Chapter 48
When Roberto opened a door and waved her through, Mary Ellen was delighted to find herself in a bookstore. The office to which he showed her was small and cluttered, the desk covered with review guides and catalogs and magazines. “Excuse the mess,” he muttered, hastily clearing a chair. Mary Ellen was secretly relieved; among Grandmother Owen’s horrible and antiquated prejudices were certain very strict standards about housekeeping, and even though the old lady wasn’t there with her, Mary Ellen had felt obligated to maintain the house’s almost painful tidiness.
Roberto dug out a phone book for her and showed her the phone, then politely excused himself back to the running of his store while she made her calls.
The police took her statement and promised to contact her if they found anything, though they didn’t seem hopeful. Mary Ellen called her cell phone provider and her bank, and then looked up locksmiths in the phone book. As obsolete in its way as Grandmother Owen, she thought, staring down at the listings. How was she supposed to know which ones were trustworthy without being able to Google them? She poked at Roberto’s keyboard, discovered under a small pile of dog-eared Publisher Weeklys, but the screen saver was password-locked, and Mary Ellen didn’t want to intrude any further on his hospitality. She closed her eyes, dropped her finger on the page, and dialed the number beside her finger. The locksmith’s dispatcher consulted the schedule and promised to have someone at her grandmother’s house in an hour.
Roberto appeared almost as soon as she emerged from his office. “All done?”
“Yes.” Mary Ellen let out a sigh, then summoned a smile for her would-be rescuer. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s good to know that not allheroes are dead.”
“Some hero,” Roberto scoffed. “I let him get away.”
“It’s the heart, not the results, that make a hero,” Mary Ellen said.
Roberto actually blushed. He ran a hand over his hair and changed the subject. “Do you need a ride home? I mean, if that guy got all your money and cards, you probably don’t even have bus fare.”
“It’s just up the street a ways,” Mary Ellen said, “and around the corner. Less than a mile. I’ll be fine.”
“Ah,” Roberto said. “Good.” Mary Ellen thought, almost, that he sounded disappointed as he retreated back to the counter—but that was absurd, wasn’t it?
Just as absurd was Mary Ellen’s own sense of loss as she made her way through the store, but shook it off. You barely know him! she chided herself. She made her way toward the door, browsing slowly, telling herself she was just killing time so she wouldn’t have to sit on the steps waiting on the locksmith. When she reached the door, though, the smooth brass handle felt cold under her fingers, and she glanced back.
Roberto was looking at her. She’d caught him by surprise, and so she also caught the wistful expression on his face in the instant before he covered it with a professionally friendly smile.
Mary Ellen looked back through the window in the door, out at the street, at the busy passers-by. By now, there was no one left outside who had heard her earlier call for help, but would these be any different? She doubted it. She stood, frozen, watching the street, until she a quiet cough made her jump and turn around.
Roberto had come out from behind the counter and was standing just out of arm’s reach. “Are you all right?”
“I’m…” Mary Ellen swallowed and looked up into those kind, concerned eyes. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to walk me back?” she asked tentatively. “It’s dumb, I know, but I feel—”
“It is not dumb,” Roberto said firmly. He reached past her to open the door, turning the Open/Closed sign with a practiced flip of the wrist. On the sidewalk, he fished keys from his pocket, locked the door, and then offered Mary Ellen his arm.
Not entirely to her surprise, she took it.Flip by Lynn Townsend
Su’ama woke with a start, pushing frantically at the head and jaw device—the Brassard Protocol Expedient—that connected her with the Flip project. Her conductive suit was drenched with sweat, and probably not a little urine, to be frank. Flipping was hard work, even when she wasn’t lost in the moment, aware, and attuned with her Subject.
The tray slid forward, carrying the precious Nu-gel and a beaker of water. She concentrated on the gel. From experience she knew it to be sticky-sweet, and gone entirely too soon. If she drank her water beforehand, she would have nothing to wash away dinner. Still, it was nothing like real food, which her body insisted she’d tasted and swallowed and digested hours ago. The doctor’s hus was not considered a skilled cook; all his finished meals came from a variety of tinned and boxed food product, but ah, it was heaven to chew and swallow, to allow the flavor to linger on her tongue.