ —Tony would have named the road 'Pothole Boulevard.'

Where were they? Tony couldn't find their location on the map and that made him anxious. He took a deep breath.

The oxygen pressure needle wiggled.

"Tell me about this girl," Hawes asked. Making conversation.

Tony didn't know that much really. "She likes to shorten words to single syllables."

"Such as?"

"Her favorites are 'obs' for obviously, and 'totes' for totally."

"That's interesting, I guess. Is Juniper her real name?"

"Her online name."

"What is it really?"

Tony wasn't sure, so he bluffed. "Jennifer."

"Uh-huh." Hawes didn't sound convinced. "She cute?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm partial to a pretty face, myself." Hawes looked left and right before pulling out onto another street. "So was your dad, it seems."

"And _how_ do you know that?"

"Pictures in your mom's house. She looks like she might have been fun back-in-the-day."

According to what his mom told Tony, she always favored granny dresses and poetry readings. "She was _never_ any fun."

"That's what all moms tell their sons. But today's girlfriends are tomorrow's moms."

(And future's shut-ins.)

The van pulled up to wooden gates with orange slashes on them.

"Road closed." Hawes slammed his hand on the steering wheel.

Tony resettled in his chair. This detour was giving him some time to think. What if Juniper freaked out about the wheelchair? He never told her.

(Never thought we'd meet.)

Not that he ever lied about it. He did the next best Pandy thing: Never brought up a fact if it was inconvenient.

He would have to win her over. Somehow.

Hawes tapped on the GPS display in the dashboard. "It's telling me to go back to the arena. _Don't think so_. I'll backtrack to I-84."

"How much longer will that take?"

"I dunno. Half an hour?"

Making his way back to the highway, Hawes accelerated up the ramp, got back onto the Loop, and headed in the opposite direction from which they had come.

DING.

That sound came from the on-board oxygen unit.

"What was that?" Hawes asked.

Tony tapped a fingernail on the air gauge, and the news wasn't good. _Down a quarter tank._ He must be breathing more than he thought.

(Duh. I'm excited.)

But that didn't stop him from lying. "It's the all-is-well bell," said in as light a tone as he could manage.

There was still time to turn back. Maybe postpone to another day. Get more oxygen. But then there was the real possibility of running into Tu, and he would blab for sure.

A couple of highway exits later and they were on I-84 heading north. The silver skyscrapers of Newbridgeport were coming up on their right.

DING.

Half a tank, now.

(That _can't_ be right.)

Perhaps a loose connection had allowed air to leak out? If so, that would mean there was a ton of pure oxygen floating around inside the van.

(Nobody light a match.)

Tony checked his air hose from the backpack to the onboard unit. Good and tight.

(That's not it.)

He tried to calculate in his head how much longer the air supply would last at current usage. None of the answers made sense. He would have to be breathing like he was running a marathon.

Hawes cleared his throat to get Tony's attention. Looked at him through the rearview mirror. "You really don't know this girl, do you?"

Tony opened his mouth to lie again, but...couldn't. Not to that face. "Not very well, no."

"What else you not telling me?"

The GPS interrupted by saying, in a proper British accent, they were ten minutes from their destination.

This visit could actually happen.

(Oh God, oh God.)

Juni was never going to get over how he had misled her, all these months. Hawes was right. Tony didn't know her. Or she, _him._

Who's kidding who?

(So cold.)

And not talking _cold feet_ , here. Being wheelchair bound meant staying warm was a constant issue. But suddenly he felt like an ice cube bobbing in the Arctic Ocean.

DING.

(No, no, no!)

Tony checked the air supply. The arrow was in the LOW zone. Marked in red.

How could _that_ be?

His hand reached around the on-board unit feeling for the other connector when he found out why.

Ice.

The connection from the sub-zero canister to the unit had frozen.

"Tony, you okay?"

This visit wasn't going to happen, after all.

Tony pulled up the street view of Juni's house on his tablet. There it was, a split level ranch with mismatched siding.

He switched to satellite view. Zoomed in.

Was that a girl in the backyard, waving up?

DING. DING. DING.

Hawes turned around in his seat to face Tony. "You're blue."

(Must get spare oxygen...)

Tony reached around to the back bin.

Stretching.

Got it.

Hawes shouted at the dashboard. "GPS, find nearest hospital!"

"Very good, sir. Please proceed up the motorway."

"Where did I put my phone?" Hawes asked himself, throwing gum wrappers and rental paperwork out of the center console. "We have to call your mother."

Tony was wheezing. "She...doesn't...know."

"What? I spoke with her."

"Remember?...She never answers...the phone..."

The edges of Tony's vision began to tunnel like he was looking through two empty paper towel rolls. Shrinking by the second.

The spare oxygen bottle dropped out of his hand. And when the van switched lanes, the metal cylinder rolled under the back row of seats.

(Somebody should really go get that.)

But the thought never reached his mouth.

Hawes was accelerating, bypassing the stalled traffic by moving into the breakdown lane.

(Must tell Hawes, not his—)

Blackness.

# \- 5 -

Breathing. He could hear himself. _In, out_. A clear, flexible oxygen mask was over his face—and, boy, was it ever tight.

(That'll leave a mark.)

Hard to see. Was it the mask? Or was it because his eyes were all gooped up?

Blinked.

Clearer now.

Vinyl window blinds on one wall and a TV riveted to the ceiling. Metal bed rails.

A hospital room.

(Must be.)

Tony closed his eyes. So tired. A headache besides. When he woke up again, there was Tu snoozing in a side chair and it was nighttime.

A day later Tony was back in his own bedroom, typing into his computer using his retinal mouse. He logged on to the Dino Cogs forum, found Juni online, and let her know why he hadn't shown up.

(Okay—not _exactly._ )

The part about running out of oxygen was left out. Instead he said his car broke down. No cell phone.

Lying was so much easier with words on a screen.

Hawes was fired, he typed.

Obs.

He didn't deserve it.

Totes.

My fault.

...

What was she supposed to say? Juniper didn't have the facts. The real ones anyway. He was looking for someone to say it was his fault, but not his fault.

(You know?)

His chest felt heavy. He checked his oxygen hose—no kinks anywhere. His air flow rate was set correctly and only green lights on the concentrator.

Must be something else.

I'm tired, Tony typed. I'm going to sleep.

Come on. There's an AMA with the band coming up.

Not up for it.

Ok. <POUTS> LYL—

Tony had already closed the browser window.

Kwame Paix Opoku-Boateng leaned over Tony's computer desk, because, well, there was no chair.

(Duh. I already got one.)

And stared at the monitor. He was figuring out why the video connection wasn't working.

(Come on, come on.)

In ten minutes there was going to be a reading of his father's will in downtown Newbridgeport by a lawyer named Dorchester Foulke. That's when Tony would find out what was going to happen to him and his mother now that his father was gone.

Tony couldn't _be_ there, but he could be _tele_ -there.

Mr. Opoku-Boateng's long fingers typed into the programming window on the computer screen. No clicking on icons for him; he was typing directly into the computer's brain.

(Which probably means...)

_He_ was the guy who reprogrammed the intercom software for his mother. That would make him her computer henchman.

(Hate to break it to you, Kwame, but...)

No amount of tapping on keyboards was going to make the intercom's snipped wires work again.

Tony fingered the technician's business card. Why not get to know him better? "You have a long name."

"Heh, yes." The tech smiled, but his eyes never left the screen.

"Must be cool to have such a different first name," Tony said. "Mine is so ordinary."

"Kwame is common name where I come from. Many boys born on a Saturday are named thus."

Green bars marched across the screen as the volume was increased, and the monitor flickered into a picture of a wall with many framed diplomas—and one monster of a desk.

(No wonder there's no mahogany left in South America.)

No sign of his mother.

"Why so many names?" Tony asked.

"Every one of them is im-por-tant." Kwame had one of those deep, vibrating voices. "They tell about my family, my tribe, and people im-por-tant to my country."

"I think I was named after a pizzeria."

"That's not true," snapped his mother's voice over the speakers.

Tony's eyebrows went up in surprise.

Kwame chuckled. "Connection is two way. People in front of camera can see and hear you."

"Glad I wore my formal pajamas."

Tony whirred his chair over to the computer and flipped down his retinal mouse. On the other end of the video feed someone blocked the view for a second and then sat down at the desk.

The lawyer, Tony presumed.

Dorchester Foulke was in a striped suit that wasn't fooling anybody into thinking he was slim. And he didn't look happy: a combination of upset stomach and shoes too tight, at a guess.

Foulke spoke to someone off-screen with his finger pointing. "Ahh, is this Mrs. Pandy's feed?"

(No two-way for her.)

"Will Reginald and Ronald be attending?" the lawyer asked as a follow up question. Tony heard a distant 'no.'

They were Tedward's children from a previous marriage. Tony had never met them.

And now?

Probably never would.

"Honey?" That was his mom. "Can you see alright?"

"Everything except you."

Tony booted up an app on his computer called Cartoon Me. He used it mainly to slap mocking animations over photos and, with the upgrade he just got, live video as well.

Step one: Circle the image on the screen.

Step two: Drag over one of a gazillion animations.

Step three: Laugh until butt falls completely off.

The software was smart enough to follow the object around as long as it didn't leave the screen.

Granted, only he could see the animations, but entertaining himself was always job number one for Tony Pandy. And mocking was the only way he could see himself enduring this meeting.

"Mrs. Pandy," Mr. Foulke said, "may I start by saying how sorry I am for your loss..."

If mom answered, Tony didn't hear it.

"...and if I may ask, with great sympathy for your situation—"

"What is it, Mr. Foulke?" Mom sounded impatient.

"There's the matter of my fee on behalf of your son."

(Me?)

Tony had thought they were here because of his dad.

"Can we discuss this another time, Mr. Foulke?"

"You duck my calls. Don't return emails."

"What of it?"

"This work was never supposed to extend—"

" _Extend_? Tony was never supposed to live this long, you mean."

Based on his reaction, Dorchester's stomach must have done a double flip. "All to the good, I'm sure."

"Are you sure? Because you sound like you're complaining."

Tony let this arguing go on without him. He clicked on an animation and considered it. How _would_ the lawyer look in a sombrero?

"Not at all," Foulke said. "The fact is, Mrs. Pandy, you are the representative payee now. A change is within your authority."

(Representative _what now_?)

"Mr. Foulke, you were never my attorney. Those bad bargains are not my concern."

"I wish you'd reconsider."

Awkward silence.

(No love, lawyer man.)

What about a handlebar mustache for ole Dorchester? (Nah.) Tony clicked to another choice.

Foulke sighed heavily and flipped open a document stapled to blue card stock. "To the matter at hand, the last will and testament of one Tedward Anthony Pandy. Does anyone object to me skipping the boilerplate?"

(The boring part, he means.)

Tony found the perfect animation. Using the retinal mouse, he dragged a cartoon cigar into place and it wig-waggled on Foulke's lips as he talked.

It even drops ashes!

"Ahh, I could find no provisions for life insurance, so I'll skip to his various holdings. There's his game company which owns the rights to GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS. Version one, two, and G.H.A., The Reboot."

It was a cool little game. At least Tony thought so. You could play as the plodding ants and collect food until time ran out. Or you could be the grasshopper and hop on ant heads and steal their food. Each game taking about a minute.

(Perfect for when you're taking a wizz.)

Foulke read Tedward Pandy's words out loud. "'All rights will be granted to my sons, Reginald and Ronald. To be shared equally.'"

Sure, it wasn't a lot of money. _Anymore._ The big bankroll came from before Tony was born. But _still._

"That can't be right," Tony's mother said.

"Black and white, Mrs. Pandy. Signed and notarized. And, ahhh, not by me."

"What about his other company?"

Foulke began reading from a separate document. "As of noon today, Pandy LLC, maker of home factories, is in bankruptcy."

"Can't be," his mother exclaimed.

"But it is. The company was deep in debt. "

"I don't understand?" his mother asked. "How much do we get?"

"Nothing," the lawyer said without a trace of sympathy. "In fact, my understanding is that the remaining equipment will have to be auctioned off to pay creditors."

Mom's gasp cut right through Tony. His hands began to tremble on the armrests.

Foulke closed the blue-covered will. "Any questions?"

"Didn't he leave me anything?" Tony asked from so far away.

Foulke smiled uncomfortably. "'Fraid not. Nor Mrs. Pandy."

"There must be some mistake," Mom whispered.

"What about the estate?" Tony asked.

The lawyer addressed his mother's feed before answering. "With your permission, I would like to advise Master Pandy about the trust."

'Trust?" Tony asked.

The surprises kept on coming.

Foulke looked right at Tony when he spoke. "The house you live in, as well as the grounds, are held in trust on your sole behalf."

"Mom doesn't own the estate?"

"No. Like Tedward before her, your mother will be the representative payee. The trust pays her, and she pays your bills."

"Who owns the trust?"

"Nobody, technically. It is a legal entity used for property."

"Who started it?"

Foulke straightened up and jerked down his vest which had begun to ride up. "That's a matter that does not concern you."

"How does this not _concern_ me?"

Mr. Foulke left the question unanswered.

"Does it have a name, at least?" Tony was pounding on his armrest now.

What did the lawyer just say? Hofflove? Who was Hofflove?

"And, ahh, for your information, the trust provides for a more active role for me as of your fourteenth birthday."

The one coming up at the end of the month.

"And what role will that be?" asked his mother.

"Making sure the conditions of the trust are being met."

"What conditions?"

"For one, that Master Pandy remain functional."

Tony could hear the irritation in his mother's voice. "Even more arrangements I didn't know about."

"And if I'm not?" Tony asked.

"Total liquidation of the estate," Foulke answered. "The selling of the guest house, main house, the outbuildings, the land—everything."

"How often will Tony be tested?" Her tone sounded whipped. Tony sure felt that way himself.

"Monthly."

"For how long?"

"Until his death or eighteenth birthday, whichever comes first." Foulke's big chair creaked as he shifted position. "Eventually, a trustee will be appointed who will specify tasks to determine whether the primary condition is being met."

(Flaming hoops?

Scavenger hunts?

Learning Greek?

What?)

"When will I get to meet the trustee?" Tony asked.

"Maybe never." The lawyer rested his head on his upturned hand, elbow on the desk. "If I may share with you, that is the oddest part of this whole arrangement. A commission drawn up by the originator of the trust will elect the trustee. He, _or she_ , will remain anonymous to me and possibly to you as well."

"Anonymous?" Mom was back on hysteria mode.

"Highly irregular, I agree. But the instructions are very specific. Any communication containing a coded signature is to be obeyed as long as it comports with law. Thereafter, my role will be to judge whether these tasks are accomplished."

"Mr. Foulke," Mom said with false friendliness, "I've reconsidered your request for a change in fee—"

"Most unethical, Mrs Pandy. Any alteration at this point would look like bribery."

Tony could tell that Foulke wished it wouldn't.

"But it's my estate, too." Mom was having none of this.

"Mrs Pandy, if that were true, you'd be right. But you know very well you don't own title to the Seahome Estate. Never have. It has been your privilege to live there as the trust's guest. If I were you, I would make sure that Tony meets the trust's requirements if you want that to continue."

# \- 6 -

Functional.

(What does that even _mean_?)

Tony rolled over on his bed—or as much as twisting his upper body could manage without a lot of help from his legs.

But he could do it.

What he could no longer do was transfer himself from his bed to the wheelchair. Tony didn't have the upper arm strength anymore. For that, he needed a health aide—and that lady from the agency was outside in the hall.

English was not her first language. Tony imagined she was listening for certain keywords: HELP, TOILET, GO PEEPEE NOW.

(She can wait.)

Although his full bladder said otherwise.

The intercom came on with its familiar **BA DINK** sound.

"Tony, you awake?" asked his mother.

"No."

Then it occurred to him.

(Intercom's working?)

Someone had not only repaired the intercom but also had encased their fix in a hard-plastic bubble.

With a lock!

(No wonder she sounded muffled.)

When was it fixed? He had not left his bedroom since the hospital. At no time would anyone have had time to—

(Last night.)

The lady from the agency had given him a shower in his handicap accessible bathroom down the hall. That's when.

(Which means...)

His health aide was _in_ on the scheme and, _therefore_ , mom's henchman.

Team Mom was kicking his butt.

Tony couldn't decide whether he felt more betrayed or outsmarted. If given a choice, Tony would have gladly traded his diversionary sponge bath for a last peek at father's workshop before it went on the auction block.

One floor down, but might as well be a galaxy away.

He remembered visiting his workshop. That last time his father had said, "Stretch for it, Tony. Press the button." And stretch he did, setting into motion the printer nozzles and plastic polymers of his father's in-home manufacturing machine.

"Another bobby for your collection," his father had said about the emerging bobblehead. "Machines are our future, m'boy. Do everything for us one day."

"It's been two weeks," Mom said, getting Tony's attention back to the here and now. "Please tell me you've been reading the lawyer's emails."

Tony picked up his tablet and deleted another message unread. "Every one," he said.

"That's not what Mr. Foulke tells me."

Not that Tony hadn't been busy _sending_ the lawyer email. In fact, he spent a good deal of time subscribing Dorchester Foulke to all sorts of emailed goodies: Road Kill Picture of the Day, for instance. Rapid Weight Gain Club, now with nutritious recipes.

(Hmmhmm, kale smoothies.)

And then there was Tasteless Lawyer Jokes dot com. _Why are all lawyers drunk? They only have to pass a bar once._ They sent this hilarity once every hour.

The lady aide snuck a look at him. His glare forced her retreat.

(Diapers wouldn't be so bad.)

Tony looked over at his pet monkey and his clothed butt.

"Right, Bony?"

Or maybe a machine he could glue right onto his—

"Are you listening to me, Tony? Do as the lawyer asks."

" _Demands."_

"I will not be made homeless because of your ego needs!"

The health aide scampered a bit farther down the hall. Loud sounds seemed to scare her real easy. Tony wondered if it might be because her home country was currently fighting a civil war. He'd have to ask her about that later.

"Tony, you know I can't leave this house. I can't leave this room, most days."

Tony thought about how far away his wheelchair was. He only wished it was his choice to remain in bed. "Why didn't you tell me about the trust?"

Bony rattled his cage as he climbed up one side. Cocked his head.

"I, I, I never thought you'd find out. _There,_ I said it."

Tony's bladder started sending distress signals. He ignored them. This discussion was much more important.

"I've been doing a little investigating, Mom. Did you know Dad's name wasn't even Tedward?"

She hesitated. "Yes, it's Theodore. Theodore Edward. But he hated that name."

"But there are some questions that Google can't answer, like, why don't you own the estate? How come Dad didn't leave us anything in his will?"

The wait-for-an-answer stretched on. Then—

CLICK.

The intercom's light went out.

(She hung up on me!)

The one thing she could still do for him—and never have to leave her room for—was answer questions. Tell him _about_ himself.

(But, no.)

Tony was suddenly jealous of Kwame Paix Opoku-Boateng. There was someone who knew who he was.

Bladder!

Yes, that again.

What was the health aide's name?

(Juanita? Bonita? Or maybe...)

"Angelita?" Tony raised his voice. But not loud enough to scare her. "Bathroom por favor."

He had that dream again.

**THUD, THUD.** The ground shook. **WHOOSH** of the wind past his face.

It's him— _running._

His legs are covered in chrome, equipped with pneumatic pistons and servos. Tall as a lamp post.

He's laughing, jumping over cars and fences, creating craters as his shiny metal feet hit the ground. Past the hangar, past the barn, past Tu's hut. But instead of arriving at the dock, there's a cliff up ahead.

Every time.

Tony sprinted over the grass, then on to the rocky dirt. Not slowing— _can't slow_. Does he have brakes? Will he sprout a jet pack and fly?

Never finds out. Wakes up, every time.

Days later.

The wheelchair had become quite a bother. After all, what was it really?

(A mobile bed.)

And not even that comfortable.

Tony transferred all his data to his tablet computer. Now, he need never leave his mattress.

Why had this never occurred to him before?

From here, Tony could use his retinal mouse on the computer. Well within range. The wheelchair always needed charging anyway.

Sure, he had to get over the initial, _ugh_ , of it. But it was not like Tony had to empty the bedpan himself. That was Angelita's job.

(Serves her right.)

And when she did, she used a string of her native words—which most online sources refused to provide a translation of without first getting him to affirm he was eighteen or older.

His tablet chimed.

It was an email from Dorchester Foulke with the subject line, Abuse of Email. Or some such.

Tony deleted it unread.

What the message did remind Tony about was that nagging question he had.

(Is the trust real?)

Okay, everyone was acting as if it was real, but, _come on_ , who would put a dying kid in a wheelchair through this misery? Here he was, the great debunker, skeptic extraordinaire, the guy who made OTHER people feel stupid—being _punked_.

Let's say there was a trust, he asked himself. Somebody must have set it up, right? What stranger would give him and his mother an enormous estate and fat bank accounts?

This is where Tony applied Occam's razor. The principle that the simplest solution was most often the correct one. Either his whole life had been a snot-ton of lies, where everyone was in on the conspiracy but him, or there was only this one booger of a lie.

Therefore, no trust.

That would explain why his mother freaked out about his questions. She hadn't had time to make anything up. What he couldn't make sense of was why his mother was going along with this make believe.

There was something missing. Something he didn't know.

The play-acting continued as the deadline came closer. Tu talked about removing the makeshift ramp, saying it made the place look trashy, and the new owners might not like.

(Tu, Tu, Tu. He's not fooling anybody.)

On the surveillance cameras, Tony watched a van unload men and women with clipboards. The wrapped-on advertising said WHOLE ESTATE APPRAISAL SERVICES. 'We'll Put a Price on Anything!'

(Ha.)

Probably some out-of-work soap opera actors.

Tony directed the laser pointer at the mini fridge on the bedroom floor.

(Soda time.)

He opened the monkey cage remotely and thumbed open a plastic tub full of grapes.

Bonaparte looked Tony up and down. Licked his lips. Then, instead of going towards the fridge, he took a running leap.

On to the bed.

(THAT'S never happened before.)

The Capuchin yanked the container away from Tony, screeching. The grapes bounced everywhere.

"Hey!"

The monkey jumped down and grabbed a grape off the floor. Leaped on to the sideboard. As he ate his booty, Bonaparte looked over at Tony with primate disdain.

"Just watch, stupid monkey. I'll have Angelita get me a soda."

**BA DINK**. The intercom.

"Tony...?" His mother's voice.

He said nothing.

"I know you're there."

As if he needed it pointed out that he had become about as mobile as a sofa.

Bony made a soft chittering sound and jumped down to the floor. Probably to get the rest of the grapes.

"Listen," Mom continued, "the health agency left me a message. I know all about you regressing."

"Yeah, well, so has Bonaparte."

"I don't _care_ about the monkey, Tony. I'm worried about you."

Bony used the bedspread to pull himself back onto Tony's bed.

(What's he doing now?)

The Capuchin hopped over Tony, climbed on to his pillow and sat on his head.

His head!

Totally flattening his mohawk.

Tony's good hand couldn't swat the monkey away.

"So, I decided," Mom continued, "after some omigod-should-I-really-be-doing-this? moments..."

Tony tried to wriggle him off, but Bony was as comfortable on his head as if he were on a recliner.

"...I called Hawes. I know, I know, I fired him..."

(What did she just say?)

"...But he was the only person who could motivate you..."

Tony held up his head, lifting Bonaparte up and off.

#$%#!

"Hawes back...seriously?" Tony asked.

"One condition. _His._ He said he has to hear the right things from you first."

(He can hear all the left things, too!)

"When's he coming?"

"Tomorrow."

Tony would have to prepare. What would he say? What did Hawes want to hear? Could he help Tony figure out the fake trust?

So much to do. No time to lounge around in bed.

"Angelita!"

# \- 7 -

From the front gate to the front door, the estate's cameras followed Hawes' progress on his black motorcycle. Once the health aide was out front, dropping his kickstand, Tony spotted the road rash on the muffler.

Hawes had mentioned the scrapes before, saying they were the result of _dumping the bike_.

(That didn't sound safe.)

Whether by him or a previous owner was never mentioned. The bike certainly didn't look new. Neither did the helmet Hawes hung from the handlebars by the chinstrap. Stenciled over one ear flap were the words BRAIN BUCKET.

Like he'd done it himself.

Tony wheeled himself back to his computer and refreshed the screen. This was the last little bit of preparation he had for his meeting with Hawes.

(The blackmail.)

Whenever Tony wanted to find out incriminating information about people, his go-to website was Dirt Diggers Unlimited. Learned that trick from his dad.

As long as you clicked a box saying that you had permission (wink, wink), you could investigate criminal records on _anybody_. And Dirt Diggers didn't have to know his check-writing father wasn't check writing anymore.

He had to wonder if his mom knew about this site. She hired Hawes the same day as the interview—so probably not. Maybe Dad was her henchman that way? Doing the dirty work.

Not that Tony wasn't otherwise prepared. He had found out many things about Hawes since last night, such as where his caregiver was from.

(West Virginia.)

Whether Hawes was his first name or last name.

(Last.)

School he graduated from.

(Upton College.)

What he studied.

(Physical therapy with a minor in counseling).

There were mentions of him in local newspapers. A paper drive. Selling candy for a no kill shelter.

(Boy scouts would kill for his rep.)

Lettering in track in high school.

(OF COURSE HE DID.)

He also had profiles on Facebook and Therapy Connect.

But no _dirt_.

And not having anything to hold over Hawes meant that Tony didn't have the upper hand. Hawes could walk away whereas he _needed_ him. And vulnerability made Tony very, very cranky.

He refreshed the screen again. Still no report.

The front door camera activated and followed Hawes up the porch stairs.

Until Hawes noticed, that is.

Staring at the camera, he took two steps back. Two forward. Ducked. Weaved. Then he framed his face with both hands and said, "Cheese"— and raced to the front door.

The doorbell rang out the theme to GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS!

Tony buzzed him in, and soon there was the heavy stomp of boots running up stairs.

(Rubbing it in.)

A moment later there was a knock on Tony's bedroom door.

"Come in."

Hawes made a show of checking out the ceiling. "Making sure no cameras." He smiled and snapped his gum.

(Always with the gum.)

"Mom said you were back."

"Yes! Well, _maybe_. We need to talk first."

Tony mimicked his mother. "You have to 'hear the right things.'"

"Yeah." His smile faded away.

"For instance?"

"Like you promising not to lie to me again."

Tony paced with his wheelchair. "Like _you've_ never lied."

"You don't have to be a saint on stained glass to call someone out on their vices, Tony."

"Manipulating people is the Pandy way!"

"There you go again," Hawes said, hands on his hips, "acting like it's something to be proud of."

"Don't you want to know _why_ my mother wants to hire you back?"

"She told me you weren't doing so hot."

"I'd say." Tony stopped pacing. "Since you've been gone, I've found out my mother doesn't own the socks she's wearing, and a lawyer is threatening to kick me out of my own home."

Hawes dropped himself into the leather side chair. "No foolin'?"

"My question, exactly. Help me find out."

Hawes pointed over at Bony. "I'm not working for someone who treats me worse than their pet monkey."

"Why would you then?"

" _Why would I then?_ Are you for real?"

"Yes." Tony was genuinely not understanding what Hawes was getting at. "What's it going to take?"

"You act like there isn't a reason for me to be here besides whatever carrot or stick you can dream up."

"Answer the question."

"Why is it so hard to imagine you might be worth my time?"

Tony felt his lower lip jut out.

Quiver even.

This meeting was NOT going like he had planned.

"Well?" Hawes asked, in a softer tone.

The words came out before Tony could take them back. "I'm defective."

"Tony—"

"It's true." Anger flashed over him. He couldn't hold the words back if he tried. "My body's turned against me. My mother can't bear to see her failure—"

"Tony!"

His eyes stung. "Why WOULD anyone want to be with me?"

"Lots of reasons. You're smart, funny—"

Tony pounded on his armrest. "Quit buttering me up!"

"On the other hand, you're insensitive, rude, and amazingly arrogant."

The turnabout made Tony laugh. "I prefer the term _super_ cilious."

"And use words I didn't know exist. But decent underneath."

Tony backed his wheelchair away. "I've fooled you."

"No, you fooled me about having your mother's permission. But I know you in your _heart_."

Tony's eyes fell back on his computer screen. Block letters blinked back at him: RESULTS FOUND.

Results meant a finding.

A finding meant something _bad_ about Hawes.

Tony fidgeted his wheelchair back and forth. One click of the retinal mouse and he would know.

"So what's it going to be, Tony? Trust me or keep lying to me?"

A pop up window displayed the words VIEW REPORT?

Then again, it could be something harmless. A missed credit card payment. Someone with a similar name.

The chances of that?

The same as getting Bonaparte to deliver a soda.

(If I look, I'll use it.)

The same way he did with Tu. Now Tony couldn't get the Asian groundskeeper to look at him without sneering.

"What's it going to be, Tony?"

Hawes wanted to hear the _right_ things. That's what his mother had said. Worse, he wanted Tony to _believe_ those things.

Tony flipped up his retinal mouse. "I trust you."

"Good." Hawes chewed on his gum. "You know, for a start."

The pop up window refreshed. There were _multiple_ reports.

Tony put his eyes back on Hawes. "Um—"

Hawes held up a hand. "I've got more. You have to agree to my treatment plan, with the exercise and dietary requirements."

"Are you serious?" Tony was back to feeling vulnerable.

Hawes folded his arms. "Those are my terms."

Hawes, who runs up stairs.

Hawes, who rides a motorcycle.

Hawes, who can do most anything.

(I'll show him.)

Tony flipped down his retinal mouse and locked on to the computer screen. One blink, and the reports would be his.

Hesitated.

(Decent underneath.)

That's what Hawes said about him.

Attempting to blackmail Hawes into helping didn't feel very 'decent underneath.'

Tony looked back at his health aide. Hawes was still chewing his gum. Waiting.

It's the Pandy way, he thought.

(Shut up.)

Tony closed the pop-up window. All that research now just bits and bytes lost on the Internet.

"Well?" Hawes asked.

"I accept your terms."

"Okay!" Hawes clapped his hands together. "I mean, o _kay_."

"Surprised?"

"To be honest with you—"

"If you must."

"Your mother warned me you never, ever give in."

"We don't have to tell her," Tony replied, finding himself smiling. "She hates to be proven wrong."

"Runs in the family."

"Not at all. I LOVE to be proven wrong." Tony fluffed up his mohawk. "It's just that I so seldom get that pleasure."

Hawes horse-snorted. He caught his gum before it landed on his pants. Stuck the wad under the sideboard.

"Hey!" Tony complained.

"It's for laters." Hawes grinned. "So what do we have to do to get this lawyer to back off?"

"Show him I'm functional."

"I can do that. First—"

" _First,_ help me prove whether the trust is real."

# \- 8 -

Hawes pushed the side chair over to Tony's computer. He hunched forward, pecking out letters on the keyboard like he had never seen one before. "Why am I doing the typing?"

"Faster than me and my retinal mouse."

Although that was becoming debatable. Hawes was still working on his second word, and it was a preposition.

"Didn't you have papers to type in school?" Tony asked.

"Thumbed them on my phone, and sent it over to URsecretary dot com to make it all grammary."

Tony made a mocking face. "I can't BELIEVE I put you in charge of my collegiate experience." He read what Hawes had typed. "And you're wasting your time. I've done a thousand searches with those exact same keywords."

"Okay." Hawes took his hands off the keyboard. "Let's think about this. What _do_ we know? Mr. and Mrs. Tedward Pandy don't own the estate. Right?"

"That's what the lawyer says."

"And you think he could be lying?"

"Like a mattress."

Hawes sighed. "And every bit of information we have comes from the lawyer. So we got nothing." He idly tapped on the keyboard. nnnnn appeared on the screen. "Okay, let's look at it another way. Start with the idea that this trust is real."

Tony leaned forward. "Which leads us to?"

"Why not just go along with the lawyer's directions? If it's a goof, it won't hurt, and if real, will save your home."

"Like Pascal's wager," Tony said.

"Pasquale?"

" _Pascal._ A philosopher. He said something similar about the belief in God. If He exists and you don't believe in Him, you're barbeque for all eternity. But if you _do_ believe, you have nothing to lose. Pascal reasoned you might as well pretend to believe."

Hawes tapped the 'n' some more. "I don't know, Tony. I think God would know if you're bluffing."

"Says you," Tony wisecracked. "Even if I believed the trust was real, _and I don't_ , the lawyer has every reason to find me non-functional. Mom turned down his request for more money, and he's been a Sasquatch ever since."

"Sounds like your excuse for not trying."

Tony made a face. "You have a better excuse for not trying?"

"No, because I think you should. Have you read his letters?"

"Emails. Not a one."

"You're blowing off the one guy who controls your inheritance?"

"Who _says_ he controls my inheritance. Big difference."

Hawes turned to the computer screen. "Back to finding out whether this trust is real, then." He hunted and pecked amongst the keys. Hit RETURN.

"Ha, you misspelled it," Tony said.

"Dangit!"

"Two 'f's in Hofflove."

"You sure?"

Images started showing up based on the original search.

(Couldn't be.)

"Hawes? Click on that girl in the bikini."

"Is this really the time for girly pics?"

"Just do it."

She looked so much like...

"Mom!" Tony's hand went to his mouth.

Hawes disagreed. "Tag says 'Gwendolyn.'"

"Remove the 'G' and add twenty years, and that's my mother."

Tony looked over at the intercom. The activation light was off.

(Mom's not listening.)

"What does the caption say about her?" Tony asked.

Hawes shook his head. "This might not be a good idea."

"Read it."

Hawes sighed. "'Well-known groupie to the stars—"

"What's a groupie?"

"A really, really big fan. Someone so into a band or celebrity they might want to meet them." Hawes moused over some images, looking around. "Was Hoflove—with one 'f', by the way—your mother's maiden name?"

Tony shook his head. "Nilstrom. Never heard of Hoflove."

Hawes clicked on a picture of a banner hanging from an interstate overpass. It read, HOUSTON LOVES HO LOVE!

"Huh," Hawes said. "Now with no 'f'.'"

"Kinda sounds dirty."

Hawes typed HO LOVE into the search box. "No such luck. It was a nickname of a band." He zoomed in on an entry on RockToday's website and pointed to the first word. "HostagesOfLove, often shortened to HoLove or HofLove."

"Wiki them."

Hawes typed in his search. Pictures of band members and album covers appeared. The one that caught Tony's eye was a black and white photo of a long haired guy with the word MISSING printed diagonally across his face.

"Who is that?"

Hawes straightened up. "Let's stop for a second, here."

"Why?"

"We might find out something that you might regret knowing."

(Like criminal records?)

But Tony didn't share that thought.

"All I'm saying is," Hawes said, "what's hidden in the sock drawer might be best stayin' there."

"I'm unafraid of socks. Tell me."

Hawes sighed again. "Says here, name's Dallas Merullo. Singer, songwriter." Snapped his fingers. "Now I remember. He killed himself or something."

There was a list of songs by the band: 'Cyber Angel', 'Number's Up', 'Tears of Frankenstein,' 'Wendy'.

"Wendy," Tony said. "That's my mom's name."

Hawes scrolled some more. "I don't know how to break it to you, but he wrote songs for other girls too. There's a song called Marianna Trench."

Tony did his best to not laugh out loud. "That's the name of an undersea canyon."

"Oh...I knew that."

"You _so_ did not."

Hawes ignored Tony and read from the wiki. "'His estate was called Seahome.' Isn't that what's written—"

"On the front gate of this property. Yes."

The reveals were stringing together as quickly as Tony's life story was unraveling. "Why did he choose that name, I wonder?"

" _Now_ you're curious." Hawes searched the web. "Shoulda guessed. It was also the name of Lord Byron's ancestral home, once upon a time. Rom rockers loved their Byron."

A thought was slowly forming in Tony's head. Hawes looked uncomfortable as well.

"I suppose..." Tony began.

"Could mean nothing."

"But why would a defunct band..."

"Form a trust..."

"And give their ex-groupie..."

"But not really give it _to_ her..."

"Does that mean...?" Tony didn't dare say it.

"Let's not go full-on crazy yet."

"That would explain why Tedward didn't give me anything in his will. Why would a fake dad give his fake son anything?"

"Orrr," Hawes said, while waving his hand around indicating the estate, "he could have thought you were already well provided for."

"Either way, if Tedward isn't my real father that means...he lied to me."

Hawes shot his eyebrows up and down. "I'm tempted to say something really mean right here."

"Like we're a family of liars, so why should I be surprised?"

"Something like that, yeah." Hawes typed some more. "Hurts, don't it?"

(So would a two hundred pound wheelchair running over your foot.) But Tony didn't say anything.

Hawes indicated the screen full of weblinks. "Maybe we'll catch a clue if we find out more about Merullo."

"Pick any video. I have to know if there's a resemblance."

Hawes moused over a clip. "Here's an interview." He sped past the intro.

"What's up with his hair?" Tony asked.

"I dunno. Scissor fight?"

Hawes pressed PLAY at about the middle of clip. The lead singer of the HostagesOfLove was speaking. "I consider myself a poet. The music is just the vessel that carries my words to the people."

"Hit pause." Tony back and forthed his wheelchair. "He CAN'T be my father. What a self-important—"

Hawes laughed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, really. Whaaat?"

"You're right—nothing of him in you." Snicker, snort.

"Pick another video."

"Here's a clip in concert."

The video was blurry, and the stage lights gave the scene an eerie glow.

"What's he doing?" Tony asked. "Jumping? Spazzing?"

"I think it's supposed to be dancing."

Tony leaned in to the speakers to hear the lyrics. "Is he singing, 'I want to wear you like a MAS-OO-RATI?'"

"Yup," Hawes confirmed. "You try grooving to that at a junior high dance without getting suspended."

"Ugh, vulgar pop star. No _way_ he's my dad." Tony looked up at his poster of deGrasse Tyson, pointing to Saturn. "How could I come from that, Neil?"

"Maybe he had smarter songs." Hawes indicated a list down the left side of screen. "He had three albums."

Tony read out the titles: "Bleeding Hearts Ew. Tears of Frankenstein—'"

"Bunch of hits on that one," Hawes said.

"And Apocalyptical Ouroboros,"

"'Apocalyptical means 'end of the world,'" Hawes said. "That one I know. But what's an ouroboros?"

"A snake eating its own tail. Symbol of eternity, or self destruction. Take your pick."

Hawes laughed to himself. "Using words nobody else understands. _Check_."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Tony ignored the teasing. "Pick a song from that one."

"H'okay."

The video played. They heard Dallas sing, "Cyber angel, your path is clear..." Freaky organ music and some sort of synthesized drum, and like a thousand violins joining in on the chorus.

"Where is he?" Tony asked. "I see the rest of the band but not—"

"There."

Hawes paused the video on a blurry image of a man in a top hat with brim turned upwards.

That wasn't what Tony noticed. "He's leaning on a cane."

Hawes looked Tony's wheelchair up and down. "You thinking he had the same thing you got? _Maybe._ Or it could be because of a skiing accident or—knowing rom rockers—that's where he keeps his sword hidden."

Tony put his finger on the screen. "Click on that artwork."

"Back cover? Sure."

Set in an oval, the picture was only of instruments—no people. And a cane leaning up against a speaker.

"What ended up happening to Merullo?" Tony asked.

"Said he went 'missing.'"

Tony waved his hands around. "There has to be more!"

Hawes searched around. "The Newbridgeport Gazette has a story. Says he—"

"Zoom it." Tony wanted to read it for himself.

(Local) At 8am it was reported to town police that Dallas Merullo had failed to return from an overnight sail.

"Boat was called the Giovanni," Hawes said. "Mean anything to you?"

"There's Don Giovanni."

"Someone you know?"

"Not exactly. It's the name of an opera by Mozart."

"And you think the same guy who wrote 'I want to wear you like a Maserati' is into fat ladies singing in Viking helmets?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Mozart's the same time period as Lord Byron. It fits that a rom rocker would be into that."

Hawes twitched his mouth around. "What's the opera about?"

"This jerk who ends up fooling around with a bunch of girls, killing a guy, and getting dragged down to Hell."

"Sounds interesting, actually. I might check it out."

"It's all in Italian."

"Dangit!"

Tony read further. HostagesOfLove had just come off a concert tour to benefit war-torn refugees in Liongo, Africa. Some people had criticized Merullo's participation as support for that country's president, Paix Zimbolist.

(Paix.)

Where had Tony heard that name before?

The computer technician, Kwame. _His middle name._ But that has to be coincidence. The Serengeti could be full of Paixs.

"Never heard of the country of Liongo," Hawes said.

"That's because it doesn't exist anymore."

"What happened to it?"

"Invaded by a neighbor, I think. Before I was born."

Hawes went back to the wiki entry about the rock star and read aloud: "After seven years, Dallas Merullo was declared dead. The Giovanni was never recovered." He straightened up and stretched out his arms. "That solves one mystery."

"And what's that?"

"Remember, running around the estate on the first day? Dock, but no boat. Hangar, but no plane—"

"Wheelchair, but no ramp. So what?"

"That's because this estate wasn't built for your parents. It was for Dallas Merullo. He must have had those things."

Tony adjusted his cannula. The inside of his nose was irritated. "I never should have looked in the sock drawer."

"I done told you."

"Then again," Tony added, turning whimsical, "everyone knows how unreliable the Internet can be."

"Oh, yeah." Hawes played along. "Could be totally off. Called your mother a _groupie_!"

"Yeah."

The silence grew awkward.

(Mom's got some explaining to do.)

"Does it say if he had any children?" Tony asked.

Click. Scroll. Tap. "Unknown."

"I wonder if something of his could still be here. On grounds."

"How do you figure?"

"This is where he lived. Created his music. Where he cast off with the Giovanni." Never to return.

(Attic, maybe?)

Tony had never been up there. Cellar? An outbuilding? It's not like Tony had been over every inch of the property. Tu's hut? Tony had never been there, ever. He always assumed that it was a glorified tool shed with a bed. And then there was the hangar. Supposed to be empty, but was it really? The old barn...the list was endless.

"If he _is_ my real dad—"

"As opposed to—"

"Fake dad."

"Can we stop with these unhelpful labels, please?"

"I don't care. I've spent my whole life making fun of people for believing nonsense. And here I am, the biggest fool of them all."

"There's no shame in being lied to."

"'Hurts, don't it.' Said it yourself." Tony moved on to his original thought. "If Merullo did start this trust, he must have thought about this moment."

"That moment being?"

"Me, figuring it out."

"What do you expect to find? A letter? 'Dear Tony, I always knew you'd find this by the loose paving stone by the old well?'"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Though that was pretty close to what he thought, to be honest.

Hawes stood up. "Merullo may have anticipated this moment, sure, but ran out of time. Didn't plan on his boat springing a leak."

Tony whirred his chair in a circle. "I don't know who I am. Who am I?"

"What kind of question is that? The same guy you ever were."

"How possibly?" Tony let out a sigh.

"Or why possibly," Hawes asked, pointing to the bank of surveillance monitors, "is that red light blinking?"

That was the motion detector for the front gate.

Tony got out his tablet and used it to access the gate camera.

There was the lawyer, Dorchester Foulke, and some sort of policeman with a star pinned on his chest instead of a shield.

The officer was carrying a piece of paper with a seal and took a dramatic step forward like he was trying to stamp down some turf on the outside of the estate's gates.

"You might want to read those emails, Tony."

# \- 9 -

**FROM:** Dorchester Foulke, Esq.

<d.foulke@foulke.mcfeely&katz.com>

**TO:** Wendolyn Pandy

**CC:** Anthony Pandy

**SUBJECT:** Outrageous Behavior

Dear Sir/Madam:

All correspondence from this office has been rebuffed. That includes email, certified mail, and private courier.

(So glad I took control of the front gate.)

In fact, not a single reply of any sort has been received by me or any of my associates.

Reading along, Hawes began to sputter. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy."

The original deadline for compliance with the HofLove Trust was Anthony Pandy's date of birth, the 30th of April. This office no longer believes honoring this deadline would be salutary.

"Salutary?" Hawes asked.

"Worthwhile."

Therefore, because of other pressing matters, I will be advancing the deadline to—

"That's today!" Hawes' eyes bugged out.

Being that no permanent trustee has thus far been named, this change of date is within my purview.

"Purview?"

"He gets to."

If the trust's stipulations have not been met by that date, eviction will proceed immediately.

D Foulke

"He writes like a spambot," Tony said.

Hawes rubbed at his face. "Perfect. Pick on the goober for only wanting you to return a gosh-darn email."

" _Demanded._ "

"So what? He controls your everything, Tony!"

"I didn't know that _then._ "

Tony activated the gate camera and turned the microphone on. Zeroed in on Dorchester Foulke.

Tony said through the gate speaker, "We're closed for the day, but please feel free to visit our gift shop. 'Seahome, for all your sea needs.'"

Foulke frowned. "We're not here for juvenile levity." He flicked a finger at the uniformed man beside him. "Sheriff Donaldson? Proceed."

The lawman stepped forward and read from a document. "You are hereby informed of notice of eviction, and notice to vacate the premises immediately." Stepped back.

It took Tony only a few seconds to find the right sound effect on his computer.

**RUNNING WATER**.

"I'm in the shower!" Tony yelled. "Can you come back in July?"

The sheriff put a hand to his mouth. Hiding a grin, or outrage, it was hard to tell.

Hawes turned off the microphone. "This is serious, Tony." He turned it back on so Foulke could hear him. "Hawes, here. I have a question. Don't you have to, like, give us thirty days or something?"

The lawyer spoke. "That's for rental property. The owner of this property does not recognize you as anything other than trespassers." He shared a look with the sheriff. "Besides, it's been thirty days since the trust made its requirements known. And, Master Pandy, not one bit of progress has been made, has it?"

Tony began to speak, but Hawes cut the mic. "Tony, unless you want those guys dragging you out the front door, you better think of something better than smart alecky."

Tony jerked his wheelchair back and forth, thinking.

(This situation is like some sick joke.)

What do you give a boy in a wheelchair with a terminal illness for his birthday?

Homelessness.

Hawes turned the microphone back on. "Mr. Foulke, could you explain why you're advancing the deadline by two days?"

Foulke briefly looked down at the tassels of his shoes as if the answer might be written there. "Pressing matters."

"What could be more pressing than this?"

"Ahh, of a personal nature."

That annoyed Hawes. "Surely there has to be someone else who can be here on Saturday?"

"The trust mandates that I handle this matter personally. And I will be out of the country on the actual date."

"Doing what?" Tony asked, with a side order of attitude.

"It's my thirtieth wedding anniversary, if you must know. The wife and I will be taking a non-refundable cruise to the Bahamas."

The sheriff laughed out loud. Foulke's laser-stare melted him where he stood.

"Well," Tony began, "I wouldn't want to inconvenience _that_. Let me pack up my hobo stick and quit bothering you."

Foulke had a face on him like he was expecting that morning's breakfast to make a return trip. "Nonsense. _If_ you had read my emails, you would understand that a hospital bed has been secured for you at a hospice..."

(Great, where people go to die.)

"...therefore, you will have a place to go."

Tony looked up at Hawes. "Any ideas?"

Hawes nodded and spoke into the microphone. "As Tony's appointed treatment professional..."

(Go, Hawes, go!)

"I say this is... _not_ cool."

(No, Hawes, no.)

Tony tried his own gambit. "You still have to measure my functionality, correct?"

"And that day is today," Foulke said with annoyance.

"Which means what, specifically?"

"Ahh, the ability to travel through your TOTAL environment. To this counsel's satisfaction."

Tony turned off the microphone. Spoke to Hawes. "When can you have the stairlift put in?"

"Got all the parts downstairs. But, Tony, I was going to have a craftsman put that in—"

Tony waved off that sentence. "What about getting me around outside the estate?"

"Handivan arrives tomorrow."

Tony flicked the microphone back on. "I'm going to hold you to the original deadline. Two days from now."

Hawes whispered, "He said 'no' to that already."

Tony had the Science of Deal Making on the high shelf with his other books. _Ask for more than what you want to get what you need._

Dorchester screwed one eye closed and took aim at the camera with the other. "Twenty-four hours. No more."

"Deal."

Tony high fived Hawes.

Foulke wasn't done talking, however. "At that time there will be a live demonstration of your functionality. Either the eviction takes place or the trust's conditions will have been met. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Tony said. He began to back up his wheelchair.

Hawes's tapped him on the shoulder. "What are they doing now?"

The camera showed the sheriff unrolling thick yellow tape from one pillar of the front gate to the other. It read, POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

"What's that for?" Tony asked into the microphone.

The sheriff answered. "Nobody will be allowed to enter these premises until the notice is lifted."

Hawes asked the next question. "What about leave?"

"Oh, you can leave," Foulke answered. "Just _never_ to return."

Tony turned off the surveillance cameras.

The screens went black. And with them, the audio.

There was only the sound of Bony scurrying around in his cage.

Hawes spoke first. "No craftsman, that means."

"No handivan, that means."

"We're skunked, that means."

Bony chittered in agreement. Or it could have been because his food bowl was empty. Take your pick.

"Do we have any other vehicle on hand?" Tony asked with an uncommon tone to his voice.

Wishful.

Hawes shook his head. "Nothing but my bike and Tu's Honda."

"Tu could loan us his car."

Hawes shook his head. "It's in the garage. He asked me for a ride from there, this morning."

Fantasies of handmade go-carts went through Tony's head.

"How far would a vehicle need to be able to take me?"

"Credibly? At least get from the estate to, say, the nearest town."

(So, no go-carts.)

"Back to skunked."

"So frustrating," Hawes said. "You're sitting on, what? Millions of dollars? A hangar without a plane, a dock without a boat—"

A grin spread across Tony's face. "A barn without a cow."

"What of it?"

"Yet full of _cars_."

Hawes was pushing Tony in his wheelchair, up hill, on the road leading to the barn.

He was breathing _hard._

"Had to. Come. Didn't you?"

Tony banged out a beat on his armrest like he was setting the pace. "We've only got till tomorrow!"

Hawes took a big breath. "I coulda called you or spoke to you from one of those camera-thingies all around here."

"This is my life. I won't sit back and watch it on television."

Once past the pond, Hawes left the road and picked a path through the high grass. Soon they were at the barn's sliding double doors.

Tony pointed to the sagging roof. "That doesn't look good."

"And daylight between the boards," Hawes added. "Whatever's in here has been exposed to the elements."

Hawes unlatched the metal hasp. A screechy sound came off the runners as he pushed open the sliding doors. There were whiffs of oil and gasoline, and tarps were hiding a dozen mounds of the unknown.

"You'll never get my wheelchair in there."

Hawes nodded in agreement.

The barn was dark, even with all the daylight coming through.

"Dangit," Hawes said. "Forgot a flashlight."

Tony handed him his tablet. "Try this."

Hawes waded inside the barn using the tablet as a light.

After a minute or so, Tony heard Hawes say, "Hellooo, what's this?" There was the sound of fabric against metal, as if a tarp was removed. "Looks like a '67 Corvette..."

"I like the sound of that."

"Up on blocks, though. No tires."

Tony unleashed a sigh. "See what else you can find."

The tablet's screen lit up the ceiling.

"The heck?" Hawes asked.

What looked like a glider with ribbed wings, complete with leather straps and metal buckles, hung from a cross beam. Like something Leonardo da Vinci would have dreamed up.

"I'm not flying out of here, Hawes."

"Hey, this was your idea. Weren't you the one who told me your father—"

"Fake father."

Hawes ignored him. "...never completed a one of those?"

Tony shrugged. "If you don't have a bale, you grasp at straws."

"I'm grasping, I'm grasping. And what's with the farming metaphors?"

"You're the one from Virginia," Tony said, bluffing.

"West Virg—Dangit! You got it out of me."

Little by little, Tony hoped to get Hawes to give up information about himself. That way he wouldn't accidentally reveal his snooping.

How Tony could get Hawes to blurt out the dirtier details, he had no idea.

Hawes sidestepped past a work bench and a rack of tools. Stopped short.

He whistled—one long, one short.

"What?" Tony was too far to see.

"A genuine 1947—no '48—Indian Chief."

"A squatter?"

"Nuh-uh _._ "

A tarp went flying. Heavy objects got shoved and heaved. Finally, Hawes walked this 'Indian Chief' out the barn door.

What might have once been cherry-red and cream with chrome trim was now pitted and faded.

"A motorcycle," Hawes said, in case Tony couldn't figure it out.

"A motorcycle," Tony echoed, not hiding his disappointment.

Hawes spun the bike around on flat tires for the reveal.

"With sidecar."

And by sidecar he meant what looked like a short kayak welded to the bike frame.

"You want _me_ to ride in _that_?"

"Welcome to your straw, Tony." The health aide's eyes lit back on the motorcycle. "Oh, hey—Lookit! It's got a suicide shift."

"That doesn't sound safe."

"Kinda isn't," Hawes admitted. "You have to take a hand off the handle bars to shift gears. This'll be an adventure to ride."

"Mom will never allow it."

"Since when did you start listening to your mother?"

"Since whenever it suits my purposes."

(Duh.)

"Then you have a decision to make, Tony."

"What's that?"

"Either this, or safely homeless. Your choice." Hawes turned back to the antique motorcycle. "Not that I'm saying this'll work."

"Of course it won't work. 1948? That's ancient." Then Tony though about his go-cart idea. How this wasn't so different. "Why _wouldn't_ it work?"

"For starters, tires are flat. Gasoline is bound to have turned to jelly in the gas tank. Gears gunked up. Spark plug problems, battery dead. I could go on and on."

The sidecar had a rounded windshield with its own tire. Tony began imagining himself out on the open road, riding in it. "Why do you think it _could_?"

Hawes went back to the motorcycle and gave it another look. "All the parts seem to be here. Rust is cosmetic, not structural." Sighed. "Missing some bolts. Probably could raid the toolbox for some."

"Long shot?"

"A hundred things will have to go right."

# \- 10 -

Hawes called Tu for some help. And he said _yes._

The groundskeeper showed up with a gas can in one hand and a bag of auto supplies in the other. Whatever he must have had on hand, at a guess. Tu did, however, ask the obvious question.

"I don't know why I help you, Tony Pandy."

Tony had an answer. "Because if the estate gets taken away, you're out of a home just like me."

Tu grumped up his face in reply. "Only change is permanent."

"I'm not sure I know what that means," Hawes said.

But Tony did. The groundskeeper was a Buddhist; for him, everything was a natural cycle between good and bad. But before Tony could announce to the world that he had the answer, Tu's face brightened up with a new thought.

"Maybe new owner like me?"

Tony stepped on that quick. "Who wouldn't like a man known as Mr. Good Bribe throughout Asia? Which, I will have you know, is the largest continent on Earth."

Before Tu could fight back, Hawes stepped between them and took the gas can out of the Asian man's hand. "Shame to waste all this effort, wouldn't it, Tu?" As Hawes walked by Tony, he hissed, "He's only looking for a reason to help your ungrateful butt."

Tu went back home for his battery-powered compressor. When he returned Hawes shared with everyone a piece of good news. The motorcycle had been drained of all fluids before being stored.

"So?" Tony asked.

"Nothing to get old and gunked up," Hawes answered.

Whatever his motivations, Mr. Ngu was right up to his elbows helping prepare the motorcycle for riding. And, from where Tony sat, Hawes was clearly in charge. He did ALL the pointing.

After an hour of watching, Tony couldn't contain himself. "Can you make it go?" He had that seldom-used tone in his voice.

Hopefulness.

"There's nothing I can't fix," Hawes replied.

"What are we going to do when it gets dark?" Tony asked.

"I'm hoping it won't come to that."

Tony realized more questions would probably delay the motorcycle putting-together further, but he couldn't seem to help himself. "What's hanging from the fenders?"

"They used to call them skirts, back-in-the-day. Some people didn't want young boys looking at naked tires lest they get ideas."

While Tony was trying to puzzle out why boys would be getting 'ideas' from exposed rubber, Hawes was using the compressor to inflate the tires, one after another.

"We're in luck, Tony," Hawes said. "Tires are holding the pressure. But I wouldn't want to take this bike cross country."

"It only has to last a few minutes. To convince Foulke."

Tu made a face at the bike and shook his head. "Junk."

"Hey, watch the negative attitude," Hawes said, as he wiped his oily hands with a rag. "The motorcycle gods may hear you."

"Bah."

Tony couldn't resist. "I happen to know 'bah' is Vietnamese for 'hooray."

The Asian groundskeeper waved his hand at Tony. "Bah."

Hawes screwed the gas cap back on. "Okay. Done."

Full dark had set in.

"Both of you say a prayer okay?" Hawes stepped on the kick-starter—this foot-powered lever used to ignite the engine.

**ARRUGAHGAHGAH.** But the engine didn't catch.

"Bikes never start on the first try," Hawes explained, sounding more like a pep talk to himself than anything else.

Tu stepped back and put a hand over his mouth like he was trying to hold in all the negativity he could.

Hawes again stepped down hard on the kick-starter.

**ARRRUGAHGAHGAH.** Nothing.

Tony didn't believe in any gods. It was all superstition to him. But now, _here_ —he believed. He believed HARD.

Hawes stepped on the kick-starter, again and again. Nothing.

Tony believed HARDER.

Tu walked away a few steps. Shoulders slumped.

"Boy Jesus!" Hawes fiddled with the engine. "I forgot the gas switch."

ARRUGAHGAHGAH.

The front headlight lit up. Hawes flicked his wrist and gunned the engine. **BROMUMUM**.

"Where's the love?" Hawes shouted over the engine sound.

"Woo-hoo!" That was Tony.

Gunned it louder. "CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"WOO-HOO!"

Tony couldn't believe it: this was actually going to work.

Even Tu clapped his hands together—until he stopped.

Frowned.

Pointed down to the health aide's leg.

Hawes hopped off the bike and killed the engine. He pushed his jeans off like they were biting him. "Ow, ow, ow!"

The inside of his thigh was red and raw.

"What just happened?" Tony asked.

Hawes showed him the dark stain on his pants. "Oil leak."

"That's not supposed to happen," Tony said.

Hawes nodded in agreement. "Gasket's blown."

"What is 'gasket?'" Tu asked.

"How do I explain?" Hawes asked himself as he sat in the dirt. "It seals the seam between two pieces of metal."

"Can that be fixed?" Tony asked.

"Yeah, sure." Hawes said, balling up his ruined jeans. "First, build a time machine. Second, go back to 1948 to get a new gasket."

# \- 11 -

One hundred things had to go right; only ninety-nine _did._

Back at the house, Hawes settled Tony into his motorized wheelchair on the second floor. From there, Tony whirred his way back to his room.

Defeated.

"There's got to be something else we can try," Hawes said.

"Time machine. Don't have."

Tony parked himself alongside his bed. Sleep was looking like the only option he had left.

"Wait a minute." Hawes threw both hands up in the air. "I'm _such_ an idiot."

"Does agreeing with you get me into bed any faster?"

"Hold up. My dad had this old pickup, okay? And it'd break down all the time. And it's not like you could go to the local auto supply store for parts for a fifty-year-old Ford F1."

"What's your point?"

"New Old Stock, they called it. Meaning somebody, somewhere, had a warehouse full of outdated parts."

"I need it _now,_ Hawes."

"By tomorrow, _Tony._ You're still a millionaire. You could overnight that sucker with a drone made out of platinum."

Tony sighed. All he wanted to do was go to bed and pretend, for a few hours anyway, that the world really wasn't going to end. "And what if we did? Who would install it?"

Hawes pinched his lower lip between two fingers. "Need a manual. Then a master mechanic—"

"Exactly."

"But I've replaced that type of gasket before. Okay, _once_. Different bike, but the principle is the same."

Tony didn't believe this would work for a second. "A quick check on the web, then we call it quits. Agreed?"

The search revealed one thing right away—hundreds of people were looking for parts for a 1948 Indian Chief. And they all seemed to be named either Chuck or Bob.

"Check out that forum," Hawes said, pointing to the screen at a site named Chief's Corner. Tony used his retinal mouse to click on the link from across the room.

There were pages of discussion posts. Some about how hard parts were to come by. About going to junk yards. Ebay. Getting ripped off. One poster mentioned a site called Partsgod.com.

Hawes opened a new tab on the browser and typed in that URL. On the webpage was booming, fear-of-god music. Lightning flashes. And, tucked in a corner, a video of a napping dog named Blu.

(Weirder and weirder.)

Partsgod.com stated that it was _the_ place for hard-to-find Indian motorcycle parts. There were thumbnail-sized pictures of bits and pieces of bikes running down the center of the page. Down the column on the left were price listings for those who wanted to make parts on their own and just needed the specifications.

(Oh look, an update post.)

Hawes typed into the website's search box: 1948 Indian gaskets. Hit RETURN.

"Hawes?"

"Dangit! None in stock, but he can fabricate one to order..."

"Hawes?"

Sigh. "...'Please allow 4 to 6 weeks for delivery.'"

"And the owner of the website is dead," Tony added. "Says so in the update."

Hawes lay down on the floor with his knees bent. "That'll add to the wait time."

With his good hand, Tony untucked his bed sheet and blanket. "Put me to bed."

"You giving up?!"

"YES!"

Tony didn't realize how emotional he was until that word came out of his mouth.

It trembled.

It bellowed.

It was giving up.

"You can't lay down now and quit," Hawes said.

"Says the man lying down."

Hawes rolled into a crouch and stood up. "Ta-da! I unquit."

"What do you propose, never-give-up guy?"

"I don't know. Something. Maybe the motorcycle isn't the answer. Maybe there's something else at the barn—"

"Let it go."

" _No_."

"Why does this matter to you? You'll get another job, Hawes."

"I still have an obligation—"

"I'm releasing you from your obligation. Now take me to the bathroom and dress me for bed." Tony said that like the petulant child he felt like right now.

Hawes grabbed the armrests of Tony's wheelchair. "The problem is, _I_ won't release me."

Tony backed himself away from Hawes' grasp. "Tell me ALL about it in the morning. Breakfast at 8am. Packing by 9."

Hawes returned to the computer. "Maybe we can _make_ a gasket."

"Out of what?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

Despite himself, Tony looked over Hawes' shoulder at the search results. He recognized a word on the screen. "Plastic polymer."

Hawes looked over at Tony, but he was lost in thought. Until—

"We're going to need coffee," Tony said. "Lots of it."

"Because?"

"Because downstairs my father has a whole workshop full of plastic polymer."

At Partsgod.com, they discovered that Mrs. PG had uploaded the files for making one's own seals, gaskets, hoses, you name it—all on the webpage. _For free._

'With many thanks, Indian Heads. Bob loved helping you guys!'

After downloading the information they needed onto a thumb drive, Hawes carried Tony downstairs and seated him in his traveling wheelchair.

That also put him back on portable oxygen.

(Blech.)

Once inside the workshop, Tony reached for the light switch and turned it on. Nothing. "Hawes?"

"I'm on it." Hawes searched in the near darkness for the circuit panel on the far wall, stumbling as he went.

Seconds later Tony heard the snapping ON of circuit breakers. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and electronic life began to stir around him.

Hawes walked back between the aisles of workstations and 3D printers until he got to one that looked like a small metal oven. "What's this one do?"

"Metal fabrication."

"What can you do with that?"

"Make anything from a custom door knocker, a samurai sword, or, or—"

"Cam shaft, perhaps?"

"Sure, why not?"

Hawes embraced the machine. "I want this!"

"Dad would have loved to hear that." Tony wheeled himself over, which was hard to do with one arm so much weaker than the other. "He was going to sell these machines as a home manufacturing kit for anything you might need in plastic, metal, or organic."

"Organic?"

"Imagine popping in a cartridge and having the Pandy printer produce Fettuccini Alfredo."

"Holy Star Trek." Hawes spun around. "But, more important, which one is going to make me a new gasket?"

"This one."

Tony parked himself in front of a transparent box with spray jets attached to metal rails.

Hawes rubbed his palms together. "What now, boss?"

In three words, that was the problem.

Tony didn't know his ABS plastic from PLA. A degree in inorganic chemistry would come in real handy right about now. What he did have was his memories from helping his father and his tablet to scour the Internet for what he didn't know.

"First," Tony directed, "scoop out a cup of material from each of those three bins. Then pour them into separate beakers."

The operating system for the fabricating unit booted up, and PANDY MRS VERSION 1.02 flashed on the screen. The interface appeared, orange boxes on black screen with a square blinking cursor. The plan was to prettify the software later for retail sale. Themes and everything.

(What mighta been.)

Tony uploaded the file he got from Partsgod to the 3D printer. The green START button lit up.

This was the same machine that had given him his last bobblehead—James Randi, his favorite debunker—and the last time he had seen his father showing off his dream.

Stretch for it, Tony!

But before Tony could think much further about that, Hawes plunked three beakers in front of him within easy reach.

"We mix them now, or what?" Hawes asked.

"I don't know." Tony was annoyed to admit it.

"You're not sure?"

"I need to experiment."

There was panic in Hawes' voice. "Do we have time for that?"

"Not really."

Hawes jammed his hands inside his jeans pockets. Nodded vigorously. "This'll work," he said.

"What makes you think so?"

Tony was hoping to hear something from Hawes that would give him the same level of confidence.

"Because it _has to_."

(Wrong answer.)

"That implies destiny," Tony said. "And destiny is not graphable."

Tony poured the first beaker full of material into the chute. Watched it slide down into the machine.

As it turned out, the one thing that fix-anything Hawes could not handle was waiting. After pacing the rows between workstations for a few minutes, he began to jog around the machinery while the 3D printer spit out a gasket, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

"Don't you have a stairlift to install?" Tony asked.

Jog, jog. "We really need a master craftsman for that."

"Like we really need a master mechanic for the bike?"

"Pretty much."

Tony tapped his fingers on the armrest. "If you don't install it, I might as well go back to bed."

Hawes skidded to a stop.

"Am I going to bed anytime soon, Hawes?"

"No sir."

The machine played a little tune when finished.

It was past midnight. With no electricity out at the barn, there wouldn't be enough light to work on the bike until dawn.

Tony could hear Hawes drilling and banging in the stairwell past the closed workshop door. Time well spent, considering.

Tony decided to go forward with manufacturing two additional gaskets. He poured the contents of the second beaker into the material chute and set up the 3D printer for another go. The printer arm jerked into place and began extruding compound.

Nothing to do but wait.

Or was there?

Tony unlocked his tablet. He would send a quick message to Juniper. Since the Dino Cogs forum, he hadn't heard from her. Mad at him, maybe? He _did_ close his browser on her.

Tony cleared his throat. He would try to dictate the message with a voice interpreter app.

"Hey Juni..."

HAY JUNE appeared on the tablet screen.

"No, no..."

NO NO

Tony stopped talking and gathered his thoughts. This app was an autocorrect monster.

"To Juni..."

TO JUNI

"On Monday, Hawes and I..."

ON MONKEYS, AWE AND I

(Monkeys? Seriously?)

"Delete."

DELETE MESSAGE

"No, no, no!"

Then again, why bother? The girl really didn't know him, the real Tony—why would she care about his problems?

He closed the app.

Instead, to pass the hours, Tony surfed the web. He was becoming preoccupied with—

The little tune played. The second gasket was done.

He checked his watch. 3 am.

Tony removed the production tray and slid the finished gasket next to the first one. He poured the third beaker-full of plastic polymer into the machine. Set the computer.

The spray nozzle glided to a new position before extruding compound. It really did sound like a printer, spraying plastic instead of ink.

BA DINK.

"Tony?" It was Mom over the intercom, sounding scared.

"What are you doing awake?"

"Can't sleep. You know, _tomorrow_."

"I'm trying to fix tomorrow."

"Is that why you're in the workshop?"

Tony nodded, although the gesture was lost on the intercom. He wanted to tell her not to worry and to get some sleep. But this was the first time he had a chance to speak with her since finding out about HofLove.

"You know what's funny about this whole situation, mom?"

"No, what possibly?"

"To stay in the house, I have to first prove I can leave it."

"That is funny," she said, without any humor. Then a big in-draw of breath. "Remember the people who saw me?"

"Who, mom?"

"The people with the clipboards. They came into my house"—her voice squeaked—"and _saw_ me."

Tony didn't know why that mattered so much. All he knew was that it mattered to her.

" _Please_ , Tony. I don't want that to ever happen again."

"It won't, Mom."

He didn't want to ask this next question. Now was not the time.

But he knew she never answered calls on the intercom. Or the phone. And it's not like he could go over there and knock on her front door. Tomorrow could be the end of everything, and he didn't want to lose his chance.

Tony looked at the light on the intercom before speaking.

"Is Dallas Merullo my real father?"

# \- 12 -

The intercom clicked off.

Tony was alone in the workshop with only the sound of squirting plastic and blinking lights to keep him company.

(Story of my life.)

Mom, behind a bathroom door. Not answering his calls. Sending over Tedward instead of coming over herself.

He had questions, she had _answers_.

Mom wouldn't have had to be spotted by strangers, or anything.

(Then again...)

What if she _had_ answered?

(Hm?)

It's not like he could trust her. _Manipulating the truth_ was practically the family motto. And then there's—

**BA DINK.** The intercom again.

Silence.

"Mom?"

More silence.

(Did I imagine it?)

His mother's voice. "I don't want to talk about Dallas Merullo."

(So why'd she call back?)

Tony tapped on his armrest. He decided to draw her out with some questions. "Did you know him?"

"As if anyone ever could."

(That's a _yes_.)

"Tell me about him."

"Tony, I don't—"

"One thing. Please." He hated the begging in his voice.

"Dal was...self-absorbed."

"That's it, three words?"

"You want more? You asked for it. Dallas was ALWAYS about Dallas. His career. His hobbies—"

"Like boating," Tony interrupted. "Off our dock." Daring her to deny it.

"He loved that boat more than me, Tony—let me tell you. But less than the plane. Now _that's_ what I thought would kill him."

Tony thought back to his recurring dream. A gleaming metal body streaking across the ground, ending up where the dock _should have been._ "Tell me more."

"I don't know where to start."

Tony pushed himself over to the intercom; it made him feel closer to her somehow. "Try something nobody else would know." Merullo was known by millions. Tony wanted to know something that Wikipedia would not.

"He was always testing me. That's what I thought his disappearance was at first. A test. I keep expecting him to show up, all mad that I moved on and made a life with Ted."

"Is that when you stopped leaving your house?"

She paused. "Yes."

"But why?"

"Tony—"

"Explain why you are this way, Mom. I want to understand."

Silence.

Yet the intercom light stayed on. Didn't click off.

When she spoke, her voice trembled. "I felt if I could control things, _you know_ , keep everything the same, the people that I loved would stay safe. The world is too big for me, Tony. But in here, my house, it's like a snow globe. Small enough. Never changing."

Tony never wanted to leave his house again after falling near the pond, so many years before. Could he be more like his shut-in mother than he realized?

"Where was Merullo going when he died?"

"No idea. And that's the truth."

Tony would rather have to put a nail through his own hand than ask this next question.

(Have to know.)

"And Dad? Tedward? Did he know he wasn't my real father?"

"I never kept anything from him."

(Another _yes._ )

And now, the question that mattered the most to Tony. "Why didn't _he_ tell me?"

Sigh. "He wanted to. Always wanted to."

"You wouldn't let him." What Tony suspected.

"Wasn't hard to convince him. You never met his other children. Reggie and Ron. What a rotten pair. They would have nothing to do with Tedward. Didn't even go to the funeral." She took a breath. "You were the son he was going to get right."

"Why didn't _you_ tell me?"

Long sigh. "It was what I wished... _was_."

The tightness that had been building in his chest relaxed. No need to check his oxygen—he knew what this was from.

Relief.

Her answer was understandable, even if screwed up. He could relate to that as well.

**VRRR** went the 3D printer, still making the gasket. There were two hours left on the timer and then dawn.

"Don't hate me," she said.

"I don't hate you."

"Really?"

"How could I?" Tony stretched to reach the OFF button on the intercom. "I'm made of you."

Tony tried to open the workshop door, which was not at all easy to do while seated. The door kept catching on his wheelchair's frame. And if the chair was far enough away to clear the door, he couldn't reach the knob anymore.

There the door remained—stubbornly ajar but not open.

And _no way_ was he calling Hawes for help. The emotional suck of the last few weeks was behind him. If Tony could manage opening the door himself, he would. But how?

This situation reminded him a lot of Bony and the refrigerator. Maybe Tony could wedge the door open?

(The foot rest!)

Jerking one wheel forward and the other back, he used the foot rest to swing open the door.

That Capuchin was one smart mammal.

Now in the hall, Tony could hear the sound of an electrical motor. He slowly wheeled himself around the stairway in time to see Hawes taking a trip on the new stairlift.

Standing.

"Hawes!"

The health aide pointed to the ceiling. "It really, really goes UP."

"This is no time for playing around."

"Best part?" Hawes flicked a switch. "Really, really goes DOWN." When the lift came to a stop, he stepped off the platform. "Amazing what you can accomplish when not wasting time sleeping. "

"What were you thinking? What if it came off the wall?"

"Pshaw. You're embarrassing me with all your caring."

Tony folded his arms. " _Almost_ adequate help is hard to find."

"I had to test the stairlift, Tony. What was I supposed to do? Send the monkey up first? Ask NASA how _that all_ worked out."

"What are you talking about?"

"I did a book report in sixth grade about the space program. Chiild, I'll never get over what happened to Albert the first, Albert the second, and Albert the fourth."

Tony decided to move on. "Where's the seat?"

"No need. Just drive on and go. No more swapping wheelchairs." Hawes looked nervous when asking this next question. "Are you finished with the gaskets?"

(How to answer?)

"Was Napoleon tall?"

"Um, no?"

"Yes, he was, and yes, I'm done."

"Did I just enter a game show by accident, here?"

"I'm obsessing about lies of history," Tony admitted. "Like my mom saying Tedward was my real father, but really wasn't. Even my name is a historical untruth. I should be Tony Merullo."

"You must have had a lot of downtime in that workshop."

"Like centuries." Tony nodded. "Which sounds better: Tony MERullo? Or MeRULLO?"

"All sounds like Pandy to me."

Tony fluttered his lips.

Hawes went back to the tall question. "Wasn't Napoleon's nickname 'The Little Corporal?'"

"Yes. But he was average height for a Frenchman in the 19th century. He was called 'Lil C' because he wasn't high born."

"Like being lower class doesn't mean you live in a basement."

"Exactly."

Hawes cocked an eyebrow. "So how come everybody thinks he's so mini?"

"For one, compared to us he was. Two centuries of better nutrition really helps. But my guess? A good story beats fact every time."

"How so?"

"Think about it: Shorty McFrencherson conquers most of Europe. Everybody loves an underdog story."

Like what his mom had said: The story that people wished _was_.

"What's next, boss?"

"Hate to admit it, but I need your help."

Hawes snorted out a laugh. "I like that sound of that." He wheeled Tony back into the workshop and was instructed to bring the three finished gaskets over to a device labeled the COMPRESSION TESTING MACHINE.

"According to Partsgod," Tony said, "a good gasket has to compress to fit the space between the metal joints yet still maintain its shape under very hot temperatures."

"I got a question," Hawes said. "Why bother testing?"

"A quick test now, versus..." Pointing to Hawes's pant leg.

"Oiled up jeans. I get it."

"Put the first gasket in the module _there_ and shut the gate." Tony turned the machine on. It hummed with power. He set the parameters on the control panel and pressed the start button.

The machine's hydraulics whined and compressed the gasket. Then applied heat and side-to-side force.

Stopped.

Sounds of internal machinery retracting.

Hawes opened the gate to the module. All that was left was shredded poly plastic bits. "That would leak, I reckon."

"Get the next one."

Hawes placed the second gasket in the module. The compression machine began stressing the flat plastic polymer like the first one.

Tony counted breaths: eleven, twelve, thirteen—

Stopped.

Hawes opened the gate. The gasket was split in two.

"I wish I knew more chemistry," Tony said. "Make my own compounds. Dad had these lying around, but I don't know if they are any good for this purpose."

Hawes agreed. "Your father wasn't exactly in the auto supply business." He placed the third gasket in the module.

The last one.

Hawes closed the gate, and the loud hum gave way to the mechanical whine of hydraulics.

The wait began.

A minute.

Two.

"It's holding," Tony said.

"Great," Hawes said. "Give me a couple of hours and—"

Stopped.

# \- 13 -

The stairlift motored Tony and his travel wheelchair up to the second floor. He raised his good hand to shade his eyes from the early morning sun coming in through the foyer window.

(Sunglasses would help.)

Hawes had gotten him a pair for their in-room beach party. God only knows where they ended up. Then again, by this time tomorrow, sunglasses might not matter.

Hospice wasn't exactly known for being fun in the sun.

Hawes matched the speed of the lift as he climbed the stairs beside Tony. "Shame all this work has to go to waste."

"You say that like we have any other choice."

"We do."

" _No_ , we don't."

They reached the top of the stairs, and Hawes transferred Tony to his motorized chair. "You said it yourself, all the motorcycle has to do is hold up for a few minutes—"

Tony switched to Hawes' southern drawl, "'That would leak, I reckon.' You could end up scalded with hot oil, blow a rod—"

"That's _throw a rod_. Yeah, yeah. Life's an adventure."

"Says the man who got a minor drunk."

Tony engaged his wheelchair's motor and rolled down the hall to his bedroom.

"Nah-uh," Hawes replied. "What you drank was _near_ beer."

"What?" Tony stopped the chair.

"That's right, alcohol free. Shows you, if you believe in something hard enough—"

"No it doesn't." Tony started moving again.

Hawes followed him into his bedroom and transferred Tony to his bed. "You sure acted wasted, just saying."

"Placebo effect. The mind convinces the body that the fake medicine is real." Tony paused and looked up at Hawes. "Why did you do it?"

"Loosen you up so you'd finally call that girl, you goober."

"How very _Pandy_ of you."

Hawes threw up his hands. "I did it for your own good."

"I'm sure my mother would say the exact same thing."

"There's a difference between what _I did_ and what _she did_."

"Keep telling yourself that." Tony pulled his blanket up over himself. "I'm going to sleep now. Wake me for the apocalypse."

Hawes was halfway out the door before he stopped and turned back around. "Listen..." he began.

Tony propped himself up on his pillow.

"...I'm going to install that gasket."

"Can't. There isn't one left."

"I saw what you did. What buttons you pushed. I can make another one."

"Or you could go home." Tony searched Hawes' face. There was so much he didn't know about the West Virginian.

Hawes shook his head. "Can't. Scavenged parts off of my bike to make the Indian drivable." He paused before continuing. "You be alright while I'm down at the barn?"

"I have Bony here."

He horse-snorted. "You couldn't get that monkey to spit on you if you were on fire."

Bonaparte chattered out what sounded like a laugh.

"You can be replaced with a machine," Tony told the monkey.

"Then whose feelings would you step on?" Hawes asked.

Hours later.

The Indian motorcycle lay in pieces on the dirt outside of the barn, arranged like a 3D diagram of how-to-put-it-back-together. Hawes ran his finger over the cylinder block's edges.

(Smooth.)

A good sign for the new gasket holding.

Hawes was ratcheting the cylinder head back into place when a black Bentley pulled up. The door opened.

Dorchester Foulke used a rocking motion to heave himself out of his car. On the third try he succeeded.

"Salutations," the lawyer said.

"Is that hello?"

"Indeed it is."

Hawes wiped grease on his pants before extending a hand, but Foulke left him hanging. Whether from wanting to avoid staining his hands or avoiding Hawes' touch, he couldn't tell.

"You're the one who takes care of the boy," Foulke stated, as if for the record. "I'm here to judge your progress."

"I thought we had till two o'clock?"

"Ahh, right you are. I came by early in the off-chance you might be ready."

"We're not."

Hawes palmed the ratchet wrench and took up where he left off.

"Looks like you have quite the project going on." Foulke lifted the unattached exhaust with the tip of his loafer. "What a puzzle."

"Tony's handicapped-accessible ve-hicle." Hawes' southern twang was showing.

"Quite a lot of effort on your part." The lawyer grunted. "Seems you've taken a liking to the boy. Lord only knows why."

Does this guy ever stop jawing? Hawes was having trouble concentrating.

"Such a shame Tedward died. He knew the value of money. He also knew how to protect the boy and his family from people who would—how shall I say it?—leech off their money."

"Is there a point here, lawyer man? I have work to do."

And just where did he put those stabilizing bolts? Hawes stood up to look for them.

"I see myself as taking on that role from Mr. Pandy." Foulke looked Hawes up and down. "I've done some digging into your past. What occurs in West Virginia does not stay necessarily stay there."

"Meaning?"

"I wonder how Master Pandy would react to the news."

"Who's going to tell him?" Hawes spat on the ground close enough to tasseled loafers to send a message.

Foulke didn't flinch. "You can't tell me that boy has any _loyalty_ to you? Ha! Based on what? Friendship?"

Tony _was_ always telling him he was an employee. Only.

(He doesn't mean it.)

But that was just a feeling. Not a fact.

Foulke continued. "And what if he did have genuine, good feelings towards you? He can't be expected to live much longer. What—a year, tops?"

Hawes went back to putting the bike together. No time to calibrate the timing of the pistons, he thought. Guesstimated instead.

Foulke took a few steps closer. "If it matters to you, the boy will be taken care of. I swear it. And the estate will be put to much better use..."

Was it _first_ the cambox, _then_ the tensioner?

"And, ahh, I could set you up with a new job. Some parting cash for your troubles..."

The wrench fumbled from Hawes' hand, landing in the dirt.

"...However, if you fail, all you'll have is a dark past and a most uncertain future."

(A hundred things have to go right. A hundred things have to go right. A hundred things have to go right. A hundred things have—)

Foulke picked up the wrench, holding it away from Hawes.

"We could end all this worry and fuss today. Take the deal. That's a smart boy."

# \- 14 -

Trust.

Tedward Pandy always said, 'Trust the money.' People are loyal to their interests. And yet here Tony was waiting for someone who had every reason to ditch him.

(But it's _Hawes._ )

On the other hand...

(Smarten up, Pandy.)

Why _would_ Hawes come back for him? Tony knew what a jerk he could be, and the motorcycle was worth more to a collector than Hawes could possibly make in a year. A smart man would ride that antique out the front gates, never to return.

It didn't help his troubled mood that Tony was outside in the unpredictable world of wind, rain, snow, and sun. Which, Tony could tell you, could easily become tornadoes, typhoons, blizzards, and skin cancer.

Not to mention the animals out here. _The predators._ Probably using veins as dental floss, this very minute. Not that he had ever seen a wild animal larger than a badger on the estate, but he could imagine the heck out of them.

And he was _stranded_. The wheelchair had run out of power between the front door of his house and the ramp.

(Great.)

If only neighborhood kids would come by and throw rocks at him, his day would be complete.

Was that an engine he heard? Didn't see a vehicle. It sounded pretty good though. _Smooth, powerful._ Yesterday, the 1948 motorcycle sounded like a broken lawn mower. Hawes must have worked a miracle because today it was—

(God, no.)

A black Bentley. Coming his way.

Dorchester Foulke had better luck getting out of his car this time—only one rocking motion and a heave with his arms. He must have considered that enough exercise for the day because he declined to go up the three steps to where Tony was marooned.

"It's time, Master Pandy."

Tony leaned forward. "Master _Merullo_."

Foulke shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "You found out about that, huh?"

"You're early."

The lawyer made a show of looking at his wristwatch. "Five minutes till two. Another 300 seconds won't make a bit of difference."

Tony banged on the armrest. "What do you have against me?"

"This isn't personal. I'm here to carry out the will of a legal entity—"

"My dead father—"

"And determine your functionality." Foulke withdrew a flip notepad from the inside pocket of his suit coat and clicked a pen. "How were you transported from the second floor to the first?"

"Stairlift."

"By yourself?"

"The aide helped me into the chair, but after that, yeah, me."

"What's that there?" Pointing to the device in Tony's lap.

"Portable air supply. Supposed to be a backpack, but this is how I wear it."

"Uh-huh." Foulke seemed to consider this bit of evidence. Then shook his head no. "Today is about more than getting down the stairs. Unless you propose to propel yourself on the roadways in your wheelchair?"

Tony ignored the sarcasm.

(Where's Hawes?)

He really hadn't abandoned him, had he?

Foulke filled the silence. "I had a little conversation with your caregiver there."

Tony felt tightness in his chest. He checked the air tube for kinks—no. This was genuine panic he was feeling.

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing that wasn't already on his mind, I'm sure."

Tony's lower lip trembled. He wanted to ask if Hawes was coming, but didn't want to give the lawyer the satisfaction.

"Ahh, believe me, I take no joy in my duty. I should never have agreed to be a party to this eccentric trust in the first place."

"But you'll do it anyway."

" _But I'll do it anyway_ —is right." Foulke crossed a line off his notepad. "Did you know Mr. Hawes has a criminal record?"

Tony flicked the joystick back and forth, forgetting momentarily that the battery was dead. "What has that got to do with my functionality?"

"Good judgment is also a part of functionality."

"Are you making this up as you go along?"

"According to my instructions, I can 'make up' what I choose." Foulke flipped the notepad closed. "Don't you think it a poor decision to employ a man convicted of—"

"Uh-uh! Counselor, you must know it's against the law to divulge court records without permission." Tony should know, he had lied on enough Dirt Digger request forms.

"My, aren't we just the little litigator?"

Tony looked around.

Still no motorcycle. No loud pipes in the distance either.

No Hawes.

Foulke tapped on his watch. "Time's up. Agree to the placement at Mother Mary Hospital and, _perhaps_ , certain arrangements could be made to smooth your transition."

"Such as?"

"A place, off estate, for your mother to live."

(Mom. Taken care of.)

Tony could feel his defiance weakening.

Foulke picked lint off his striped suit like he didn't have a care in the world.

Why was the lawyer sweetening the deal this late? He had won, right? This made no sense, unless—

"I'll wait," Tony said.

Foulke pointed a finger at him. "What makes you so sure your man is coming?"

"You did."

Foulke dropped eye contact. "You've both run out of time."

He got back into his car and began driving out to the long, winding loop that would eventually lead to the front gate.

PUKKAPUKKAPUKKA.

(What the heck was that?)

Around the bend, just escaping the line of trees, was a red and cream motorcycle, complete with a rack holding Tony's travel wheelchair. Mr. BRAIN BUCKET was wrestling with the handlebars as he drew near the ramp, cutting the wheel just in time to avoid hitting the ramp.

Hawes yelled over the engine noise. "Not used to three wheels, but I'll get the hang of it." He waved for Tony to come down.

Tony gave him the no-can-do sign.

"Where's old Dorchester?" Hawes hollered.

"Heading for the gate."

Hawes walked the vibrating motorcycle back.

(Oh no he won't.)

Revved the engine.

(Oh yes he will!)

Right up the ramp and onto the porch, inches from the wheelchair.

Then the engine quit.

"Dangit, stalled again."

(Again?)

Hawes transferred him from the wheelchair to the sidecar.

"I didn't think you were coming." Tony hated how weak sounding these words were.

"Seriously?" Hawes asked, buckling him in. "I guess there's some things you can't graph, amirite?"

Tony tried to hide the smile.

Failed.

That's the ironic thing about skeptics, Tony thought. Disbelievers who want to believe.

In something.

Or someone.

(Never admit, though.)

Hawes handed over a worn leather helmet and goggles to match.

"This doesn't look safe," Tony said.

"Sure it is."

Tony sniffed at the helmet before putting it on. "Where did you find it?"

"Out at the barn. Vintage. Might be your dad's."

Hawes pushed down on Tony's helmet, squashing the mohawk.

"Why did you come back for me?" Tony asked.

"I'd look funny riding this tricycle without a passenger."

"What's the real reason?"

"Tony, you've got a need bucket sooo big,"—Hawes pointed to himself—"this shovel can't resist."

Hawes fiddled with what he called _the choke_ and kick-started the engine. He walked the vibrating motorcycle over to the ramp.

"You sure you can drive this thing?" Tony was thinking about the road rash on Hawes' own motorcycle.

"YOLO," he answered.

(You Only Live Once.)

"That's what stupid people say..."

Hawes twisted the throttle on the handlebar. **BROMUMUM**.

"...right before they do something stupid!"

Tony left his stomach on the porch as the rest of him skied down the ramp. Perhaps not very fast but, having not gone faster than a walking pace for most of his life, this felt like light speed.

They accelerated as they exited the circular drive, and the wheel to Tony's sidecar left the ground.

(Gah!)

Landed back with a thump.

The Bentley was entering the wide arc around his mother's house, headed for the straightaway to the exit.

Hawes yelled, "We'll never catch him."

Tony thought about that.

(Nah, too risky.)

Or was it?

Tony pointed to the yard behind his mother's bungalow. "Short cut!"

"Through the hedges?"

Tony nodded.

Hawes swung the motorcycle in that direction. "Your mother is going to haaaate meeeee!"

They crashed through the line of bushes, and the bike began to spit chunks of lawn all over the place.

PUKKAPUKKAPUKKA.

"What's that sound?" Tony asked.

"Pistons misfiring."

That did _not_ sound safe.

Hawes shifted gears with his right hand, then threw a thumb behind him.

Tony saw blue smoke coming out of the exhaust.

Not safe _at all_.

Tony braced himself for the second row of hedges on the other side of the lawn. The sidecar caught a branch and the motorcycle spun around and stopped.

Engine cut out.

Hawes tried to kick-start the Indian back to life.

ARRAGAHGAH.

ARRAGAHGAH.

Nothing.

Tony looked out his goggles. The Bentley was at the front gate.

"Hawes!"

ARRAGAHGAH.

POOW!

Smoke exploded out of the exhaust pipe. Enveloped them.

The engine was back _on_.

Hawes put the bike into gear, revved the throttle on the handlebar, and **PUKKAPUKKAPUKKA** they went.

Tony fumbled with his computer tablet, cradling it with his weaker arm.

"Tony, is now the time to be playing GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS?"

"I'm accessing the estate's automation," he yelled back.

"What good will that do?"

"I'm telling the gate to power down."

"You can do that?"

Hawes put them back on the road.

Three hundred feet left to go.

At the gate, Foulke was pulling while the sheriff was pushing.

One hundred.

The gate swung out

(No!)

and bumped right up against the front tire of the Indian Chief as it rolled to a stop.

The sheriff looked at the lawyer as if waiting for instructions. Foulke hitched up his pants and walked over to the two on the motorcycle.

Would he argue with them?

Order them to move?

Give in?

"Nobody is going to make me late for my cruise with the Mrs." Foulke looked down at them. "Nobody."

# \- 15 -

"I did what you asked," Tony yelled back, still in the sidecar next to Hawes. "I'm mobile and functional."

Foulke puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "Not good enough."

There it was.

The wall no amount of scrabbling could seem to get over: Foulke's belief that Tony should be in a hospital.

Tony appealed to the sheriff. "Can't you do something?"

"I'm here to enforce the eviction," Donaldson said. His mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes.

"And is that why you went to police school—"

"Academy."

"—to turn crippled kids out of their homes?" Tony hated playing the disability card. But he had so few cards left.

The sheriff took a big sniff out of the air but said nothing.

"I have a suggestion, Mr. Foulke," Hawes said. "If you leave us be, you'll be on that big boat putting little umbrellas in fruity drinks in no time."

As if thinking that over, the lawyer looked over at the long line of moving vans idling outside of the gate.

It was Tony's turn to try something. "Are you seriously going to kick me out, all because my mother refused to pay you more?"

"My time is valuable!" Foulke seemed to instantly regret agreeing with Tony's point.

The sheriff spoke for the first time without being asked. "Kid does seem to get around pretty good."

Foulke gave Donaldson the laser eye. Set to liquefy.

If only Tony could think of some way to convince Foulke. His appeal to emotion hadn't worked. Hell, he'd run over those tasseled loafers if—

(Hey...)

Maybe he had gone about this all wrong. He had to think like Foulke _thinks_. What would a lawyer do in this situation?

Appeal to a higher authority.

"Counselor," Tony began, "what would your client, my father, want you to do?"

Foulke took a few steps away and turned his back. His fists rested on his hips, trembling with rage.

Hawes made an 'uh-oh' face.

Foulke turned back around and started pumping his finger at Tony. "You have NO idea what your father intended. None! And I am prohibited by the ethics of my profession to divulge this."

Tony wasn't backing down. "You didn't answer my question."

"And I have no intention of doing so."

Foulke waved Hawes away.

Reluctantly, the health aide walked the motorcycle backward.

(No!)

The gate finished swinging open, wide enough for the Bentley to get through.

Foulke addressed the sheriff, his voice full of anger. "You go _tell_ those movers..."

Then he did a really weird thing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Like he was taking a mental vacation.

He spoke again.

Softer this time.

"Go tell the movers to go home."

Tony pumped a fist in the air.

Foulke got into his Bentley, and, through the open car window, kept talking. "This isn't over, Pandy. Not by a long shot."

Tony opened his mouth, and Hawes covered it with his gloved hand, muffling what he said.

"Mmmrf, mmmrfmmmmfer."

"Expect a trustee to be appointed in the next couple of days," Foulke said. "But you are not free of me. No sir. I will still be the judge of whether conditions are being met." He started his car. "You'll be notified about future requirements of the trust. I'd read them, if I were you."

Tony pushed Hawes' hand away. "What about my mother?"

"She'll remain your representative payee."

"Does that mean she can stay?"

Foulke put his car in gear. "For the present, yes."

They watched him drive away.

No goodbye. No nothing.

The sheriff took off his sunglasses and gave a hint of a smile. He walked over to the open window of the lead moving van and gave the driver the news.

Tony looked on from the sidecar. He asked Hawes, "Do you think they seriously would have kicked me out?"

"Don't even think it," was the answer.

The moving vans, one after another, did a three-point turn and headed back the way they came.

"Now what, Tony?" Hawes asked.

He shrugged.

"We could go back to your room," Hawes suggested, "make fun of some people on the Internet."

"Did that already. Changed sides three times."

"Maybe watch the monkey _not_ get you your sodas."

"Ditto."

"Or, maybe..."

"Yes?"

"We could go somewhere."

Tony lowered his goggles back over his eyes. "Can you manage to keep all three wheels on the ground this time?"

"Complain, complain."

Hawes pushed Tony down the row of grave markers, the wheelchair crunching on the crushed stone walkway.

"Which one is his?" Tony asked.

"The one with the dirt mound in front."

At the other end of the grave was a tall pillar with inscription:

THEODORE EDWARD ANTHONY PANDY

INVENTOR AND PROGRAMMER

BELOVED BY FAMILY

The marker included his birth and death dates.

"I didn't realize how old your father was." Hawes counted on his fingers. "74."

"Meaning?"

"Your mom isn't near that old. Just saying."

Tony looked down at the base of the granite tombstone, at the bent and brown flowers. Hawes coughed in his fist and began to walk away.

Tony's question called him back. "What does one _do_ at a funeral?"

"You've never—?"

"Assume I'm a Martian and explain the humans to me. In fact, always assume that."

"Well, it is customary to say a few things. Nice things, mind you. Start with that."

Tony missed his motorized wheelchair just then. Being able to wiggle the joystick back and forth as he thought about what he had to say.

"Hey, Dad. Thanks for the remote-controlled car you got me. For my tenth birthday, I think. Really enjoyed it. Until it jumped into the pond."

Hawes coughed again into his hand. "Nice things."

"Then again, you waded in and got it back. Ruined your pants."

Hawes tapped Tony on the shoulder. "Usually, it's more from the heart than that."

Tony took a deep breath from his portable oxygen unit. "Thanks for being my _dad_. Even thought you really weren't."

"Not every dad would care for his disabled son like Tedward did."

Tony looked down at the mound. "Thanks for that, too."

His breaths became ragged. A quick check of the air supply unit showed it was working fine. Which must mean—

(Oh, God no.)

"It's okay to cry, Tony."

"For _you_ it would be."

"You're right. For human beings, I mean."

Tony stared up at the sky. For what he had to say, it was too hard to look down where his stepfather was lying.

"Dad, I don't know why you didn't tell me about not being my real father. I wish you had."

Tony chose to believe that Tedward didn't really lie to him. Instead he told the story he wished _was._

"But you were a good dad. Reginald and Ronald seriously missed out on someone special."

Tony looked back down to the mound.

There was one more thing.

"I want you to know I'm not letting those stupid creditors sell your 3D printers. I'm keeping them."

"Hot dog," Hawes added. "I'm going to make myself a new exhaust pipe when we get back."

(What's left to say? Except...)

"Goodbye." Tony tapped on the wheels to his chair. Looked up at Hawes. "I'm ready to go home."

Hawes pushed the chair back through the loose gravel, and the two fell into silence as they passed the rows of tombstones. They turned back onto the paved way that led to the parking lot.

"Hawes?"

"Yes, Tony?"

"My father wasn't right about only trusting the money."

"That a fact?"

"I mean, usually that's right. But not always."

"Such as...?"

"Such as when a guy should have taken whatever deal the lawyer gave him, but instead kept his word."

"You're welcome, Tony."

The wind rustled the leaves in the trees. Fast moving clouds.

"Looks like a spring shower, Mr. Merullo."

"I'm sticking with Pandy."

"Good choice," Hawes said. "So, how are you feeling?"

Tony checked his gut and came up empty. "How am I supposed to feel? How did _you feel_ when your father died?"

"Sad, a little lonely. Nostalgic."

"Yeah, all of that. Only more so."

Hawes stopped the wheelchair. "How's that?"

"I lost two fathers. Top that."

Hawes resumed the pushing. "That you did."

They got to the motorcycle, still stinking of burnt oil and gasoline. Rear tire looking awfully low.

"Shouldn't this antique be in a museum?" Tony asked.

"Or with some guy named Chuck who would clean it with those little baby wipes every Sunday afternoon."

"Now that I'm a gazillionaire again," Tony said, "couldn't we get something a little bit more _this_ century?"

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that..."

# \- 16 -

"Can we stop this torture?"

Tony was pushing one hand against the other like he was arm wrestling with himself. What Hawes sadistically called 'exercise.'

"Two more," Hawes said. "But good ones this time."

"It's my birthday!"

"Improving yourself is especially good on your birthday."

Tony's hands shook as they pushed against one another. He could feel his face grimacing.

"Just wait till I add free weights," Hawes said. "Then you'll really have something to complain about."

Tony dropped his hands, exhausted. "Name your price."

"Haven't we established nobody can buy me off?"

Hawes put Tony's hands back into the correct hold.

"Can't I watch videos about exercise instead?"

"Physical conditioning will allow you to live longer. And to put it in a way you can relate to: When you're dead, there's no trolling on the Internet, like, _forever_."

Bony chittered from his perch on the high shelf.

"I'm thirsty," Tony said. "Make Bonaparte get me a soda."

Hawes horse-snorted a laugh. "Okay, I'll give it a try. Fair warning, though, I've been getting tips from Tu."

He took the laser pointer and spotted it on the refrigerator door.

The Capuchin jumped down to the desk, followed quickly by the floor. He wobble-walked to the fridge and opened it.

Tony was not impressed. "I've gotten him _this_ far."

"Just watch."

Hawes red-dotted the soda, and Bony rolled it on to the floor.

"It's going be all fizzy!"

"Hush," Hawes said. "Let the critter do his business."

Bonaparte up-ended the soda and carried it over, legs trembling with the weight.

Tony reached down,

the monkey lifted the can up, and

Tony SNATCHED it away.

"I win!" he crowed.

"Now give him a treat," Hawes said.

Cradling the soda between his legs, Tony popped the tab on the can with his good hand. "No way."

"No way? There's no ' _no way'_ here. You promised Bony a grape."

"I don't remember signing anything." Tony slurped from the can.

#$%#!

"Yeah, Bony, you tell him."

"Besides I don't have any grapes," Tony said, as he popped a red juicy one in his mouth.

"Tony Pandy, you give that gosh-darned monkey a treat—"

"Or what?"

Hawes plucked a grape from out of Tony's hand. "I'll shove this right up your nose."

(As _if._ )

The doorbell rang out the theme from GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS!

Tony turned to the surveillance monitors on the wall.

All blank.

He could have sworn they were on a minute ago. Power outage? He rolled over to his computer, but Hawes stepped in the way.

"Let's keep it a mystery, shall we?"

Hawes clicked a button on the home automation controller. Only in Pandyland could there be a remote for unlocking the front door.

"What are you up to, Hawes?"

"I invited a guest."

Tony motored himself backwards. "I don't like surprises."

"Your call. I could send this _whoever_ away. If you want."

"Why are you being so weird about it?"

"To prove a point. I think that someone who is curious about who is at the door isn't quite ready to die yet. Amirite?"

"Because I'm curious?" Tony asked.

"Uh huh."

There were footfalls on the stairs just yards from his room.

"Without conceding your point, can you at least give me a hint?"

"Pretty hair. Auburn, I believe."

(Juniper!)

"Stop it. You didn't."

Hawes leaned against the closed bedroom door. "No, I won't—and yes, I did."

"How did you find her? Did you hack my computer?"

"Wouldn't be hard," Hawes teased. "I'm sure your password is TONYISTHEGREATEST. But no."

Tony made a mental note to change his password from TONYISNUMBERONE.

Hawes picked up the portable phone from the desk. "You called her from here, remember? I just scrolled down to her—"

There was a knock at the door.

Hawes wore his smug face. "What's it going to be, Tony? Have her come in or send her away?"

"Did you tell her about..." indicating his wheelchair.

"Yes. And she still came."

Tony wiggled his joystick. "Curiosity proves nothing, you know."

"Perhaps not. But forming relationships _does._ It's like investing in the future. And, surprise-surprise, people who believe in a future _have one_."

Tony fluffed up his mohawk. "Okay, let her in."

Hawes opened the door.

"HB!" Juniper said, shaking with excitement.

(Happy Birthday?)

The only difference between the girl in front of him and her profile picture was a dyed green streak in her hair—which kept falling across her face. That, and she was much shorter than Tony had imagined.

Juni held out a boxed cake which had frosting in the shape of a—

"Spaceship?" Tony asked.

(What am I, six?)

Hawes answered. "You're the one with Saturn on his wall. I thought you'd like a science fiction theme."

"Science, yes. Not—"

With a sweep of his hand, Hawes both shut up Tony's protest and ushered Juniper into the room. She put the cake on the sideboard table.

(Look at him.)

Hawes kissing Juniper on the cheek. Putting Bony on his shoulder.

Like it's _his_ monkey.

(So annoying.)

Hawes produced a cake-cutting knife and began slicing away. "Nice rocket ship," he told Juni.

"IKR," she answered.

"Come again?"

"'I know, right?'" Tony answered for her. "Juniper believes life's too short for long words."

"Is that a fact?" Hawes said. "Or should I say, ITAF?"

Juni laughed. "LOL."

"Would you believe," Hawes said, thoughtfully, "I've never heard that said out loud before?"

He deposited a slice of cake onto a plate before handing it to her.

BA DINK!

"Happy Birthday, honey!" his mother said across the intercom.

"Thanks, Mom."

Juni looked all sorts of confused. "WTF?"

Hawes whispered, "I know, I know. Just go with it." He handed Tony some cake.

Not having two fully functional hands meant that Tony couldn't hold the paper plate _and_ use a fork at the same time. Using his lap as a table was awkward; taking out the wheelchair's folding tray was drawing attention to how different he was.

Not that Hawes intended to put a spotlight on his infirmity... But _still._ Tony motored over to the sideboard and set his plate down beside the open box of cake and pouted.

Hawes had his own piece halfway to his mouth when Tony said, "That'll be all, _employee_."

Hawes exchanged a look with Juni. Placed the cake down, unbitten into. "I forgot myself again _,_ didn't I?"

Juniper scowled.

(Uh-oh.)

"J/K!" Tony insisted. (Just Kidding.)

Hawes threw a thumb at the bedroom doorway and awkwardly backed away. "I got things to do anyway."

Juni stamped her foot.

"You heard him," Tony said to her. "Things to do."

That's when she reached out and dumped his face in the cake. Somewhere between the warp nacelle and the saucer section.

There Tony was, with cake falling off his face. Frosting in his eyebrows.

Juni laughed first, and then Hawes saddled up his horse laugh and rode it for all it was worth.

Tony couldn't help himself and joined in.

Juniper put her hands on her hips. "Just because you're dying doesn't mean anybody has to take your crap, Tony Pandy."

More than being pushed into the cake, this stunned Tony. "Juni, you spoke _words_."

"Some thoughts are worth the time. IMO."

Hawes came back and picked up his cake. "I like this one, Tony. She's a keeper."

# EPILOGUE

A brown delivery truck pulled into the circular driveway of Tony's house. No logo, no wording on the side. The uniformed driver carried an oversized, padded envelope up the stairs to the porch. The brass mail slot in the front door was too narrow for the flat package, so the delivery man folded it over.

Something popped from within.

He shoved the large envelope the rest of the way through the mail slot and heard it land on the floor inside.

CRACK.

Tu Ngu was entering from the other side of the house and, as he rounded the stairs, he saw the package lying there. A dark stain was spreading along the surface of the manila envelope.

Tu couldn't resist taking a peek. It was addressed to Tony.

But he was puzzled. What did ASSIGNMENT TWO refer to?

He didn't wonder for long. He carried the bulky envelope up the stairs to Tony's bedroom.

He had heard there was going to be cake.

**About the Author**

PV Lundqvist is a writer who loves mysteries and, in a former life, helped the disabled find meaningful work.

He blogs at pvlundqvist.blogspot.com and tweets at @pvlundqvist about his books and about embarrassing his children.

Mostly about embarrassing his children.

If you've enjoyed this book, please don't leave a review. Just _don't_. That would only encourage the author to finish Gang of Sleuths: a Tony Pandy Mystery instead of mowing the lawn. Now waist high.

You wouldn't want that on your conscience.

Other Books by PV

### Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

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