“I hired a mechanic, not a food service worker. What’s with the hairnet?” Greg Hahn sniffed, as if I were trying to smuggle improperly preserved twentieth century school lunches from my shuttle onto his shiny space station and he smelled something foul.
Don’t let his attitude bother you, Joe. You can handle another Z Job.
I was indoors but surrounded by snowflakes, my heart pounding. Did a blizzard wreck the roof? No, I was in a theater and about to perform in The Burton School of Dance’s 1995 production of The Nutcracker.
My best friend Jasmine was the Snow Queen. “Snowflakes together!” she stage-whispered, pumping her fist.
“Mr. Thompson left his house, truck, and bank account to you, Courtney. Kim, he left you his… catapult.” I gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the older sister’s understandable outrage. Dealing with this kind of reaction is the toughest part of my job.
But it was Courtney who sprang to her feet.
My eyes gleamed with satisfaction. For tonight’s ritual, I’d spent months selecting the proper wax, melting it over the mystical fire, and pouring it into heirloom molds. I’d spared no effort to ensure that every detail was perfect. The result?
Twisted white tapers in the candelabras shone serenely over the dining room table…
Jerry squeezed his hands together, staring at a narrow strip of ground bordering Main Street. The year before, Reedville had added a watermelon seed-spitting contest in that very spot. Jerry had come in third. To Ma, it was just another loss. To Jerry? He’d felt amazed as he wiped off his chin.
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“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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In Vermont, we call the spring thaw Mud Season, a time of year that gives new meaning to the word battleground, for it’s necessary to battle the ground simply to walk. Either you struggle while the muck sucks at your shoes and even skirts if they aren’t hitched up a bit, or you tumble when it’s too slick, which causes the unwary much irritation.
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After my daughter and her husband’s car accident, it was just Carter and me. Then, three years later to the day that I had buried his parents, I laid six-year-old Carter beside them.
Leukemia.
Most of the people at the funeral were my grandson’s friends. A few had tears running down their cheeks as they hugged their parents…
Whenever a scientist—a certain kind of scientist— “misplaces” something important, I get a call. This time it came to my DC studio apartment at midnight. Instantly awake, I sat up and reached for a light switch. “Give me the details.”
“Yaeger, it’s Mitchell. I need you to find two adult woolly mammoths, hopefully alive.
“You gave me a shovel for Valentine’s Day?” My wife ran a finger along its heart-shaped grip as she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Jason?”
“I had it custom-made, Corazon, just for you.” I grinned. Her name means “heart” in Spanish.
Setting the tool gently back into its box, she said, “Snow isn’t even in
I leaned against the fence, my jaw hanging open. Am I dreaming or drunk? “Dr. Conley, you said you needed a sheepdog for your flock.”
He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Exactly. From what I’ve heard, Mr. Ferguson, that border collie of yours is the best in the business.
Snowflakes swarm the shuttle I’m flying to my first assignment. Scientific Outpost Six—wonder if those SOS initials are a coincidence? If so, they’re appropriate now. I shiver as I struggle with the controls. It’s winter on this world and though I’m dressed accordingly, this much-used craft has a broken heater. I grimace.
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