Summer on the Moon by Adrian Fogelin Page B

his mother and bending his knees, but the eye found her with no trouble. “Delia Marie Starr,” the old man wheezed. Though there was barely any real voice in the sound, it carried like a strong wind. “My, how you’ve grown.”
    Socko saw his mother flinch—and right away he wanted to punch the guy. Was the old man starting right out with a fat joke?
    Delia squared her shoulders. “Thanks for the house. We reallyappreciate it.”
    She took one step toward the General, but he held up his hand. “No phony display of affection is necessary. What we have is a simple business arrangement. You get a house plus one old fart. It’s a package deal.”
    “I was hoping my boy and me were getting a little more family too.” Delia paused, giving the old man a chance to say something nice, but he didn’t.
    “Sir, what are we looking for?” asked the skycap as carousel six rumbled to life.
    “One wheelchair. One valise. One footlocker.” The General scanned the first half dozen bags quickly, and then turned back to Delia. “Tell the kid hiding behind you to step out and show himself.”
    “I’m not hiding.” Socko edged into view.
    Delia put an arm around his shoulders. “This is your great-grandson.”
    The old man squeezed the arms of the chair. “Where’d you get that red hair?” he demanded, as if Socko had shoplifted it.
    “No place in particular.”
    “No place in particular?” The answer seemed to anger the old man. “Well, you got too much of it. Makes you look like a sissy. You need to get those girl-curls buzzed.”
    Socko almost commented about the General’s long, girly nails, but if he was going to talk him into letting Damien live in their extra bedroom, he had to be nice.
    The old man’s single eye zeroed in on Socko’s shiner. “And if you can’t defend yourself, kid, don’t get in a fight.” The roving eye focused on the conveyor belt, assessing the latest additions to the luggage parade, then snapped back to Socko. “Name?”
    “Socko.”
    “Socko, sir,” the old man corrected. Then the name itself seemed to catch his attention. “Sock-o?” His laugh was just a shaking of his shoulders. “What are you, kid? Some kind of punching bag?” His shoulders shook again.
    “His name is Socrates,” said Delia.
    “Boy, oh boy, did you ever draw the short straw, kid! Might as well hang a Kick Me sign on him, Delia Marie.”
    Socko had to agree. Some librarian had suggested Socrates when Delia had asked for help finding a “smart” name.
    “I thought Nancy was pulling my leg when she said we had a dead philosopher in the family.” The General turned away. Frowning, he watched the emerging luggage shove the plastic strips aside. “That’s the chair,” he snapped.
    The skycap retrieved and opened the wheelchair, then transferred the General to it.
    “The boy can get my valise and footlocker.”
    Shaking his head at the quarter the General slapped into his hand, the skycap hurried away, pushing the polished chrome chair ahead of him.
    The General’s wheelchair looked as battered as the old man himself. Plastered to its vinyl back was a bumper sticker that read: VETERAN—I FOUGHT FOR YOUR SORRY HIDE. Tattered American flags were attached to the chair’s handles with gummy wads of duct tape. But Socko thought the General didn’t look as bad in his own chair. They kind of matched.
    “The green one.” The General stabbed a yellowed nail at the latest suitcase to hit the belt. “Get it, boy.”
    Socko got it. It wasn’t big or heavy, and it had wheels, although they squealed when he dragged it over to the wheelchair.
    “And that.”
    The footlocker that had just shouldered the hanging plastic strips aside almost pulled Socko’s arm out of the socket when he dragged it off the belt. “No wheels?” he gasped.
    “Manufactured before the invention of the wheel,” the General croaked. “Suck it up, kid.”

10
WELCOME TO MOON RIDGE
    The General shrugged off their hands when they