selling jewelry. So much for the professor. His day hadn’t gone well, and Lydia spent some time comforting him. Meanwhile, Monica and Janeane talked about Janeane’s job at the Colonization Authority, which had a processing station in Newark. She was, from what little Michael could tell, a bureaucrat of some minor importance. Monica was apparently unemployed, as were Lydia and Jane. He had no idea what Shawn did.
During the meal, Michael did his best to keep the distressing images of fire out of his mind. He focused on Janeane, just because her possibilities were so impossibly calm .
He had never met anyone who had nothing of sorrow in their future. Just an endless ocean…bobbing peacefully…then nothing. All her paths led there—in fact, they started there, too. It was as if she had no paths at all...or Michael simply couldn’t read her. But that was impossible. He had never met anyone who was unreadable.
When dinner ended, he retreated to his room, remembering to thank Lydia for the meal before he went. He lay down on his bed and found himself dozing off.
—Fire…
—The house burned around them. He could hear Andrew shouting, panicked, as he searched for Lydia. Shawn banged on a door, only to find it barred shut from outside. The mob chanted, only barely audible over the roar of the flames. Monica sat on the floor with Jane in her arms as they waited for death. "My fault!" Jane wailed.
—Janeane floated on the ocean, far, far away…
Far away…
Bob up and down, the water cool and refreshing…
A brilliant blue sky… no clouds, no worries… far away… her family was dying. But Janeane was safe. Janeane would always be safe. She carried them in her heart, though she couldn't carry them with her. She carried them safe to shore.
A knock on the door. Michael sprang awake. The house still stood.
"Michael?" It was Janeane. Of course. He opened the door and let her in. "Well. I like what you’ve done with the place," she said.
"I haven’t done anything," Michael protested.
"That’s what I like. Mind if I sit?"
"Go ahead."
She pulled the chair away from the beat-up desk, and sat down in it. The beauty and peace of her possibilities overwhelmed Michael. Janeane smiled lightly, her soft features blending into the endless sea of her future…
"You were staring at me during dinner," she said, her voice like shimmering, sun-soaked water. "Kind of like you’re staring at me now."
"Oh? Uh." Michael shook his head. "Sorry. It isn’t what you think." Or was it? She was beautiful. He hadn’t ever met a woman he found really beautiful, not in this way.
"It isn’t? That’s too bad. Although you’re a little young. How old are you?"
"F-fourteen," he stammered, forgetting to lie.
"Thought so. Andrew said you were older." Her grin sparkled against her dark cheek. "So what’s your story?"
"I…" he began. "I… uh… I’m an artist…"
She laughed. It was the most remarkable sound he’d ever heard, the sound of crashing waves and delicate windchimes in the ocean breeze. "Sure you are. Tell me true. Where are you, a bum, and a baby who doesn’t belong to either of you going? Why are you on the run from the bully boys?"
He leveled his gaze at her. "Janeane… tell me about the sea."
"You first," she admonished him lightly.
Flustered, he looked at the floor. "You won’t believe it. But…"
"Yes?" She waited expectantly, like a goddess perched on the throne of eternity.
"I see people’s futures. Things that could possibly happen to them."
She arched an eyebrow. "A fortune teller?"
"No!" he laughed. "Well, not really. What I see is real."
Janeane shrugged. "My aunt Clara was a fortune teller. She saw all kinds of stuff. Some of it came true, some of it almost came true. You know? Are you like her? Special ?" The word dripped with meaning.
Michael nodded. He was sweating. Time seemed to be slowing to a crawl all around him. He thought of lies and evasions, but none of them made it to
During the meal, Michael did his best to keep the distressing images of fire out of his mind. He focused on Janeane, just because her possibilities were so impossibly calm .
He had never met anyone who had nothing of sorrow in their future. Just an endless ocean…bobbing peacefully…then nothing. All her paths led there—in fact, they started there, too. It was as if she had no paths at all...or Michael simply couldn’t read her. But that was impossible. He had never met anyone who was unreadable.
When dinner ended, he retreated to his room, remembering to thank Lydia for the meal before he went. He lay down on his bed and found himself dozing off.
—Fire…
—The house burned around them. He could hear Andrew shouting, panicked, as he searched for Lydia. Shawn banged on a door, only to find it barred shut from outside. The mob chanted, only barely audible over the roar of the flames. Monica sat on the floor with Jane in her arms as they waited for death. "My fault!" Jane wailed.
—Janeane floated on the ocean, far, far away…
Far away…
Bob up and down, the water cool and refreshing…
A brilliant blue sky… no clouds, no worries… far away… her family was dying. But Janeane was safe. Janeane would always be safe. She carried them in her heart, though she couldn't carry them with her. She carried them safe to shore.
A knock on the door. Michael sprang awake. The house still stood.
"Michael?" It was Janeane. Of course. He opened the door and let her in. "Well. I like what you’ve done with the place," she said.
"I haven’t done anything," Michael protested.
"That’s what I like. Mind if I sit?"
"Go ahead."
She pulled the chair away from the beat-up desk, and sat down in it. The beauty and peace of her possibilities overwhelmed Michael. Janeane smiled lightly, her soft features blending into the endless sea of her future…
"You were staring at me during dinner," she said, her voice like shimmering, sun-soaked water. "Kind of like you’re staring at me now."
"Oh? Uh." Michael shook his head. "Sorry. It isn’t what you think." Or was it? She was beautiful. He hadn’t ever met a woman he found really beautiful, not in this way.
"It isn’t? That’s too bad. Although you’re a little young. How old are you?"
"F-fourteen," he stammered, forgetting to lie.
"Thought so. Andrew said you were older." Her grin sparkled against her dark cheek. "So what’s your story?"
"I…" he began. "I… uh… I’m an artist…"
She laughed. It was the most remarkable sound he’d ever heard, the sound of crashing waves and delicate windchimes in the ocean breeze. "Sure you are. Tell me true. Where are you, a bum, and a baby who doesn’t belong to either of you going? Why are you on the run from the bully boys?"
He leveled his gaze at her. "Janeane… tell me about the sea."
"You first," she admonished him lightly.
Flustered, he looked at the floor. "You won’t believe it. But…"
"Yes?" She waited expectantly, like a goddess perched on the throne of eternity.
"I see people’s futures. Things that could possibly happen to them."
She arched an eyebrow. "A fortune teller?"
"No!" he laughed. "Well, not really. What I see is real."
Janeane shrugged. "My aunt Clara was a fortune teller. She saw all kinds of stuff. Some of it came true, some of it almost came true. You know? Are you like her? Special ?" The word dripped with meaning.
Michael nodded. He was sweating. Time seemed to be slowing to a crawl all around him. He thought of lies and evasions, but none of them made it to
Similar Books
