Chapter Four

Dark and smoke-smelling places are not the most pleasant to wake up to, but Runner sensed with his squirrely, high-strung nerves that he was in a high place closer to light and fresh air. That was a plus as far as he could tell, though even his thoughts came slowly. A concerned face swam into view over him…it was the mouse from the tunnels. She was pretty. Short, but pretty. And so tired, she looked so…hurt. The look she was giving him made him feel distinctly like a machine with an important gear loose, and that disturbed him because he sensed he was making a guess that was too good. His head felt twice normal size, and when he tried to speak it was like shaking marshmallows out of a bag with a hole that wasn't big enough.

Artwork by Keith Elder

"Gllmrg…" he ventured, trying to raise an arm that felt like it was on fire. The pretty mouse with the yellow hair held the arm down and Runner decided she knew what she was doing. He played smart and stayed still, Gadget—ah, that was her name, though it came slow like everything else—Gadget, speaking far-off and relieved words at him.

"Runner…you had a nasty bump on your head. You—I hurt your leg, too. Getting out, I knocked rocks loose."

He began to nod in understanding, and wished he hadn't. The world went red and then a bit clearer than it had been before. He looked around at the ruin of the Rescue Rangers' hideout, decided it looked like a garage sale in Hell, and focused back on Gadget. Something unpleasant came to his mind all at once, and he had to say it. "We…didn' all megg it oudt."

Gadget shook her head sadly, brushing his fur gently and making soothing sounds. Runner squinted his eyes and thought about his parents, knowing they were a part of the 'we' that…wasn't. He began to cry, and Gadget covered him with her arms, poor comfort but all she could give. The world went away again for a while, as Runner let the tears and his still-exhausted muscles take over.

At least he was sleeping naturally now, reflected Gadget, and watched the rise and fall of the young squirrel's breath, catching now and then with sorrow even in his slumber. Gadget suspected she'd done all she could for him alone—the dressing on his head was clumsy but all she could manage with her mangled paws, and the splint on his leg was better than she'd hoped for. She looked down at her fellow survivor and tried to decide how she felt about him.

"Motherly" wasn't the word. Runner's quick thinking and quicker reflexes had bought them both precious time in the tunnels. No—if anything, Gadget felt that short and frantic dash they'd shared below the earth qualified her more as a new friend; maybe in time a proud sister. She was short enough on friends at the moment, and she'd be honored to call the brave young animal one. He didn't need mothering from her.

Where was that doctor, anyway? The Rescue Aid society was big, well-connected, even powerful in its way, but Gadget feared that mountains of paperwork were holding up the help they desperately needed. She was at the bare end of her strength, and her paws would be even worse off when the rest of the feeling came back. "Screw the paperwork," she fumed, tugging gingerly at the dressings on her paws, already soaked through with blood. "Just send us a live body with credentials." She couldn't remember anyone or anything scratching her right shoulder, but three long red streaks oozed through the unripped fabric of her shirt. Somewhere along the line, she'd changed clothes, but couldn't say just when about that, either.

Gadget slumped to the floor beside Chip and Dale's bunkbed, where Runner slept in fits and starts. She felt like screaming, for plenty of reasons, but knew that her new friend needed all the rest he could get. If she was going to go nuts, she'd have to do it quietly. Her eyes darted around the room, memories of happier times flitting around the place like ghosts—

--something caught Gadget's eye. She'd never looked under the bunkbed (she usually steered clear of it altogether, remembering a close call or two)—something was under it! Ignoring the pain in her paws as best she could, she threw herself flat and wiggled every inch of herself under to reach it—a box, with a thick piece of twine wrapped around it. Only two creatures on earth could have opened it without scissors, and Gadget was the only living one. She fumbled the box out into the light, her paws throbbing, and whistled in surprise. Though Dale was cluttered and haphazard in so many other things, he did know his knots. Once, on a bet, he'd tied Gadget's hair back with one of his cunning specialties—a week later, shamefaced, she'd slunk back to him to have him untie it. Dale hadn't gloated or made fun; he'd taken the knot off gently and taught her the secret. At that moment, she wouldn't have minded his undoing a few other things, but her lost bet had only ended up costing her a kiss she didn't mind at all.

The box she held was Dale's, for sure.

At every tug of the twine as she loosened it, she felt as if she were rubbing out a mark Dale had made on the world. It hurt, and not just physically, but she had to know what he had hidden away. She slid the last loop off the box, the knot still intact. On a hunch she'd check later, she stuffed it into a pocket.

The object of more pressing interest lay open on her lap. Gadget sifted through the contents, heart breaking at every well-worn comic book and crumbling fall leaf. Rubber bands, strange rocks, and bits of wire; the treasures of a good and gentle soul.

And the envelope.

Gadget didn't want to unseal it, even though it bore—well, what Dale had intended to be her name—'GADJIT' written out in block letters. "What on earth were you up to, Dale?" she murmured.

Retrieving her pocketknife with shaking paws, she prayed for a steady cut. She was already getting blood on the envelope from her aching paws, and the last thing she needed now was a self-inflicted knife wound. She slit the envelope open and pulled out a single worn piece of paper.

Tattered, crossed-out, rewritten over and over, the writing was peppered with more misspelled words than normal, even for Dale. From the spidery scrawl and the tone of the words, Gadget could tell dale had been uncommonly nervous while picking away at it. She'd never seen him work on it, so it must have been a very secret thing—and it was one of the biggest shocks she'd ever had.

It was mostly a list of things Dale loved about her—she made a fist and bit it, trying to keep the tears back. It didn't help. She sobbed as she read how much her courage, creativity, and kindness had meant to him. As a friend, she'd brought great joy to his life, but he wanted to do and be so much more for her—

She put the paper aside and slumped to the floor, shell-shocked, but managed to feel around the bottom of the envelope. Her paws found slippery purchase and she pulled the golden precious thing free.

Artwork by Keith Elder

Click here for Robert Knaus' version, here for Mel Drake's,

or here for Kevin Sharbaugh's.

She looked back to Dale's notes, which ended with a reminder to state his case next Saturday night. He never could remember to do anything without writing himself a note—

"Why now? Why did you get the courage now?!" cried Gadget, but choked it off as Runner turned and complained in his sleep. Gadget calmed, wiping away her tears with the note, then coming back to her senses and blowing the paper dry again. She traced over Dale's last heartfelt and bittersweet line—"Wil yu mary me?" Gadget's breath caught in her throat as she nodded slowly and wonderingly. "I would have said yes…" she whispered, and put the ring on her right paw, as widows do.

Button images by Keith Elder