Lisa thought she knew what powerlessness felt like. Then her strong, bold grandfather started to wither away, and a new sort of helplessness settled down upon her shoulders.
He'd always been old, that was true; the bones that wed his wrist to his knuckles bulged through sagging skin. The hands that patted her cheek or pulled her hair had always been wrinkled and gaunt. But they'd been strong, full of surprising force. They'd knocked students off their feet as he punched through training pads; they'd torn apart arguing boys before fights turned violent. Old age left most men frail, but Armstrongs were made of tougher stuff.
Then a semi-truck ripped Grandpa's car in half, and now he cowered on death's door.
"Will he be okay?" Lisa asked the nurse, a dark-haired man skimming through the papers on a clipboard.
"His bones will take a long time to heal," the nurse said, and Lisa shook her head.
"No, I mean—he's sick ." Grandpa's eyes were a glassy brown, and every inhale was a pained rasp. The area around the eyes should have been be white. Instead, it was the unsettling shade of an unripe banana skin. "Why is he sick?"
The nurse scoffed. "Patients get sick all the time."
"So, this is normal?" Hope sprang in her chest.
"Yep." The nurse turned around and continued scratching his pen against paper. "People come in here and they'll catch something from another patient."
Still, Lisa couldn't halt the niggling nervousness eating away at her. Grandpa's face was so sweaty that his gray hairs stuck to his sallow face. "So there's no need to worry, right?"
"Didn't say that," the nurse responded. He moved around the bed, checking the equipment, dark eyes scanning everything except Grandpa's face. Look at him! Lisa wanted to cry. He needs your help. Why aren't you scared? Don't you see what I see? "Now that he's got a fever, his immune system is especially vulnerable. He's at risk for catching something worse."
"Like what?" She hated the way her voice lifts like a child's. She was 12 years old now, on the brink of teenagehood. By now, her voice should be deeper. More authoritative. More worthy of being listened to.
"Pneumonia. Mononucleosis." The nurse spoke casually, as if he were chatting about the weather. Before Lisa could speak, he glided out of the room, off to check someone else's wires and ignore another relative's terror.
When Lisa first came to this hospital, she gasped, seized by wonder at the way it penetrated the skies and reflected the light of the sun. "I didn't know hospitals could be this tall!" Brad told her it was the best option within driving distance, that it was well worth the hour-long drive. Everyone said Grandpa was getting the best help he possibly could, that the workers were the best and the equipment was top-of-the-line.
Lisa wasn't sure, since she had nothing to compare it to. She couldn't recall the last time she was in a hospital. Doctor's offices, sure. Medical examination rooms, yes. But this hospital was huge and alien, full of creepy beeping machines and an endless rush of apathetic people who barely noticed her. Here, she felt like a ghost.
"I hate this," Lisa told Grandpa, but by now his eyes were sewn shut and his big, strong chest rattled with each breath. She held his hand, marveling at how such withered fingers could dwarf her hand. Then his chest stilled. "Grandpa? Are you okay?"
His dark eyes fluttered open. "I'm here," he rasped, every word a labor. "You're here." He looked confused, like he only just noticed her. "How long have you been here?"
There was no clock in the room, so Lisa couldn't answer. Outside, the sun was high in the cloudless blue sky. Enough time has passed that her stomach rumbled every now and then. "I think it's been a while. We came here this morning."
Grandpa's eyes drifted around the room, searching for Brad. "He was here earlier. Don't you remember?" Lisa urged. "He said 'Hello,' but you were so tired. Then you fell asleep."
He sighed heavily. "What day is it?"
"Saturday."
"You've got the weekend all to yourself, and you waste it on me?" His laugh corrupted into a rattling cough, and Lisa patted his arm.
"It's not wasted on you."
"You gotta get some friends," he said. Right as Lisa started to retort that she does have friends—she has Dice and Lady Truck and even Bernie—he fell asleep. She hovered over his bed and waited for those glassy brown eyes to reopen, but he didn't stir.
Lisa sat back down in her seat and kicked her legs out of boredom. It had been a few hours since Brad left her alone, and she has long finished her homework for the weekend. She brought a book with her, but it turned out to be bad. The main character bored her to tears, and the storyline was as predictable as a blockbuster. After a few moments of watching his chest rise and fall, Lisa could no longer stand the sight of her strong grandfather so weak. She turned away and wandered over to the window.
Down below, tiny dots flowed down the streets like ants. People were so puny from the hospital's seventh floor. She felt like a goddess peering down from her throne of clouds. Lady Lazarus laughed at the tiny, insignificant humans scuttling about their meaningless lives. They stepped in and out of apartment buildings, restaurants, and huge hotels that pierced the clouds. Across the bustling street, a long stretch of green park broke the grey city monotony.
There was a museum, too, a few blocks away. A huge, colorful tarp hung over its front, a large advertisement of a muscular man with a fish head. "See the extraordinary fish-men who may save our country," the heading declared. A caption in smaller text gave more detail: "From January to July, see the genetic link that could create super soldiers." Lisa shook her head. She couldn't see the connection between fish and soldiers, but she has absorbed enough news to understand it's some harebrained scheme the government is cooking up.
Just this morning, she sat in the waiting room as TV anchors shared the story. "Top scientists say that a unique enzyme found in fish could be the secret to Olathe's military defense," a reporter said. Between her purple dress and the light blonde hair that curled up at the edges, she looked like the wife character in a 1960s sitcom. "I'm sure everyone at home is aware of the increasing international tension. Despite the global arms agreement forbidding the construction of nuclear warheads, the CIA has recently found footage of foreign countries creating their own nuclear plants. The agency is tight-lipped, but experts across the country warn that this could lead to a renewed arms race."
"That's right, Karen," her co-host said, a dark-haired man in a navy blue suit. "And as you would imagine, the U.S. government is taking pains to prepare for the worst-case scenario: an all-out war."
"Now, I know you're wondering: 'What exactly is the government doing? Are we creating warheads of our own?'" Karen said. "Well, we've reached out to the United States Department of Defense, but they gave us no comment. Good news, though: We did hear from the Army Medical Department, which told us we should feel safe because, quote, 'The people are in good hands.' I don't know about that, Tom. When we opened up that letter in the studio, you had something to say, didn't you?"
Tom laughed. "That's right! I took one look and said, 'That's too vague to assure me. Heck, now I have even more questions than before!' So I gave 'em a call and said, 'Send us over someone who can give us more details. The people are nervous and we want some answers!' And what happened the very next day? The U.S. Press Secretary goes live to announce a new biotech program!"
His co-host tittered, hiding her smile behind long nails with a French manicure. "Now, Tom, I don't mean to sound conspiratorial here, but I think you may have pushed them to share their secret sooner than they would like."
"Oh, really?" He teased. "You think li'l ol' Tom Forknight on Channel 5 has the power to pressure the U.S. government?"
"I think you're capable of anything," Karen cooed, squeezing his shoulder. Am I crazy, or is there some romantic tension there? Lisa thought.
"Excuse me, guys," a third voice chimed in off-camera. "I'd love to jump in here."
"Oh, right!" Karen said. "Now, I'm sure a lot of our listeners may be confused about the biotech program, so we brought in an expert who can clear up those burning questions. I'm thrilled to welcome Dr. Nina Osohe to the show. Nina works with a new pharmaceutical company that's just come on the scene. Why don't you start off by telling us a little bit about yourself?"
The camera panned to a pretty Asian woman with lush black hair that flowed down her shoulders. When Lisa heard the word "doctor," she imagined a stuffy man with thick glasses, plain clothing and a bland demeanor. This lady was the polar opposite: she wore a lacy white blouse beneath a pink blazer, and her rosy lips curved into a bright smile. "I'd love to. But first off, I'd just like to say: Thanks for having me." When she nodded at each of the hosts, her heart-shaped earrings sparkled under the studio lights. "I think there's a lot of misinformation swirling around, so I'm happy to come in and ease everyone's worries."
She leaned back in her seat, a small stool before a colorful backdrop that read: "Channel 5 news: Bringing Olathe's latest stories straight to you." Despite the news reporters' vivid clothes and the logo in the background, Dr. Osohe was the most eye-catching picture in the TV frame. As she straightened her posture, Tom and Karen leaned in, eager for her words.
"I'm the Director of Communications at Joy Corporation. We're a pharmaceutical company that's recently been founded by some of the brightest minds in science. Our goal is to create a world in which science can flourish without the restraints of modern politics."
"Um…" Tom cut in. "I'm sorry, Nina. How do politics restrain science?"
"Call me Dr. Osohe, please."
He leaned back, lifting his palms in surrender. "I apologize. Please, tell us more, Dr. Osohe."
"Put simply, our CEO is overflowing with incredible ideas to improve this country. Unfortunately, there are many powerful lobbies that want to squash scientific progress. You see, certain ideas are bad for big business. For example, say we find a clean, sustainable source of energy. But then what happens to the gas companies? How will they make money with such stiff competition? They can't have that, so they call the politicians whose campaigns they funded. Thus, they snip scientific progress in the bud. We stick to the old ways because that's what's easiest for the powerful players behind the scene."
Tom opened his mouth for a question, but the doctor raised her voice. "That's why the Joy Corporation is so incredible: We're backed up by multiple politicians who have put their feet down and said, 'Enough.' Governor MacGavin himself cut the ribbon on our lab when we first opened. He swore his support for our cause. From what I've heard, he's planning to give an interview to the New York Times, from which we'll soon see an article about the Joy Corporation. Who knows what he might do next? He might even give you two an interview!"
"My goodness!" Karen fanned herself. "I don't think the great Governor MacGavin himself would have the time to come on the show."
"You never know!" Tom chimed in. "If he's as passionate about this as Nina—er, Dr. Osohe says he is, we might hear from the big man himself."
"We can only hope," Karen sighed.
"Hope. What a good word," Dr. Osohe went on. "It's what our company is founded on. The hope that our country can move forward with logic and progress—instead of being held back by corruption and greed."
"So, we've talked a bit about politics," Karen said. "Let's move off that. Why don't you tell me all about the great ideas you have in mind? I want to know about the exact type of 'scientific progress' you're trying to make."
Dr. Osohe shifted in her seat, crossing her long, thin legs. "That's an excellent question." She smoothed down her pink pencil skirt. "Right now, we are developing new genetic modification techniques that we hope will boost our soldiers' physical strength, should the worst-case scenario come to pass."
"But what if it doesn't come to pass?" Tom broke in. "All that money and effort would be for nothing!"
She threw a look at him. "I beg to differ. Ideally, the United States would like to avoid war, of course. If our diplomats are successful, we will not need to use our enhanced soldiers. But we will still have better soldiers than before. Progress is our main goal. If our services can help our country win—good. If they aren't needed, then we've still improved an existing resource."
Karen cleared her throat. "I've gotta ask a question that's been burning in my mind, doctor. Where do fish come into this?"
The doctor's eyes sparkled like she'd been looking forward to this question. When she opened up her mouth, however, not a single word made sense to Lisa. Dr. Osohe used advanced jargon and referred to scientific theories Lisa had never heard of. It was vaguely impressive scientific mumbo jumbo that made her even more confused than before.
But Lisa was stuck in the waiting room and this was all she had to look at; otherwise, she'd have to talk to Brad, who was like a gruff stone wall nowadays. So Lisa watched as the pretty doctor went on, flipping her shining black hair over her shoulder. Her red, heart-shaped earrings swung at the movement. The reporters smiled and nodded and asked more questions, and Lisa couldn't understand a word of it. If Dr. Osohe didn't go into science, she could have been a model, Lisa thought. I wonder how I'd look in a pink blazer. Probably not as good. What does a blazer even feel like? I bet it makes you feel super important. I mean, I've only ever seen important people wear blazers.
"So, Dr. Osohe, let me cut to the heart of this," Karen was saying. "I want to make it simple for our viewers. In order to create super soldiers, you guys have got to experiment on fish first?"
"Well…" The doctor grinned, pride etched across every inch of her pretty features. "We're already in the middle of medical trials. If I had to sum up all of the work we're doing in simple terms, I'd say this. A particular enzyme found only in fish could be the key that enables the development of super strength. We could unlock new, incredible superpowers that have only been possible within fiction."
"Oh my stars!" Tom Forknight leaned back in his chair, dramatically dropping his jaw and slapping his palms on the table. "Are you telling me my childhood dream of becoming Superman could finally be true?"
Dr. Osohe threw her head back in laughter. "I'm not so sure about that," she said. "We haven't exactly unlocked the secrets to flight."
Karen giggled, playfully swatting her co-host on the shoulder. "You heard it here, folks!" She declared. "After a few decades of scientific research, we may see some real-life superheroes fighting for our country. Of course, our soldiers are already heroes. But thanks to the geniuses at the Joy Corporation, they'll be one step closer to Superman."
Lisa was watching the TV so closely she hadn't heard the nurse until Brad elbowed her in the side. Then they were off to sit by Grandpa's sickbed, and that room was too tense for any sort of chatter. Brad slipped away and promised to be back by the evening. When Lisa asked what he was doing, he threw her a terse look that said, Get your eyes back to your notebook and don't bother me. Harsh looks came from him more often than ever before. Ever since she spoke in court, he was always angry with her, like he thinks she should have shut up instead of shaming the family. After that, he never looked at her with kindness.
He hated her.
A pigeon emerged from behind the giant hotel across the street. It soared through the air, wings stretched out, a brown splotch across the endless blue sky. As it approached the park, it shrank in size until it disappeared from Lisa's line of sight. It must have found a nice tree branch to sit on. She imagined the clear, fresh air of the park. It was a beautiful day, Grandpa was sleeping, and Brad wouldn't be back for a while.
Plus, it had been a long time since she'd been alone in the wilderness. She didn't miss her runaway days—they were too hungry and desperate and full of fear—but she fondly remembered the time she first landed in the small town of Marble. Birdsong, green grass, and a lush blue creek stuffed with fish. Right after she stepped off the bus, she took in the taste of freedom. Over the next month, that taste turned to poison in her mouth, but in the beginning, it was sweet.
And, of course, she treasured her time with Dusty, although thinking of him still hurt. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't find him.
I won't give up, she thought. When she first returned to Grandpa's house, during those tense months with lawyers and officers and visits with Thomas, she'd tried. When the house was asleep, she sneaked down to the kitchen and turned on a table lamp by the window. Huddled in the cold corner, framed by shadows around her small circle of light, she flipped through "The Yellow Pages," a heavy tome that listed local businesses by category.
Dusty never told her the orphanage he was constantly running from, so she looked through the local businesses and tried to retrace their steps. They had gone to a Wally's restaurant—or rather, they sifted through its trash. But there were seven different Wally's restaurants in the city they wandered through. So she tried to find the gym they had gone to, but she couldn't remember its name, either. That whole time period was a strange, scary, somehow magical blur that left her void of details. So, when she tried to track down Dusty, she had no leads. On a lined sheet of paper, she wrote down every gym listed in the Yellow Pages. There were 21 in total, and so far she'd only called 13.
"Hello," the conversations typically went. "I'm trying to find a boy named Dusty Armstrong. Can you help me find him? He's a tall, blond kid who showers in the gym sometimes."
Most often, she'd hear negative answers from the other side of the line. "No clue who he is," they'd say, or "We don't let non-members shower here." Then there were the angry receptionists who had a bad day and took it out on her. "Is this some kind of a prank?" A guy yelled at her once. "Get a life. That's not even funny!"
A part of her wondered if she'd have better luck calling the police station. But what would she say? "I'm looking for a boy named Dustin. He runs away from the orphanage. Maybe you found him and brought him in?" But police officers were gruff, scary, and unforgiving. One of them had doubted her story when she first reported it, glaring at her with suspicion until his partner pulled him away.
Plus, she heard that if you dialed 911, they would come straight to your door, even if you didn't have an emergency. Rumors said that a few years ago, a boy in her school prank called 911. The next day, officers escorted him off campus in handcuffs. Maybe it was an urban legend, but it made her nervous all the same, so she stuck with her painfully slow process.
Lisa kept hoping to call the woman who had seen her and Dusty that day in the gym. Certainly, she would remember Dusty, since she let him into the showers so often. But every time Lisa called up a gym, she got dead ends. It was exhausting. She wrote her lists of businesses to call and she scoured every single page of the thick book.
Ever since she returned to Grandpa's house, life was a fast-paced mess. She had to testify, transfer to a new school, take therapy, and try to understand why Brad didn't like her anymore.
Throughout it all, there was only one constant: her search to find Dusty Armstrong.
"It's like a mystery," she told Bernie over the phone one night. "And all I'm unsolving is the disappointing truth that I'd make a lousy detective."
"Is this Dusty guy really worth that much effort?" He huffed. "Didn't he disappear on you?"
"He didn't disappear. The cops got him!"
"How do you know that?"
"I just do, okay? He wouldn't abandon me."
"How can you be sure? You only knew him for a few days."
Lisa's face warmed. "You wouldn't understand," she said indignantly. "When you're trying to survive with somebody, you just get to know them really well. I know for a fact that he wouldn't just leave me to the wolves. Not after what we went through together."
After a long pause, Bernie sighed. "Okay. So let's say he didn't run off in the middle of the night. Maybe the police nabbed him before they got you. Does that mean he's in jail now? What are you going to do—search every jail in the city? What if you don't find anything? You gonna search every jail in the state, too?"
"I don't know! Why are you putting me on the spot?"
"I'm just looking out for you, Lisa." His voice softened. "I mean, you look out for me. It's the least I can do."
She pursed her lips. "How do I look after you?"
"Those pictures you sent! Remember, with the instructions? I got 'em in the mail and I've been practicing, just like you said. I even showed my dad some kicks the other day. I caught him in a good mood and he actually smiled! If I'm lucky, I might even convince him to let me go to a dojo. Then I'll be an expert, so you better watch out! I might get even better than you."
"Lucky you," she drawled. Truthfully, she hadn't set foot in a dojo for a year. Her moves were rusty and unrefined, so she fought like a wild animal. If Bernie actually started practicing, he'd probably be a better fighter than her in no time. Then what would they have to talk about? Would he even want to be her friend anymore, if she had nothing new to offer?
"I'm serious! I'm on your side here," he went on. "I'm just worried. I think it's a little weird that you're so obsessed with this Dusty guy. I mean, you barely know him."
"What did you just say?" Her voice hitched, and Bernie jumped in before she could snap.
"Lisa, if you keep this up, you're gonna be searching forever."
"I…" She couldn't think of the right word to say. Nothing could convince him. Anger and shame fluttered in her chest until she finally spat out: "By the way, minors can't go to jail, you know. They go to a place called juvie."
"Juvie?" He scoffed. "What the hell is that?"
A man's rough voice cut into the call: "That's where you're gonna go if you keep actin' a fool!" There was a hard smack—Bernie's dad must have clipped him on the head—a hiss of pain and a door slam.
"Fucking asshole," he hissed into Lisa's ear.
"Are you okay?"
"Of course!" He said too quickly and too loudly to be anything but a lie. "It doesn't hurt, you know. It's just annoying."
"I believe you." She didn't. "Uh, I just forgot. What were we talking about again?"
"Whatever! Does it matter?" Startled, Lisa's mouth snapped shut. He'd never spoken to her so harshly, never lost his temper at her. Unsure of what to say, Lisa held the hard receiver to her ear and listened to Bernie's heavy breathing. After a few moments, his voice came out as a low, resentful grumble. "This Dusty guy must be really special for you to go to all that trouble for him."
"Oh, Bernie. I'd do the same for you."
"Really?"
"Of course!" She promised. "All that and more."
He started to speak, but a crashing bang cut his words. "Goddammit, you asshole! You promised me you would make dinner tonight!" His mom yelled. "I walk into the kitchen and what do I see? Absolutely nothing!"
"Don't use that tone of voice with me, you bitch!" The fury in his father's voice seeped through the phone. Loud and scary. He sounded like M— No. Don't think about that. Lisa took a deep breath and lowered the receiver to her knee, closing her eyes. Although she tried to ignore the words, they roared through the speaker and hit her, loud and clear. "You should be grateful I even offered! But, no, I can't get five minutes to myself!"
"You told me it would be ready an hour ago!" The mother's voice was a high, desperate screech. "All you ever do is lie to me! Don't you ever get tired of it? Being a disappointment to everyone around you? Why is it so hard for you to do the bare fucking minimum?"
"You have no idea how hard I work for this family!" He screamed back. Slowly, the angry voices faded away, like clouds of smoke from a receding train. Stomping through the house, their screams burned into white noise at the edge of her ears. Lisa let the silence breathe, long and slow. She craned her ear for a sound: she expected a sniffle, maybe some angry curses of his own. Eventually, she wondered if he'd hung up on her. She wanted to say something, even "Are you there?" but she couldn't find the words to say. Her throat closed in on itself.
Then came a voice so quiet and soft Lisa thought she imagined it. "Are you still there?" Bernie whispered, and Lisa had to take a deep breath before spitting out a yes. He sighed deeply. "Oh. Good. I thought you hung up."
"I wouldn't do that."
"Most people do."
"What people?"
"You know." A rustling sound, like he was waving his hand. "Friends. Anyone I try to hang out with. I can't have people over, but I still like to talk. I mean, that's what normal kids do, right? But they always do this. Every time I make a friend, my parents get like this and it freaks people out. They don't talk to me again when that happens."
He sounded so defeated. Lisa wanted her bright, cheerful boy again. "You don't have to worry about me," she said loudly. "I've got your back."
"You do?" From the way he sounded, she imagined him furrowing his brow, his blue eyes doubtful beneath those thick golden bangs.
"Of course, Bern. Friends stay together."
There was the sniffle she expected earlier. "Thanks, Lisa. Really."
"Of course."
He went quiet for a long time after that. Then: "Why can't more people be like you?"
A laugh tore out of Lisa's chest. "'Cause then the world would be on fire!"
"No it wouldn't," he snickered.
"Yes, it would! I'm serious, Bernie. There would be chaos in the streets. Total mayhem. Pandemonium!" She paused to think of new synonyms for anarchy.
"I'm imagining it now. Fire in the streets." There was a smile in Bernie's voice. "And you and I would just be standing in the middle of it."
"All calm and smiling while the flames burned all around us?" Lisa joked, but Bernie sounded serious when he spoke next.
"Yep," he said. "Hell, we'd be holding the matches."