Title: In Another Land Part Fourteen/conclusion
Author: Simon
Pairing: Dick
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An AU look at what might have happened if Bruce hadn't taken Dick in.
Warnings: None
Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.
Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.
Feedback: Hell, yes.
Thank you, Jim.
This conclusion to the series was requested by my teenaged son. Blame him, that scamp.
In Another Land
Part Fourteen"So that's what I think I'd like to do. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me or anything, it's just that right now I need some distance to get my priorities straight in my own head."
Bruce Wayne leaned back in his chair, his expression unchanging—a cold neutral. "If that's your decision, I'll accept it. I assume you have the sense not to discuss the things we were going over or the people whom you've met?"
"I'm not stupid."
A silence at the small outburst. Wayne stood, the meeting was over. "Good luck with Stanford. If you change your mind, let me know."
That was it, Dick was dismissed. No handshake, no 'good luck' or 'call when you're in town'. He stood, nodded and left.
He had sent in his letter of acceptance and would join the freshman class at Stanford the next fall, roughly five months later. He still had to finish his high school career and get his diploma. He'd still be working for Sergei for a while, but he'd go to California in late August, almost a month before the regular orientation, so that he could start training with the gymnastics team. He also had the US Championship in June to deal with—he was busy.
Oh, and he was seventeen now. Even with all the problems he had somehow managed to get through the local school system in the normal amount of time.
Dick basically walked through the last couple of months of high school with a serious case of senior slump. In his case, though, it wasn't because of too much partying; it was because he was trying to get his routines in shape for the National's. It was looking like he might well miss his graduation because he had to be in Nashville the first week of June. In fact, he had to get special permission to be away then, as he'd be missing a couple of his finals. The school agreed to let him take them the day before he left, though with studying for the exams added on top of his final training for the meet, he was getting both stressed and exhausted.
He didn't know how he was going to pull this off, but kept telling himself that this would be over in a few weeks—he could hang in that long.
And he was still off drugs. He was clean and he was proud of himself for that.
"Hey Dick, I heard you're going to compete in Nationals, that's awesome, man. Really awesome."
Christian sat next to him in the lunchroom. "It's okay—a lot of work, but I kind of have to." Christian looked a question at him. "I just got an athletic scholarship for gymnastics. I have to pay my way, y'know? It's sort of part of the deal."
"Rack up some medals for the glory of sport? Brownie points for the new kid?"
"Something like that." Dick took a bite of the vile cafeteria pizza.
"You and Sarah breaking up when you go to California?"
"I don't know, we haven't really talked about it. Why, you interested?" Christian had a crush on her going back to about fourth grade.
He just gave a half shrug as an answer. "I don't want to poach, man."
"It's okay. No, it really is. I don't have her on a leash or anything. If you want to go out with her, call her. She can do whatever she wants."
"...You sure?"
"It's cool. I'm too busy right now to really see her anyway. You might as well."
"No hard feelings?"
"None." Something else he'd known would be winding down.
Bonnie managed to find him in his hotel room. It was early June and he was in Tennessee, "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry that you had to miss the ceremony tonight—it was just beautiful."
Well, beautiful was probably an exaggeration for a high school graduation ceremony on a rainy night, but he knew Bonnie was disappointed that he'd had to miss the thing. He didn't care, but she did. "Why did you go if I wasn't there?"
"I had to, honey—you know with the new job teaching at the high school, I'm supposed to support things like that. Besides, all your friends were there and they—and their parents, too— all made a point of telling me how they were sorry you'd missed it. They were so sweet about it."
"That's nice." God.
"And when they read your name you got the biggest round of applause—the principal said you couldn't be there because of the meet and he mentioned how proud he was of you because of—you know—all the things you've overcome to be there. I was almost crying when he said that and people were so nice about it all."
Jesus. Thanks—making sure the whole damn school—anyone who'd somehow missed it by being in a coma the last couple of years, knew that the junkie had pulled himself up by those good old boot straps and was standing tall...Thanks a bunch.
"Honey? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm just tired. It's been along day, that's all."
"Oh, listen to me go on, I didn't even get a chance to ask you; how's the meet going? How are you doing all by yourself down there?"
"It's going alright and I'm not alone, the Stanford guys have been with me and the coaches—I'm fine."
"Oh, I was so worried that you wouldn't have anyone to talk to, that's good, honey. I'm happy about that. How are you doing in the events? Are you doing well?"
Dick would never really understand how she could go to so many practice sessions, listen to his talk about this stuff and still be completely clueless about the sport he was in. "I tied for second in the all-around, but I'm one of the youngest here and it's my first try at National's as a senior, so it's pretty good. I'm fine, Mom."
"And then tomorrow you have the individual events, is that right? Do you think you qualified for any of them today?"
"I'll be in the vault, the parallels, floor and the high bar. I should do pretty well on the bar if I can hold on and make a decent job of the dismount and I'm usually alright in vault if I stick the landing."
"I know you'll be wonderful, honey—I'm so proud of you and you know your dad would be, too."
Which dad? Dick wondered for about the ten thousandth time, but had the tact not to ask. "Thanks, Mom. I have to go—we're supposed to start the warm ups at seven-thirty tomorrow."
"You get some sleep then, and be careful, will you? You know I worry about you with all those moves you do, they're all so dangerous."
Christ. He'd been doing most of them since he was eight.
"Good going man, that dismount was awesome—you stuck a damn quad—incredible!"
"Thanks. It felt pretty good today. And you were great on the rings, I was watching you."
"Ah, you know...rings, just muscle and some balance. You're Dick, right? I heard you're the new boy wonder for Stanford next year."
"Not really, I just do my thing, y'know? But I saw the stuff you were doing last rotation; I don't really have the strength to be really good on rings. I can do the moves, but the strength stuff—I'm just not there yet."
"Yeah, well, a couple years with Barbera and he'll have you doing those tricks just fine, you'll see, boy wonder."
"Thanks—and God, don't call me that."
"See you around, Boy Wonder."
Summer went by quickly that year, faster than usual. After Dick finished with the National's—where he'd medalled in high bar and vault as well as the all-around, he went back to working at Sergei's almost full time. On top of that he had his usual yard work for his old regular customers and he was helping Bonnie look for a new place for herself. She'd decided that with him out in California most of the time now and her new job and all, it was the right time to make a break and reorder her life. A new home—maybe a condo this time so she wouldn't have to deal with everything herself now that her son wouldn't be there to help out, would probably be more what she'd want now. She made sure only to look at places with two bedrooms so Dick would know he always had a place to come home to, even if 'home' was just a state of mind more than an actual place for him.
Sometime in early July he called Sarah to get together and wasn't all that surprised to have her apologetically tell him that she had plans to see Christian that evening.
He wasn't upset and they parted as friends.
Dick made a point of calling Pop Haley to let him know what he'd be doing the next few years and the old man had seemed extraordinarily pleased, telling Dick over and over how proud he was of the boy and how thrilled his parents would have been to know he was going to be a college kid. He'd be the first one in his family to go and it was something they'd hoped for him, they all knew he was smart—and to have his way paid for through the things his parents had taught him—well, they'd be doubly thrilled with that. He'd done well and when the tour got to San Francisco in November, they'd be sure to get together.
By the end of July, Dick was starting to think about what things he would have to pack for Stanford. He'd be going out early to start training with the rest of the and already had his dorm assignment. He'd be living with another freshman gymnast, a guy named Mitch from Nebraska whom he'd met at the National's a couple of months before. He wasn't a bad gymnast, but Dick was light years ahead of him and they both knew it. Somehow it didn't cause any problems between them and they got along amazingly well. Neither expected any problems living and training together.
Bonnie had suggested that he might enjoy having a party a few days before he left for the West coast and the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Most of his good friends were still around, baring Phil who was in Europe with his family, and it would give him a nice chance to say goodbye and make the break that he was ready for.
On Saturday night two days before he was supposed to get on the plane headed west, about twenty five of his high school friends showed up for a cookout. Bonnie would be there and they all knew better than to try to bring anything they shouldn't. They were well-behaved kids and Bonnie was happy he'd been able to reconnect with them after most of his drug problems were finally behind him. They'd supported him and if they weren't the kinds of kids than they were, things may not have turned out as well as they seemed to.
The party, well, really more of a low-key get together, went well. Dick was hugged and kissed by the girls and his back was slapped buy the young men. It was a rite of passage for all of them, the first of their crowd leaving to start out on his own and a few of them envied him leaving a month early. Most of his friends would be going on to college and university as well and they knew, as did every group of high school kids the summer before college, that it was just a matter of time before it would be their turn and then things would change.
Two days later, Bonnie drove Dick to the airport, dropping him at the curb as he'd asked, hugged him, kissed him, told him to be careful and to be sure to call every week then drove away, watching him in the rearview as she left to go back to a now too big and too quiet house and glad that she'd be moving next week.
When the plane landed in San Francisco, Jim Barbera met Dick at the baggage claim as they'd arranged. Jim really did like to look after his boys, as he thought of them, feeling paternal towards the kids who were often away from their homes and long time coaches for the first time. This Porter kid—or was it Grayson? He'd have to ask about that—seemed pretty self sufficient compared to some of the others and he was glad to see that. Most of the boys were at a loss as to how to even do their own laundry and to find one who had actually helped support the family, well, it made a nice change from constant hand holding. Unless he missed his guess—which he rarely did—this one would be team captain in a couple of years and should probably plan on a couple of Olympics in his future as well.
He shook Dick's hand, welcomed him back and congratulated him on his success at the Nationals two months before. "I knew you were going to do it—and you were robbed in the all-around. When you compete for us this year, I'll fight for that kind of thing. Taking a tenth off because of a form break on that release? That was politics, pure and simple—but I guess you knew that at the time, right?"
Dick shrugged and smiled, embarrassed. He wasn't used to praise like this and from someone who he actually respected. Sergei wasn't one to say anything and God knew Bruce wouldn't open his mouth for a 'well done'. His real father had been good about that sort of thing and Dick used to love the 'good job, son' he'd get after a clean catch or the 'nice one' he'd hear from Andy—even if the man didn't really know what he was looking at. Mr. Barbera seemed like he'd be alright, though. He really did.
Dick and Mitch, who had beaten him to the dorm by a day, got along easily and there was almost no friction, thank God. They had a lot of the same tastes in music and even had a similar level of tolerance for mess. The place wasn't what you'd call antiseptic, but it wasn't a sty, either. It seemed to reach a median level they were both comfortable with.
They were also both smart and both determined to get both good grades and to excel in the gym—not an easy thing at Stanford. Between classes and their five and six days a week workouts, they didn't have either the time nor the inclination for much socialization and when the inevitable invitations to look over the frats came in, they both ignored them.
Dick was taking a relatively general course load made up of mainly requirements—history, English, math, philosophy. The professors were all good ones and expected the students to show up and do all the work and have it done on time. It wasn't an easy first quarter (Stanford is on a quarter system instead of semesters; fall, winter, spring and summer.), and there were times when he wasn't sure he'd done the right thing in agreeing to this tough a school. The course load was heavy enough and when you added three or four hours a day of hard workout, he was exhausted. Of course, they all were—it seemed to be status quo for all the athletic teams, none of which seemed to have too many dumb jocks on them.
But—Dick was keeping his head above water so far, was making progress in his gymnastics, was making friends on the team and was doing alright with his grades.
One night he was walking back to the dorm from a research trip to the library and it occurred to him, it sort of struck him—he was happy. Well, maybe 'happy' was too big a word, but he was certainly content. God was in his Heaven and all was right with the world.
Things were looking pretty good and when he saw a poster on the bulletin board at the student center advertising Haley's circus doing a three day date in San Francisco a week before Thanksgiving he talked a couple of the guys on the team into giving him a ride into the city.
He asked them—mainly to be polite—if they wanted to see the show and wasn't disappointed when they said they'd rather just hit some bars and get a good dinner before seeing what entertainment they could scare up. They'd pick him up around midnight and if there was a problem they all had each other's cell phone numbers.
Making his way around to the backstage area and having to explain several times to some newbie security guy who he was and why he was there, he knocked on Pop's trailer door.
"Dickie! Get yourself in here, boy! My God, look at you standing there, you must be, what? A six-footer now? You still able to make the tuck for the flips with those long legs, are you?" He was hugging Dick and getting hugged back, hard.
"I'll show you after the performance tonight if you want." He leaned back to look at his surrogate grandfather, not liking what he saw. Pop looked—old. "How are you doing? You alright?"
"You know me, this place keeps me young. You keeping your ears clean at that fancy school of yours? Your grades up where they're supposed to be?" He cleared some clothes off a chair so Dick could sit down, taking the edge of the bed himself. The place looked and smelled exactly like Dick remembered from when he was eight.
"I'm good, you don't have to worry about me, you know that."
"I've been worrying about you since before you were born and I don't see any reason to stop now. You putting in enough practice time for that team you're on, are you?"
"It's good, Pop. I won two events at a meet last week against UCLA and I'm sticking the quad off the high bar just about every time I throw it."
"Like your dad. I know you. Just like I knew you'd end up doing something more than carny work. You were always too smart to stay here. Even if your parents were still flying, you'da been gone when you got old enough, just like you're gone from that nice couple that took you in." He saw the look on Dick's face. "Something go bad there?"
"Andy was killed a couple of years ago in a car wreck. It was kinda hard, y'know? Took me a while to deal with it."
Losing three parents in seven or eight years? Yeah, that could throw you for a loop. "...You okay now?"
"Yeah, I'm good now. I'm happy now."
"That's what I like to hear and Dickie? You know I'm here for you, right? You always know that, don't you?"
The visit went on for a couple of hours then they went across the field to see the second part of the show, the part with the flyers. "They're good, but they're not as good as you and your parents were."
They watched the show, Dick was hugged and exclaimed over by the old timers and introduced to the new acts who were nice enough to say they'd heard of the Flying Grayson and they weren't even lying. The Flying Graysons were legends in their world and they really were honored to meet the survivor. They even promised to follow his meets when they could. He'd be surprised—they had computers now and they could look up results. They'd be looking for him.
Dick and Pop sauntered over to the main gate, the crowds now gone home till next time. Dick's friends were waiting for him.
"You keep in touch, you hear me?"
"I will, Pop—you take care of yourself, alright?" A final hug and he got back into the car. They all had an early workout the next day.
God, he missed this. He missed everything about it; the smells, the crowds, the sounds, the adrenalin rush before you're announced, the applause, even the crappy food. He missed the family, the easy friendship and acceptance and he missed his—home.
And it was gone for him and he knew that. Even if he came back somehow, it wouldn't be the same. His parents wouldn't be there and their trailer was wrecked in a fire five years after another act took it over. It was like when people knock on a door, telling the stranger who answers that they'd grown up in this house and could they look around, but the walls are all painted different colors and the furniture isn't the same and it's no longer yours.
"You grew up in a circus? How cool was that?"
"It was pretty cool, Steve."
"Damn."
Thanksgiving Dick was invited home with Mitch, his father flying down from Nebraska in his Piper to pick up both boys. It turned out Mitch's dad ("Call me George.") was another old gymnast who had passed the love of the sport on to his son. In fact he had met Mitch's mother when they were both at some regional meet about twenty-five years before. Both their kids, Mitch and his younger sister competed and both did reasonably well though neither of them was in Dick's league. What looked like a barn from the outside was actually a pretty well equipped gym and the entire family spent most of Friday out there seeing what the two boys had learned at school—all of them impressed by Dick's overall ability and the quad in particular and George wanting to know when his son was going to nail that—it was a damn fine move and the fact that there were only two people in the world who could do it seemed to cut no ice. "It he can do it, you can do it, now, no excuses—you get your ass to work."
Dick knew what pressure was, but he was glad he'd avoided the parental side of it for the most part—well, mostly, anyway.
The next week, back in Palo Alto the routine of gym, classes and back to the gym continued.
Dick dutifully called Bonnie every week and he was glad to hear that her new job at the high school seemed to be going well. It was more money than she'd been making at the private school and she'd found a condo she told him was a really nice one, well built and solid. A contractor's wife would notice these things. He'd like it when he saw it.
During an afternoon practice about two weeks after the Thanksgiving break, Dick had just finished some pommel work, which he hated, and saw that the vaulting table was almost clear, no line.
Good. He needed to refine his Tsukahara and his Yurchenko had been a little shaky at the last meet. He could usually do them no problem, but lately they'd been giving him a little trouble and it was just one of those things that happened now and then. You learn a skill, master it, do it fine for years and then for some reason it slips for a while. Happens to everyone. He could work through it. He lined up his mark, started his run, hit the spring board at the right angle, pushed off from the table, twisting and spinning in two directions at the same time, his inner gyro working perfectly—straightened out, reached for the ground and stuck, bouncing a few feet forward on the landing. Not good. He walked back up the runway and moved his start mark a few feet. Made the run, the jump, the spring, the push off, spinning and this time no bounce.
Damn, that felt good.
He walked back up the mat and did it again. And again. And again. After the twentieth try he thought he had the Tsuk back. At least he was feeling a lot better about the thing. A few more days and he'd have it nailed again.
Now he'd try working on the Yurchenko.
He found his mark for the run up, hit the springboard at the right angle.
The thing with a vault is that it's so fast there's no time to correct a mistake. A vault only lasts maybe two seconds. There's no real time to change anything once you're airborne, your body moves with muscle memory, practicing a move so many times until it becomes automatic—until it's ingrained in and you almost just go along for the ride.
He hit the vaulting table and felt his hand slip a fraction of an inch when he planted for the push off. Later he wondered about that, why it happened. Maybe he had a little sweat on his hand, maybe he was tired from the practice, and maybe he just screwed it up.
He came off the table committed to the vault, the twists and the landing but the weak push off didn't give him enough flight and he landed too low. His right leg jammed into the mat and they heard the snap across the gym.
The others turned to stare at the sound then moved to him quickly. Jim Barbera ran over, calling 911 on his cell phone as soon as he saw the bones sticking out of Dick's leg and the blood spreading on the mat.
The ambulance arrived inside of five minutes and Dick was vaguely aware of someone saying it would be easier to get the stretcher in through the side door so pull the ambulance around. He was taken to the Stanford University Medical Center. It was the closest.
It took three operations to put his leg back together. The compound fracture was a bad one that had not only taken out both the tibia and the fibula, but had torn ligaments and tendons, as well. There was nerve damage and veins were injured. The cartilage around his knee was torn.
Dick was kept in the hospital for over two weeks due to severe swelling that caused further damage and then he was deemed too fragile to fly back home just yet. He was sent to stay in the Stanford Infirmary and could only get around—when he was allowed out at all, in a wheel chair with his leg and cast elevated.
His professors said he would have to either accept a medical incomplete or take his finals on material he'd missed for three weeks.
He took the incompletes.
He was put on painkillers, despite his telling the doctors he couldn't take drugs—he couldn't risk taking them again, he was a recovering addict. He'd rather gut through the pain.
He made it home for New Year's after Christmas was spent at Jim Barbera's home. The coach's home was a ranch and so had no stairs. It was the easiest place for him to get himself around in his chair or occasionally on crutches. Kind though it was of the Jim to offer the use of the guest room, but they both knew it wasn't where either of them wanted him to be. He was antsy and, though he tried hard to be polite, the fact was that he was angry and scared.
Just before New Year's and almost a month after the accident, Dick was finally allowed to board a plane east. He was given three seats together and his leg was kept elevated the entire flight. Bonnie picked him up in Sergei's van, borrowed for the occasion, so he could stretch out.
Because of the full flight of stairs in Bonnie's new condo—which Dick agreed was very nice—he was set up in the living room, sleeping on an inflatable mattress bought for his use. A couple of his old friends were around for the tail end of Christmas break and they stopped by, bringing Chinese food and beer one evening. It was a nice break and Dick was sorry when the two of them had to go back to their respective schools a few days later. Christian and Sarah were solid now and Dick didn't mind seeing them hanging on each other. Christian told him, when Sarah was in the bathroom, that he was going to ask her to marry him on Valentine's Day and would Dick be his best man?
Sure, he'd be glad to. Hey, why not?
Within a week everyone else had also left and Dick had little to do with his time besides the daily PT, watching movies or reading.
Another week went by with Dick making trips to orthopedists and physical therapists. They all told him how lucky he was to have the medical attention he did. His leg was healing incredibly quickly considering the extent of the damage and he should be able to graduate to a walking cast in another six weeks or so. He was doing very well.
One day he called Bruce, getting Alfred. "Hey Alf, I'm back for a while and I was wondering if maybe we could pick up some of the things we were doing together before I left. Do you think he'd be open to that?"
"I really can't speak for the master, you know better than that, young man. I shall speak to him with your suggestion when he returns, if you wish."
"He's away? When do you think he'll be back?"
"Mister Wayne is expected back from Asia in three weeks."
"...Yeah, okay. Would you tell him I called?"
"Of course. Is there anything else?"
"No, that was it."
"Good day."
One afternoon at the end of January Jim Barbera called.
"Dick? How are you doing? How's the leg coming?"
"It's coming. Slow, you know. How are things out there?"
"Mark finally landed the triple last week and Mitch is starting to stick the Tsuk after you gave him those pointers."
"Great."
"...Dick, have you heard if you'll be able to get back to school this quarter?"
The point of the call. Of course. "It doesn't look like it, no. I just started PT five times a week and I don't know how long that's going to run. It's going to be a while."
There was an awkward pause. "Look, son. I'm going to have to release your scholarship money to other students. It's against the school rules to let you keep an athletic scholarship if you're unable to compete for the foreseeable future. I hate to do this—you know that, but I simply have no choice."
"Well, could I coach or something? I've been coaching since I was like fifteen."
"I wish you could, but it just doesn't work that way. Look, you get that leg all fixed up good as new and you come back—you know you're the best thing we had on the team. Hell, I had you earmarked for team captain by the time you were a junior. You can still do it, you just have to work."
Shit.
Fuck.
"Yeah, sure. I'll keep you up on how I'm doing, alright?"
"Absolutely. I'll call you, and Dick? The rest of the boys all want me to tell you they're thinking about you. They're dedicating the season to you—did you know that?"
"I—no. I hadn't heard. Tell them thanks for me."
"You bet. Get better now, okay?"
"Yeah, Mr. Barbera. Thanks. I'll see you around."
Yeah, sure. So much for that.
Damn, his leg was aching today.
He picked up the phone again, getting an answering machine. "Hi, you reached Donna. Sorry I can't come to the phone, but I'm either washing my hair or will probably be back in a while. Leave a message, okay?" He hung up at the beep.
He checked the clock; he wasn't supposed to have another pain pill for two hours. Shit. It was hurting like a bitch—maybe it he took half a dosage it would help. It was worth the try, anyway. That's what he'd do. It had to take the edge off, even if it didn't kill the pain completely. Maneuvering his crutches to get himself into the kitchen, he took one of the small white pills, washing it down with a glass of tap water.
It should start helping in a little while and he'd still be able to take his regular dosage with dinner.
An hour later Bonnie called.
"Honey? I'm sorry, but I have to stay late this afternoon. I've been drafted to help with the senior class play and they're looking at scripts this afternoon—we have to make a decision today and it's between 'Diary of a Mad Housewife', 'Wit', and 'The Vagina Monologues'. This could take a while so I'll stop for food on the way back—any preferences?"
"No, anything you want is good."
"Dick, sweetie, are you alright? Is your leg hurting you?"
"No, I'm fine. I was just going to take a nap."
"Well, that sounds like a good idea, why don't you do that? I'll be home as soon as I can."
Great.
Shit.
He put a DVD in—'Twenty-eight Days', talk about your dumb movie. Halfway through it he heard the doorbell.
"Come in." He yelled. He had to. He wasn't about to haul himself up just to answer the stupid door.
The door opened and closed with a cold draft. "Who's there?"
Alex, one of his old high school friends walked into the living room. "Shit, man, I'd heard you really racked yourself up—that looks like it sucks."
"Yeah, well, pretty much, yeah it does. So get yourself a beer or something then sit down, what are you doing—you in school or working?"
Alex answered from the kitchen. "Hanging, working over at K-mart."
"K-mart? Christ, Alex, talk about sucking."
He sat on the end of the couch, beer in hand and gave the second one he was carrying to Dick. "Yeah, pretty much. So what's the deal? You going back to school when that heals?"
"...I doubt it. It's pretty much fucked as far as anything high level goes; I'll be able to walk, maybe with a limp, but it's screwed for much more than that. No athletics, no athletic scholarship and that hot shit trust fund from my parents? They invested in Enron. Enough said there. No money, no school."
"What about getting a regular scholarship or a loan or something? You're still smart."
"Fuck it."
"Sucks, man." He regarded Dick for a long moment. "Your mom here?"
"She'll be home in a couple of hours, I guess. Why? You have ideas?"
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Alex pulled out the vial, tapped a few lines on a piece of paper and smiled at Dick.
Dick gave him a half smile in return and reached for the small straw Alex handed him. "You have a lot of that?"
"Yep."
"Good."
The End
10/27/04
15