2
Well, at least I’ve got a job, Jack thought as he rinsed and spat in the sink of the bathroom at the Silverton Public Park. A couple of paychecks and I’ll get a room somewhere.
In the meantime, he was homeless. Not hardcore homeless, living in alleys, eating out of the trash, and pushing around a wagon full of empty cans. This was more of a temporary, between homes homelessness.
He put the toothbrush back in a baggie, along with his comb and a razor blade, tossed them in his backpack, and left the bathroom. He walked down a narrow, gravelly path, past some tennis courts, and over to a cluster of park benches which surrounded some picnic tables. He placed the back pack on the table, unzipped it, and pulled out a blanket. Then he brought the blanket over to the bench, kicked off his shoes, and laid down, face up, on the bench.
The night sky was full of stars. He started counting them. It was something he did to help him sleep—a trick his dad had taught him on the camping trips they used to take together when he was a kid. Back when he used to have a real life. As he lay there, he heard a strange, low-pitched rumbling. Without getting up, he looked around, cutting his eyes this way and that. He heard it again. It was coming from under the picnic table. It was a cat. Growling softly, the creature approached him, then stopped, midway between the table and the bench, pondering whether or not to proceed further. Jack put a hand on the concrete and tapped, encouraging the feline to come forward. Slowly, and with great deliberation, it did. Jack stroked it. It purred. Slowly, trust was established, and the cat climbed into the bench with Jack, curling itself into a ball in his chest. Cuddling the cat like a pillow, Jack’s breathing slowed, his eyes grew heavy, and his body grew cooler. Soon both he and the cat were fast asleep.
3
Peter Landers sorted through the mail, tossed most of it to the side, and held up one piece—a letter, postmarked Akron, Ohio. “We got something from Adam,” he called out to his wife. He didn’t call him Jack or any of the other surnames he had taken over the years as he wandered the country trying to throw his assassins off his trail. He called him by his birth name—Adam. That’s who he was and always would be, no matter what. His son—Adam. His wife came running in from the kitchen and snatched the envelope from Peter’s hand. They sat together on the sofa as she opened it up. She read it aloud:
Hi, folks. Doing okay. I’m still in Akron. Working at a packing plant. Boring work, but it pays for the room I’m renting. I think they’ve got my scent again, though; I guess I’ll be leaving soon. I will keep you posted. Love you both.
She put the card down on the coffee table and stared at Peter. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. He knew what she was thinking. They had been through it all a thousand times. They would love to have him there with them, but that wasn’t working out. As long as he was there, they would have to keep moving, as they did for the first eighteen years of his life. And it was just a lot easier for one person to run than for a whole family. So, Adam, against their wishes, ran. And he’d been running ever since. But wherever he ran, no matter how fast or how far, he was still their son. And nothing could change that.
4
Jack followed slowly behind as Mr. Hall lead the way along the long, wide perimeter of the factory floor, which was a maze of conveyer belts, stacks of merchandise, and pallet jacks. In place of air conditioning, the massive room was cooled by fans, placed strategically throughout the floor. Even so, it was sweltering. Every so often Hall would stop, point something out, then continue the tour. He finished by handing him off to another worker, who he instructed to show Jack the ropes. He was an older fellow, about sixty, with a slight paunch, big beefy arms, and a patch over one eye. “I’ll take it from here,” he assured Hall as the office manager thanked him and scuttled off to attend to other business.
The two men stood side by side behind a conveyer belt, one in five rows of such belts that took up most of the factory floor. Behind each belt stood four workers, spaced about three yards apart, with each one performing a particular task to prepare an item for shipment. The items in question were filters, the kind used in AC and furnace vents. Jack’s job, it appeared, would be to take two filters, place them on top of each other, then pass them down the line. The old man, next in line, would put a press on them from an overhead hanger, then move them down to the next person. At any rate, that’s how the older gentleman explained it, and it worked for Jack. He began slinging the filters down the line. As he worked, every so often, the older gentleman would offer a brief instruction, correction, or just a thumbs up sign. After an hour or so, the man said: “Not exactly exciting work, is it?”
“Not really,” Jack smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow “But it pays the bills.”
“That’s about the size of it,” the man said. “By the way, my name’s Kurt.”
“I’m Jack,” Jack replied.
“So, Jack,” Kurt asked, eying him curiously, “How’s a guy like you wind up at a place like this?”
The question did not offend Jack. There was no trace of judgment in Kurt’s voice. “Well, it’s like this,” Jack said, and proceeded to tell the man the absolute truth. He told him about the attempts on his life growing up, how he left home to protect his family, how he moved from town to town to keep a step ahead of the assassins, and how he had been chosen to lead the world back to the garden of Eden. When he was finished, Kurt just stared at him curiously for several moments, then threw his head back and let out a big, hearty laugh. “Oh, that’s good!” he said, waving a finger at Jack. “That’s really good. You should write that down. Might make a good book.”
“Ya think?” Jack asked, passing down some more filters. “Oh, yeah,” Kurt said, still chuckling. “That’s some good stuff. You’ve got a good imagination, kid.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. He could tell by the man’s cadence, his enunciation, and just his general presence that he was an intelligent person. In fact, he might have asked the man the same question he had just asked him, because he knew this man was capable of much greater things than slinging filters down a conveyer belt. He thought about asking but decided not to. There would be plenty of time for that. For now, he would just keep his mouth shut and do his job. Which is exactly what he did for the next two hours, until he saw something that changed everything. Someone, actually.
She was three rows up, standing at the second slot on the first conveyer built. She had turned to say something to the person next to her, so he caught only a side glance, but he thought it was her, and suddenly, a wave of exhilaration swept through him with such force that he had to lean up against the conveyor belt to keep from falling. It wasn’t just exhilaration; it was something he had not felt much of in a long time—hope. A hope that this girl, whom he had seen in his dreams every day since puberty, whom he thought, most likely, was a figment of his imagination, a carrot on a stick that he would never touch, was, in fact, real. He steadied himself against the conveyor belt and took a deep breath. He had to know, and he had to know now. He looked at Kurt and said “I need a drink of water. I’ll be right back.”
“No hurry,” Kurt replied amicably.
Jack made his way down the side of the factory floor, past all the conveyor belts, up to the front of the room, where he got himself a drink. As he slurped up the water flowing up from the fountain, he could feel his heart racing with fearful anticipation. What if it wasn’t her? Well, if it wasn’t her, then it wasn’t her; it would only serve to further confirm what he already suspected: