Summer on the Moon by Adrian Fogelin Page A

freeway—speed limit 70—Socko was sure Damien’s prediction was going to come true. Delia drove a car the way he and Damien piloted the Hurtler.
    Socko twisted in his seat and watched the load. He didn’t trust the bungee cord job they’d done. With each lurching lane change he expected the sofa to go rogue and fly out of the trailer.
    “Why are ya slowing down?” Delia yelped.
    Socko whipped around. They’d be sitting in the backseat of the car in front of them if they got any closer—and they
were
getting closer! At the last second, Delia swung the Suburban into the next lane. Sockoswiveled in his seat as the sofa careened right.
    “Wide turns, wide turns,” Delia chanted. “Don’t roll the trailer.”
    They’d been going along fine for a few minutes—Delia had just said she was getting the hang of towing a trailer—when Socko caught sight of the airport sign coming up fast on the right. “Exit! Exit!”
    His mom cut across three lanes, hitting the exit just inches shy of the barrier. They were celebrating still being alive when the next set of signs appeared.
    Arrivals.
    Departures.
    Terminal Parking.
    “Which lane?” White-knuckled, Delia strangled the wheel.
    “Parking! Go for parking!”
    She swerved hard. They plunged into the dark hole called Parking. Just before hitting a wooden arm, Delia stomped the brake. “How can I park with
that
in the way?”
    “Ticket, Mom.”
    “Oh.” The machine next to her window spat out a ticket and she grabbed it.
    When they abandoned the car and trailer, the rig sat diagonally across four spaces.
    “My gosh, who knew an airport was so big?” Delia whispered as they walked from the glass-enclosed tube into the terminal.
    Unsure what to do next, they stalled. “How will we even find him?” Socko asked, watching a swarm of impatient travelers rush by.
    Delia threw herself on the mercy of a woman in a crisp white shirt at the Delta service desk. The woman leaned across the counter and pointed down the concourse. “You can meet your party at baggage claim, carousel six.”
    “I don’t think meeting an old man’s gonna be much of a party,” Socko mumbled as they walked away.
    “Don’t be such a smart-mouth. It
will
be a party. A family reunion!”
    Delia chewed off the last of her lipstick while they stood by the silent baggage carousel. “I was way younger than you last time I saw the General. It’s been so long.” She pulled a little mirror out of her purse. “Sheesh! Why didn’t you tell me my hair was going crazy?” She tried to pat down a hairdo that had been whipped by wind blasting through the open windows of the SUV but quickly gave up. “What if I don’t recognize him?” she asked, staring down the concourse.
    “What did he look like then?”
    “Big. And scary.”
    Socko surveyed his enormous mother. No matter how big General Starr was, she had to outweigh him. And no matter how scary he was, his mother had stood up to worse—dealing with the landlord when she didn’t have the rent, for instance, or convincing Mr. Donatelli to give them credit until she got paid.
    “Hopefully he’s mellowed,” she said softly. “Anyway, he’s old now. How scary can an eighty-eight-year-old man be?” Suddenly she pinched his arm. “You don’t think that’s him, do you? Nancy didn’t mention a wheelchair.”
    A skycap was pushing a shiny chrome wheelchair that made the shriveled old man who sat in it look like a prune served on a fancy plate. The skin on the top of his bald head was splotched with brown. His fingernails were long and yellow and his legs so thin they looked like they’d knife through the legs of his pants if he crossed them.
    “Don’t let it be him, don’t let it be him,” Delia breathed.
    The old man viewed his surroundings with just one eye. The left. The right one was covered by a black patch. The lone eye ranged over the crowd gathered around the baggage carousel.
    Socko avoided the searchlight eye by stepping behind