time he scurried along, bending low against being seen and holding his jacket close against the wet cold.
It was about two-thirty when he got to Jackson Square. Traffic was non-existent this late (or should it be called early?) so he went onto the wide, tree-covered median and continued down its center among the shadows. Soon he was there.
For long minutes he stood, leaning against a tree, looking across the lane at the ground-level condo. He search for signs of activity through the windows of the only lit room. Were they even still living there? The curtains were closed. A dim vague shape of something was there. But he thought he would recognize the silhouette, if it was one of them.
So what if they are still here, he asked himself. Would they help him? Could they help him? Even if they did, it would be in violation of that damned law. Would they, anyway? Or, rather, would he help?
Fruitlessly he strained to see beyond the curtain. The light was steady, so the t-vid wasn't on. Probably the light was left on and the people were already in bed.
Concentrating, he tried to remember what Dad's sleeping habits were, wondering if they had changed: up late, up early. It wouldn't matter about the woman. She'd never consider seeing him. God, how she had screamed at him that last time.
He'd always felt closer to his father. Maybe it was contrary to what experts said, but John Hardy had never felt any real warmth from the woman that was his mother.
He kept staring at the window, willing for some movement to appear, for a figure to show so he could know if they were home. Still no detail from the shape. With mounting frustration, he left the doubtful security of the median and cautiously crossed the out-bound side of the street.
From the sidewalk he was only ten yards from the window. The shape was now clearly the back of a chair, and above it rose what seemed to be a person's head. But the image was too dim to be sure.
Then, to Hardy's astonishment, the 'head' grew into a familiar lithe form with various projections. It arched in the classic pose of a stretching cat. He could have laughed at how he had been fooled, but he truly wished it had been his father's head.
As John Hardy watched, a person's shadow bobbed onto the curtain, first large, blurred and indistinct, then condensed down into a sharpened form. That of a man.
His father?
The man picked up the cat, cradled it, then moved away from the window. A porch light blazed into existence.
Instantly Hardy ran to some bushes, away from the intruding and revealing brightness. Just as he slid behind the bush, he heard a door open. Peering through the branches, he saw his father set the cat down.
His voice drifted to Hardy's ears, but he spoke too low to catch the words. The cat rubbed against the man's legs. The voice was unmistakably his father's.
A little twig flipped off the one Hardy was holding, barely making any noise, but the cat was vigilant. It looked right at him, back hairs rising.
"What is it, Pete?" he heard his father say. The man glanced in his general direction, then turned back to the family cat. "What is it, boy?" James Hardy looked up the street, beyond the bushes, unable to see much because his eyes were dazzled by the bare bulb. "Must be those damned loose dogs, again. Well, you don't need to go out, boy." Reaching down to collect Pete, he said, "Come on. Let's go back in."
The door was pulled closed sharply, but John Hardy didn't rise from the bushes until the porch light went out. Then he stood, watching the apartment. Pete hopped up onto the chair back. Instead of settling, he pushed between the curtains, looking out the window to the left and right.
Hardy realized his old animal friend couldn't see him, but his resolve suddenly left. He started running, running back the way he had come. Back into the night and away to hide. It was the only thing to do.
It was about two-thirty when he got to Jackson Square. Traffic was non-existent this late (or should it be called early?) so he went onto the wide, tree-covered median and continued down its center among the shadows. Soon he was there.
For long minutes he stood, leaning against a tree, looking across the lane at the ground-level condo. He search for signs of activity through the windows of the only lit room. Were they even still living there? The curtains were closed. A dim vague shape of something was there. But he thought he would recognize the silhouette, if it was one of them.
So what if they are still here, he asked himself. Would they help him? Could they help him? Even if they did, it would be in violation of that damned law. Would they, anyway? Or, rather, would he help?
Fruitlessly he strained to see beyond the curtain. The light was steady, so the t-vid wasn't on. Probably the light was left on and the people were already in bed.
Concentrating, he tried to remember what Dad's sleeping habits were, wondering if they had changed: up late, up early. It wouldn't matter about the woman. She'd never consider seeing him. God, how she had screamed at him that last time.
He'd always felt closer to his father. Maybe it was contrary to what experts said, but John Hardy had never felt any real warmth from the woman that was his mother.
He kept staring at the window, willing for some movement to appear, for a figure to show so he could know if they were home. Still no detail from the shape. With mounting frustration, he left the doubtful security of the median and cautiously crossed the out-bound side of the street.
From the sidewalk he was only ten yards from the window. The shape was now clearly the back of a chair, and above it rose what seemed to be a person's head. But the image was too dim to be sure.
Then, to Hardy's astonishment, the 'head' grew into a familiar lithe form with various projections. It arched in the classic pose of a stretching cat. He could have laughed at how he had been fooled, but he truly wished it had been his father's head.
As John Hardy watched, a person's shadow bobbed onto the curtain, first large, blurred and indistinct, then condensed down into a sharpened form. That of a man.
His father?
The man picked up the cat, cradled it, then moved away from the window. A porch light blazed into existence.
Instantly Hardy ran to some bushes, away from the intruding and revealing brightness. Just as he slid behind the bush, he heard a door open. Peering through the branches, he saw his father set the cat down.
His voice drifted to Hardy's ears, but he spoke too low to catch the words. The cat rubbed against the man's legs. The voice was unmistakably his father's.
A little twig flipped off the one Hardy was holding, barely making any noise, but the cat was vigilant. It looked right at him, back hairs rising.
"What is it, Pete?" he heard his father say. The man glanced in his general direction, then turned back to the family cat. "What is it, boy?" James Hardy looked up the street, beyond the bushes, unable to see much because his eyes were dazzled by the bare bulb. "Must be those damned loose dogs, again. Well, you don't need to go out, boy." Reaching down to collect Pete, he said, "Come on. Let's go back in."
The door was pulled closed sharply, but John Hardy didn't rise from the bushes until the porch light went out. Then he stood, watching the apartment. Pete hopped up onto the chair back. Instead of settling, he pushed between the curtains, looking out the window to the left and right.
Hardy realized his old animal friend couldn't see him, but his resolve suddenly left. He started running, running back the way he had come. Back into the night and away to hide. It was the only thing to do.
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