Lightning

“”But all that trouble to shower, then get into wrinkled clothes?”

“When did you become such a fashion plate that you’re offended bf a few wrinkles?”

He grinned, got up from his chair, and pranced to the bathroom is he thought a hopeless fop might prance. “The king and queen would be shocked to see me such a mess.”

“We’ll make them put on blindfolds when they visit,” she said.

He returned from the bathroom in a minute. “There’s a dead bug in the toilet bowl. I think it’s a cockroach, but I’m not really

“Does the species matter? Will we be notifying next of kin?”

Chris laughed. God, she loved to hear him laugh. He said, “What should I do — flush him?”

“Unless you want to fish him out, put him in a matchbox, and bury him in the flowerbed outside.”

He laughed again. “Nope. Burial at sea.” In the bathroom, he hummed “Taps,” then flushed the John.

While the boy was showering, Get Smart ended and a movie on. The Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan’s Island. Laura was not actually watching the set; she left it on for background, but there were limits to what even a woman on the lam could endure, so she quickly switched to channel eleven and Hour Magazine.

She stared at her guardian for a while, but his unnatural slumber depressed her. From her chair she reached to the drapes a few times, parting them far enough to scan the motel’s parking lot, but no one on earth could know where she was; she was in no imminent danger. So she stared at the TV screen, uninterested in what it offered, until she was half hypnotized by it. The Hour Magazine host was interviewing a young actor who droned on about himself, not always making much sense, and after a while she was vaguely aware that he kept saying something about water, but now she was beginning to doze off, and his insistent talk of water was both mesmeric and annoying.

“Mom?”

She blinked, sat up, and saw Chris in the bathroom doorway. He’d just gotten out of the shower. His hair was damp, and he was dressed only in his briefs. The sight of his thin, boyish body—all ribs and elbows and knees—pulled at her heart, for he looked so innocent and vulnerable. He was so small and fragile that she wondered how she could ever protect him, and renewed fear rose in her.

“Mom, he’s talking,” Chris said, pointing to the man on the

bed. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s talking.” “Water,” her guardian said thickly. “Water.” She went quickly to the bed and bent over him. He was no longer comatose. He was trying to sit up, but he had no strength. His blue eyes were open, and although they were bloodshot, they focused on her, alert and observant. “Thirsty,” he said. She said, “Chris—”

He was already there with a glass of water from the bathroom. She sat on the bed beside her guardian, lifted his head, took the water from Chris, and helped the wounded man drink. She allowed him only small sips; she didn’t want him to choke. His lips were fever-chapped, and his tongue was coated with a white film, as if he had eaten ashes. He drank more than a third of a glass of water, then indicated that he’d had enough.

After she lowered his head to the pillow, she put a hand to his forehead. “Not so hot as he was.”

He rolled his head from side to side, trying to look at the room. In spite of the water, his voice was dry, burnt out. “Where are we?” he said.

“Safe,” she said.

“Nowhere is safe.”

“We may have figured out more of this crazy situation than you realize,” she told him.

“Yeah,” Chris said, sitting on the bed beside his mother. “We know you’re a time traveler!”

The man looked at the boy, managed a weak smile, winced in pain.

“I’ve got drugs,” Laura said. “A painkiller.”

“No,” he said. “Not now. Later maybe. More water?” Laura lifted him once more, and this time he drank most of what remained in the glass. She remembered the penicillin and put a capsule between his teeth. He washed it down with the last two swallows.