I flew up the stairs two at a time, furious. Six more weeks in a cast? That’s my entire baseball season ruined. Flopping into my desk chair, I swept my casted arm across the top of the desk, sending everything either flying or thumping to the floor. Look magazine peeked out from under homework and a tissue box.
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Operation Dynamo. More than 338,000 British and other Allied troops waited on the beaches of France. Surrounded by the Germans, the only way out was on the sea that trapped them.
But the beaches were too shallow for destroyers to reach. So, the British Admiralty sent out the call for small vessels to ferry the men to safety.
Judy Suarez velcroed her orthopedic sneakers and gripped her SIG Sauer. “Of all the days.”
A shotgun blast thundered. Dust cascaded from the bingo hall’s ceiling as the report rattled through my bones. I scrambled beneath the table, hands over my head, mouth dry, heart pummeling my ribcage like a boxer punching a slab of meat.
When I woke, I could feel each fiber of the plasticky hospital sheet covering me. But it was distant, almost like someone else was feeling it. I pulled off the sheet and stared at two human-looking legs. I dug my fingernails into my right quadricep hard enough to make it bleed but felt no pain.
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Most high school principals looked forward to graduation night, but not Edwin. It was the one night of the year that he couldn’t ignore his psychic ability—he dared not call it a gift.
As he handed diplomas to the graduates, he would see flashes of their future, snapshots of what was to come.
Women in colorful, gay dresses. Men in Panama hats and suits. The sweet aroma of cigars. The heady odor of dirt and fresh white paint. The sights and sounds and scents of the Kentucky Derby assault my nostrils. Make my head spin. I tremble.
Jason pats my side, stroking his fingers through my mane.
Wails.
They pierce through the walls of our cabin. Echo in the hall outside. Like the ship is haunted and full of ghosts. I shiver, bury myself in the blankets. My body slides against the wall of my berth. I scoot back to my warm spot. Slide down again.
Pounding and banging. Slams and thuds.
“Don’t be a fool, son.” The saloon’s bartender nodded toward the revolver holstered on my belt. “This town got a history. On the full moon—”
“I ain’t scared of no Wyatt Earp. No killer, frontier, quick-shooting lawmen are going to get me, no sir.” I downed my drink. “Pretty sure Johnny Ringo and his outlaws are six feet below, too.
“My, that’s a fine looking bear,” Grandpa told me one evening as I cuddled my new teddy. A visit with my grandfather while Mom was on a business trip always meant a swing through the nearest toy department, where I could take my pick, more or less. He loved to watch me play and often joined in.
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North Atlantic Ocean, April 14th, 1912, 10:00 PM
“Oi!” Jewell says as he drops onto the deck. “Keep a sharp look-out for ice, particularly growlers.”
“Sea’s calm tonight.” Symons lands beside him and rubs his hands together. “It’ll make it rougher. Keep your eyes peeled, Fleet.”
“Thanks,” I respond tightly. I always dreamed of being on lookout.
“Our band of brothers must be the right age,” I told the three men gathered around me in the quiet darkness of my house—dark save for the single candle. We dared not light the lamp on the table between us, nor any lamp at all. “But then, you already know the truth of this.”
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To W. Darling: As you requested, below is my recollection of my team’s rescue of A. Liddell & discovery of the Red Queen’s plot to take over Wonderland.
I hope you find everything in order. -B.
The stone manor stretched into a gray March sky. Ivy trailed up the walls and framed the imperial letterwork: Institute for Madwomen.
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