trouble for sure. Y’all are just kids. Maybe I’d help if y’told me the truth. But if all y’got for me is the magical niche, there’s the door.” He pointed to it.
“Stop it,” Sarah cried. “Stop it. I knew you wouldn’t help.” Brandon tried to calm her, but she pushed him away and buried her face in the couch.
Surprising himself, Brandon struggled to get his arms around Sarah. He finally succeeded. “Nice going,” he said bitterly to Quint. “We were counting on you.”
“I’ll help y’all,” Quint told him. “Just tell me the truth .”
At that moment Stephen sat bolt upright. He opened the Twentieth Century Digest and paged to an entry. He read for several seconds and then checked his watch. Finally, he leaped to his feet with the book and yelled, “YESSS!”
Quint stepped back and nearly fell over his orange crate. Brandon stared wildly at Stephen. Even Sarah forgot herself and turned around.
“November 9, 1965,” Stephen exclaimed. “It’s in the Digest .” His watch beeped again. “Four o’clock! It happens in sixteen minutes.”
“What does?” Brandon asked.
“The Northeast Blackout.”
Quint kicked the orange crate across the room and said, “What the hell is the Northeast Black—”
“A power failure,” Stephen told him. “On November 9, 1965, there was—is—a power failure in the northeastern United States. My grandfather told me about it. He got stuck in an elevator in Manhattan for six hours because of it.”
“It happens in a few minutes?” Brandon asked.
“It happens at 5:16 p.m. New York time,” Stephen said breathlessly. “That’s 4:16 p.m. New Orleans time. That’s in sixteen minutes.”
“The whole Northeast of the country loses power?” Quint scoffed. “That’s as crazy as your niche story.”
Stephen thrust the Digest into his hands and pointed to the entry. “Read this,” he said. “In sixteen minutes the TV’ll start talking about it. When the news matches what the book says, you’ll know we’re for real.”
Quint muttered something Brandon didn’t catch, but he read the entry. “It’s science fiction,” he said when finished. “Where’d y’get this damn book, a novelty store?”
“Can we watch TV?” Brandon asked.
“Be my guest.” Quint went to the television and switched it on.
Brandon waited. “Is it broken?” he asked.
“It’s warmin’ up,” Quint snapped. “Don’t TVs warm up in 2005?”
“It’s slow because of the vacuum tubes,” Stephen said. “They just don’t have good electronics yet.” He glanced at Quint. “Sorry, sir.”
Finally the TV warmed up. The snowy black-and-white picture showed Bozo the Clown waving his arms and singing to an audience of little kids. Quint, Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched and waited.
“I thought just old movies came in black-and-white,” Brandon said.
“Old TV shows, too,” Stephen said. He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe what they watch?”
Brandon smirked. “Why’s the picture so lousy?”
“It’s probably pulled in by an antenna on the roof,” Stephen said. “I don’t think they have cable yet. And they sure don’t have satellite.”
“No cable, no color, stupid shows, and no remote,” Brandon said, forgetting himself. He looked at Quint in amazement. “Do you really get up every time to change the channel?”
“It hasn’t killed me yet, Brandon,” Quint told him.
Brandon flinched as if he’d been struck in the face. “It’s ‘B’,” he said hotly. “Only my parents call me Brandon. And my teachers. You’ve always called me B.” He looked back at the TV.
Taken aback, Quint started to say something, but then a test pattern bumped Bozo off the TV.
Stephen checked his watch. “4:16 p.m.”
Brandon took a seat on the floor next to the TV. He turned the channel knob until the word BULLETIN filled the screen.
“ . . . problem with transmission from our sister station in New York,” the voiceover said. “The cause of
“Stop it,” Sarah cried. “Stop it. I knew you wouldn’t help.” Brandon tried to calm her, but she pushed him away and buried her face in the couch.
Surprising himself, Brandon struggled to get his arms around Sarah. He finally succeeded. “Nice going,” he said bitterly to Quint. “We were counting on you.”
“I’ll help y’all,” Quint told him. “Just tell me the truth .”
At that moment Stephen sat bolt upright. He opened the Twentieth Century Digest and paged to an entry. He read for several seconds and then checked his watch. Finally, he leaped to his feet with the book and yelled, “YESSS!”
Quint stepped back and nearly fell over his orange crate. Brandon stared wildly at Stephen. Even Sarah forgot herself and turned around.
“November 9, 1965,” Stephen exclaimed. “It’s in the Digest .” His watch beeped again. “Four o’clock! It happens in sixteen minutes.”
“What does?” Brandon asked.
“The Northeast Blackout.”
Quint kicked the orange crate across the room and said, “What the hell is the Northeast Black—”
“A power failure,” Stephen told him. “On November 9, 1965, there was—is—a power failure in the northeastern United States. My grandfather told me about it. He got stuck in an elevator in Manhattan for six hours because of it.”
“It happens in a few minutes?” Brandon asked.
“It happens at 5:16 p.m. New York time,” Stephen said breathlessly. “That’s 4:16 p.m. New Orleans time. That’s in sixteen minutes.”
“The whole Northeast of the country loses power?” Quint scoffed. “That’s as crazy as your niche story.”
Stephen thrust the Digest into his hands and pointed to the entry. “Read this,” he said. “In sixteen minutes the TV’ll start talking about it. When the news matches what the book says, you’ll know we’re for real.”
Quint muttered something Brandon didn’t catch, but he read the entry. “It’s science fiction,” he said when finished. “Where’d y’get this damn book, a novelty store?”
“Can we watch TV?” Brandon asked.
“Be my guest.” Quint went to the television and switched it on.
Brandon waited. “Is it broken?” he asked.
“It’s warmin’ up,” Quint snapped. “Don’t TVs warm up in 2005?”
“It’s slow because of the vacuum tubes,” Stephen said. “They just don’t have good electronics yet.” He glanced at Quint. “Sorry, sir.”
Finally the TV warmed up. The snowy black-and-white picture showed Bozo the Clown waving his arms and singing to an audience of little kids. Quint, Brandon, Stephen, and Sarah watched and waited.
“I thought just old movies came in black-and-white,” Brandon said.
“Old TV shows, too,” Stephen said. He rolled his eyes. “Can you believe what they watch?”
Brandon smirked. “Why’s the picture so lousy?”
“It’s probably pulled in by an antenna on the roof,” Stephen said. “I don’t think they have cable yet. And they sure don’t have satellite.”
“No cable, no color, stupid shows, and no remote,” Brandon said, forgetting himself. He looked at Quint in amazement. “Do you really get up every time to change the channel?”
“It hasn’t killed me yet, Brandon,” Quint told him.
Brandon flinched as if he’d been struck in the face. “It’s ‘B’,” he said hotly. “Only my parents call me Brandon. And my teachers. You’ve always called me B.” He looked back at the TV.
Taken aback, Quint started to say something, but then a test pattern bumped Bozo off the TV.
Stephen checked his watch. “4:16 p.m.”
Brandon took a seat on the floor next to the TV. He turned the channel knob until the word BULLETIN filled the screen.
“ . . . problem with transmission from our sister station in New York,” the voiceover said. “The cause of
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