(part 6)

Jim stretched and rolled his head around his shoulders. He felt like he'd been talking all morning. Actually, he had been talking all morning. With lots of questions and prompting from his eternally-curious Guide.

"Sandburg, I think you've got enough for ten novels, there," he said. "I've told you everything I can remember. I need some fresh air -- and some lunch. What say I go and get some bread from the bakery?"

Blair smiled. "Sure Jim, I'll just write some notes... Are you sure you're up to it?"

Jim nodded. "I feel fine. What bread would you like?"

"Something with a lot of grains... Seven-grains if you can get it, or a good rye. And maybe a fruit loaf too?"

"Got it," Jim said as he headed out the door.

Jim surveyed the street as he stepped out of the entrance to the apartment building. He felt better than fine, actually. Everything seemed brighter, clearer. Jim had been injured and ill enough from his work in the past to recognise what it was; that feeling of well-being one gets when one is finally well, and everything seems fresh and new, as if one had never been really alive before. For a Sentinel, that feeling was intensified.

Jim breathed deep. The air was freshly washed, and a little chill. Spring showers had greyed the sky this morning, but the sun had just broken through the clouds, bringing warmth and brightness to the day. He could smell the bread baking in the bakery down the street. He could even smell the tomatoes and bananas and oranges laid out in the fruit vendor next to the bakery. His nose picked up the odour of asphalt and oil as the sun warmed the damp street, the scent of earth and grass and trees from the park three blocks away, and of course the stench of the cars, with their smoky exhaust -- Jim consciously tuned out that smell, wanting to enjoy his little walk.

He tuned out the sound of the cars too, and sounds of construction on the bridge, the conversations... but he listened to the chirping of the birds in the trees of the park, the thrum of the electric cables, a few dogs barking, Mrs. Sho at the bakery gabbling to her daughter in Chinese, the sing-song meaninglessness of it just another note in the music of life.

Jim strolled slowly down the street, savouring the scents and sounds and sights around him. He catalogued the colours of the scattered clouds, the tints of grey, blue and brown that others saw only as grey and white. Even the texture of the concrete of the buildings seemed something to quietly delight in. He should have been afraid of zoning, but he felt charmed, protected. And maybe it wasn't just feeling physically well. Sharing the dreams... well, Sandburg frequently made sense, though it would take a lot for him to admit it. He was dealing with things, he was moving forward... And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. It was a quote from somewhere, he was sure, but he couldn't remember who wrote it. It didn't matter. It summed up his mood.

"Hello Mrs. Sho." He smiled as he entered the store.

The plump, middle-aged Asian woman beamed at him from the other side of the counter. "Ah, Mr. Ellison. It is good that you better."

At his look of surprise, she said, "I see ambulance. I ask. I pray." She smiled again. "Now I pray thanks."

"Thank you," he said, not able to find any better words. "And it's Jim. When you say "Mr. Ellison" I start looking around for my father."

"You grown man. You Mister," she said with placid stubbornness.

Jim shrugged, realizing there was no point in insisting. "I'd like a multi-grain loaf," he said, and sniffed. "And one of those cinnamon fruit loaves you just finished baking."

Mrs. Sho smiled as she took down the multi-grain loaf Jim had pointed out. "You have nose like hunting dog." She called out to the back in Chinese, and her daughter soon came out carrying a tray of crispy-brown loaves with intriguing dark spots that were doubtless currants or raisins. Mrs. Sho deftly plucked one from the tray before her daughter started arranging the loaves on the racks. "Just for you, Mister Jim Ellison, freshest loaf. You take back to your friend Mister Sandburg."

Jim grinned and paid for the bread. Bright lady, Mrs. Sho.

He walked out of the shop with a rustle of paper and plastic and the aroma of fresh bread. On an impulse, he bought a string sack of oranges from the fruiterer, having developed a craving for freshly squeezed orange juice to go with his lunch. As he turned back to the loft, it started to drizzle. No surprise, this was Cascade, after all. He quickened his pace, not wanting to get too wet. The drops got larger and faster, and half his sunny mood was washed away in his hurry to get home.

When he got to the apartment building, a youth with a bicycle entered at the same time, carrying his bicycle over his shoulder and leaving it in the foyer. Jim pressed the "up" elevator button as the cyclist consulted a clipboard he'd taken from the satchel over his shoulder. Jim noticed the two-way radio on the strap, and realized that the guy was probably an express courier. In some sections of town, it was faster to send something by bicycle than trying to deal with the traffic hassles caused by a car or van. Jim tried to peek at the contents of the clipboard, wondering if...

The elevator dinged before Jim could complete the thought. They both entered the elevator, and Jim pressed "3". When the courier didn't press a different button, Jim's suspicions firmed. "You wouldn't happen to be delivering something for James Ellison in 307, would you?"

The courier regarded him with a slightly suspicious look. "Why?"

"Because I'm James Ellison and I'm expecting a delivery."

"I can't just..."

Jim shrugged. "Fine, follow me to my door, if it makes you feel better."

They proceeded to do just that, when the elevator finally arrived on the third floor. Jim went to 307, and the courier followed him. Jim put down his bags and knocked on the door. "Sandburg, it's me." He then turned around and said, dryly, "You want some ID?" and pulled out his police ID and showed it to the courier.

"S-sorry," the courier said sheepishly. "But you can't be too careful. Not with legal documents." He then handed Jim a large envelope, and Jim was signing on the clipboard just as Blair opened the door.

"Hey, Jim, what's this?"

"Lunch, and legalities," Jim said, as the courier made his way back to the elevator. He pointed to the two bags on the floor. "Bread, oranges," he waved the envelope in his hand, "and legal documents." He pointed at one bag. "You can take the oranges."

Food, and Jim, and papers, entered the loft. Blair dumped the oranges on the bench, muttering something about heavy loads and slave-drivers.

Jim put the bread bag next to it and said "Fresh from the oven, Sandburg, eat it while it's warm." Then he went to his desk and slitted open the envelope. Yep, all here. Everything I asked for. "I was right," Jim called out, "it's the stuff from my lawyer." Power of attorney -- and something extra...

"Oh, good," Blair said absently. "Why the heck did you buy so many oranges, Jim?"

"I felt like some fresh juice," Jim said. "It doesn't taste the same once it's been bottled. Even the 'squeezed the same day' stuff."

"What about the places that squeeze their own oranges?" Blair said. "You know, they have that big machine that they load up with oranges..."

Jim shook his head. "Too bitter. They get orange pith in the juice."

Blair smiled. "You know, I bet you could tell where, how, and how long ago the juice was made, just by one sip."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Dream on, Sandburg."