by Tom Rogers
CHAPTER 24
The Man in the White Shirt
12:23 p.m.
The Man in the White Shirt found himself in a blizzard of memos and printouts, business cards and stationery, paper towels and copy paper, swirling through the air.
Blowing up the street from the south, where the towers once stood.
Strangely, it reminded him of a ticker-tape parade he’d gone to a few years ago, when the Yankees won the World Series. He’d taken off work, made it a father-son outing. He smiled at the memory; it was one of their best days together.
The sound of breaking glass cut into his thoughts. He’d stepped on a picture frame: someone’s family photo. A father and son. How had it landed here, so many blocks away? Did someone drop it while running? Or had it been hurled all this distance? He lifted the photo and leaned it against a building, where someone could find it if they came looking. He knew it was pointless, but he just couldn’t leave the family behind on the pavement.
As he straightened up, he caught a glimpse of himself in a store window: a gray ghost stared back. When he left home this morning, he was wearing a white shirt and dark pants and shoes. Now, he was coated top to bottom with ash and soot; his hair, his face—even his eyelashes were coated in a fine gray powder.
He slapped at his pants, trying to knock out the dust. He noticed that even though the pants were now the color of old snow, somehow, the crease held its line. And where the fabric was creased, no dust clung to it. He couldn’t stop staring at that razor-sharp line. It seemed so out of place, a reminder of how normal and ordinary his life had been when he left home this morning.
CHAPTER 25
Ghosts
12:46 p.m.
“Who are you calling?”
“Mom.”
Alex flipped his phone shut, then opened it and tried again, willing the call to go through. His eyes landed on a billboard atop an apartment building. It showed an airplane flying over the rooftops, and a cheap fare to Boston, under the slogan, “We Bring the World to You.” He’d probably seen it a thousand times before. Today, it made him shudder.
He put a finger in his other ear, listening hard. But once again, the phone beeped twice, then went dead. He checked the screen, though he already knew the message he would see: “CALL FAILED.”
Nunu tugged at his shirt. “Alex.”
“What?” She pointed down the street.
Alex thought he was seeing a ghost.
Then another. And another.
They were walking uphill from the dock, some moving slowly and painfully, all of them pale and gray.
“Who are they?” Nunu asked in a shaky whisper.
Alex shook his head and drew back, sheltering Nunu behind his leg, trying not to let her see he was scared. Only when the ghostly figures got closer did Alex realize these were just regular people, their clothes and hair and faces coated in gray dust and ash. Why? Why were they so dirty? he wondered. Behind them came dozens more, traipsing off the dock. Off the ferry boat from Manhattan.
Finally, it hit him. He waited until one of them passed close by, a man with only one shoe, walking gingerly on the ball of his bare foot.
“Were you at the World Trade Center?” Alex asked.
The man nodded. “We were lucky,” he said hoarsely, then continued on.
These were the survivors, Alex realized, making their way home.
Until that moment, as horrible as the disaster had sounded to Alex, it had still felt far away and distant, across the river. Even when he’d seen the smoke from the fallen towers, it hadn’t quite seemed possible. A part of him just couldn’t believe it was real.
Now it was right in front of him, close enough to touch. A real live person who’d been there, in the middle of the disaster.
A real person, just like his father.
“Who was that?” asked Nunu.
Alex glanced down at his sister. Her constant barrage of questions usually annoyed him. She could be such a pest. Now, she just looked small and afraid.
“They look like ghosts,” she whispered.
What should he tell her? He looked at the refugees, then back to Nunu.
“No.” She was watching him intently, hanging on his words. “No, those aren’t ghosts.” He fumbled for more but came up blank. Then he spotted a Dunkin’ Donuts ad on a bus bench. The ad pictured a cup of orange juice and a piping hot blueberry muffin.
“Those are…the Muffin People.”
Nunu’s eyes got a little bigger. “The what?”
“You don’t know about the Muffin People?” He was totally winging it here.
Nunu shook her head.
“They were trying to make the, um, the biggest blueberry muffin in the world. So they could get in the Guinness Book of World Records and be all rich and famous and stuff.”
“How big?”
“Big. I think they used, like, uh, four million tons of flour and thirty million blueberries. It was going to be huge.” He nodded, finding his rhythm. “But when they went to bake it, they completely forgot they were indoors. The muffin just kept rising and rising, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. It smashed out the windows and pressed up against the roof and they all ran for their lives and then BOOM! The muffin blew up, and flour went everywhere, and it was a huge mess, and they didn’t get in the Guinness Book of World Records. But they all got the day off and went home covered in flour.”
Alex looked down at Nunu. “And that’s why they look like that. The end.”
Nunu just stared at him. For a second, he thought he’d lost her.
Then she laughed. “Boom.”
Nice save, Alex thought to himself, and they continued on their way.
CHAPTER 26
The Man in the White Shirt
12:46 p.m.
The Man in the White Shirt ducked his head into the tiny grocery store. “Any chance I could use your phone? I lost mine back there somewhere.”
The grocer tried the phone on the counter and then shook his head. “Everything’s down.” He reached into his pocket and held out his cell phone. “Here. Circuits have been jammed all morning, but maybe your luck’s better than mine.”
The Man in the White Shirt dialed; his fingers were shaking as he pressed the keys. For a long time, he heard nothing. Then the line came alive. He heard a click. His heart jumped into his throat. But an instant later, a fast busy signal filled his ear.
“No luck,” he murmured, and handed the phone back.
“Wait.” The grocer held out a bottle of water.
The Man in the White Shirt fished in his pockets for change but came up empty.
The grocer waved him off and shoved the bottle into his hand. “Please.”
Out on the sidewalk, the Man in the White Shirt opened the bottle of water and drank deeply. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d become. He poured a little over his face and hands and began to wipe away the grit.
Something flopped to the ground behind him, landing with a hollow thump. He turned around to find a filthy gray bird flapping around on the pavement at his feet. It was struggling, unable to fly, its body and wings coated with grime. The Man in the White Shirt bent down with the bottle and poured water over the bird’s body. The bird turned strangely calm, giving in, standing still as the dust ran off its feathers in dirty rivulets. When the bottle ran dry, the Man in the White Shirt stepped back.
A snow white dove now stood before him, glistening in the sun. The dove tested its wings with a couple of flaps, then soared away in a blinding flurry of white.
CHAPTER 27
Friends
1:07 p.m.
Mac snatched up the phone before the second ring.
“Bobby?” he blurted.
He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he heard his oldest friend from his army days on the other end of the line, calling from California.
“Oh, hi Charlie.”
Mac rubbed his eyes and paced back and forth in the kitchen.
He glanced into the other room. Dottie was staring out the window, paying no attention to the nature documentary on her TV. Mac lowered his voice.
“No, she doesn’t know; I doubt she’d understand anyway. But the pictures would get her too worked up. Listen, I should probably ring off, in case he tries to call.”
He listened, nodding.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear. Thanks for calling, Charlie.” He swallowed hard as his voice cracked. “You’re a good friend.”
CHAPTER 28
Heroes
1:07 p.m.
“Hello, my friends, come in, come in,” the pizza man said to the three small faces staring in from the sidewalk. A cloud of white dust puffed into the air as he slapped a ball of dough onto the counter and began kneading it into shape.
The pizza man was an Indian named Patel. (“An Indian from India,” he always laughed.) Like everyone, he’d been glued to the news all day, watching on a tiny TV by the cash register. But now he flipped it off and waved them inside.
“Drink and a slice?”
Nunu nodded. Radar licked his chops.
Alex read the sign taped to the register: “Two slice + Coke = $5.95.”
His stomach rumbled, but he shook his head. “No thanks.”
“I’m hungry,” whispered Nunu.
“We don’t have any money,” Alex mumbled.
Mr. Patel frowned. “I see. Not even a dollar?”
Alex shook his head again. Mr. Patel lifted his bushy black eyebrows.
“That is a shame. Because today the lunch special is two for one dollar.”
Alex’s stomach rumbled again.
“But,” continued Mr. Patel, “the one dollar special comes with a one dollar rebate. Paid in advance. So, here you go. Your one dollar rebate.”
He opened the till, plucked out a dollar, and handed it to Alex. Alex took it, confused.
“Ah, lunch for two, sir? That will be one dollar.” Mr. Patel took the dollar from Alex’s hand and put it back in the till. “Please sit anywhere you like.”
The tiny restaurant was called Antonio’s Pizza di Napoli. Mr. Patel had kept the name when he bought it from Antonio eighteen years ago. Alex settled them at a table by the window. The Indian pizza man didn’t bat an eye as Radar followed them inside.
Mr. Patel brought over their slices, piping hot and fresh from the oven.
“Blow on it first,” Alex told Nunu. “Or you’ll burn your mouth.”
Mr. Patel also set a bowl of meatballs on the floor for Radar, who sniffed them once, drooled, and buried his muzzle into the bowl.
Alex loved watching Radar eat. He loved everything about his dog.
But he knew if he ever hoped to see his father again, he had to take Radar home.
He wished there were another way.
Outside the window, a fire engine rolled slowly by. Alex counted six firefighters on the truck: four in the cab, and two on the running seats, facing backwards. As they passed, one of the backwards-facing firemen looked up and met eyes with Alex. Alex raised his hand in a little wave. The fireman waved back with a smile.
Alex wished he were a fireman right now.
Then he could be a hero and go rescue his dad.
Alex stared after the truck until it disappeared around a bend in the road.
“Can we have another?” Nunu asked, snapping him back to reality.
“Coming right up,” Mr. Patel replied, and put two slices in the oven before Alex could say no.
“Thank you,” said Alex.
Mr. Patel nodded seriously. “It is the least I can do.”
CHAPTER 29
The Man in the White Shirt
2:33 p.m.
The Man in the White Shirt stared at the nurse.
He had gone far out of his way to get to the hospital, even though it would take him even longer now to make it home. But it was the thought of home that drove him here in the first place. Because it made him realize that as much as he needed his family, another family probably needed him more.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, “but the blood bank is closed. We’re not taking any more donations.”
“But I’m O-negative.”
“Sir—”
“It’s universal.”
“I know, but we’re full up. The bank can only handle a three-day supply.”
“Should I wait?”
“For what?”
“You’ll need more once you start going through it.”
“We’re not going through it,” she said.
The nurse turned away quickly and began to shuffle through records like she was looking for something. The Man in the White Shirt stared at her back. It still didn’t make any sense.
“But what about all the victims?”
“There aren’t….” Her voice caught. “They haven’t brought us any.”
The man turned to the waiting room and saw what he’d missed before: there were no gurneys rolling through to the ER, no sick and wounded in pain. There wasn’t a patient in sight.
And he knew then that none would be coming.
“You want to help out where you’re needed most?” she asked.
He turned.
“Go home,” she said quietly. “Go home.”
CHAPTER 30
Dead End
3:10 p.m.
Alex’s misdeeds flipped through his head like a slideshow as he thought about everything he’d done wrong that day: how he’d broken his promise to go straight home; how he’d disobeyed his parents and picked up a dog; how he’d been messing around in the park and lost track of Nunu; how he’d lied to his mother. And worst of all, how three words spoken in anger had put his father in danger.
He had to find Radar’s home. It was the only way to set things right.
Radar dropped a stick at Alex’s feet and jumped back in a crouch, ready for a game of fetch. He was still the same happy dog; he didn’t know that Alex was about to give him away. Alex felt his ears go red as he flushed with shame.
He threw the stick, but it felt like a lie.
“Alex? How come we’re not in school today?”
“’Cause we got off early.”
Alex wished Nunu would stop asking him questions he was afraid to answer.
“Is Daddy coming home early?”
He didn’t want to lie to her. He couldn’t tell her the truth.
“Sure,” he nodded.
“Yay.” It was the tiniest cheer ever, simple and sweet. Alex hoped he could make his promise come true.
“Why are we stopping?”
Alex stared up at the street sign. His feet felt heavy and huge, like blocks of concrete.
“What does it say?” Nunu had followed Alex’s gaze and was staring up at the street sign on the corner.
“Van Orton,” he mumbled.
“What’s that mean?”
Alex looked down the street of simple little frame houses, not so different from his own. He pulled out the piece of paper where the vet had written down Radar’s address. He stared at it a long time.
“4 – 1 – 7,” Nunu read. “What’s that?”
“417 Van Orton Street. Radar’s home.”
Nunu frowned. “I thought he was going home with us.” Radar pushed his big head against Alex’s thigh. “He’s your birthday dog.”
Alex shook his head. “I have to make it right. I have to.”
His view of the street turned blurry and wet. He blinked his vision clear and looked at Radar. The dog stared up at him with sad eyes, his tail hung low. One ear was folded back and plastered to a sticky corner of the bandage on his head. Alex knelt down beside him, gently peeled his ear free, and pressed the bandage back into place.
Then he threw his arms around the dog and pulled him close.
“I love you, boy,” Alex whispered.
Radar licked Alex’s cheek, wiping away the salty tears.
Nunu knelt down and hugged Radar, too.
Finally, Alex stood up. “C’mon.” He waved at Radar to follow, his voice gruff. “Let’s take you home.” He lifted his heavy feet and forced himself to start down the street.
Radar didn’t move.
“Radar. Let’s go.”
Radar sat down.
“I have to take you home. That’s the deal. Let’s go.”
Radar lay down flat on the concrete.
Alex came back. He begged Radar to get up. He pleaded for him to follow.
Radar didn’t budge.
Alex had to get this dog home. That was the deal. Desperate, he straddled the dog’s back, slid his hands under his belly, and scooped him into his arms so fast that he took Radar by surprise. The dog was suddenly airborne, held aloft, paws sticking out. Alex pulled him tight against his chest while Radar kicked at the air in front of them.
“Stop fighting me!” Alex commanded, as he staggered forward.
That dog did not want to go down this street.
Nunu walked slowly ahead, sadly reading off the addresses. “411. 413. 415.”
With Radar’s back against his face, Alex couldn’t see where he was going; he twisted his head so he could spot the curb beside them and then followed the sound of Nunu’s voice. The closer they got, the harder Radar fought. It was the second time Alex had had to carry Radar today; his arms quivered from exhaustion, but he held on tight.
“417,” said Nunu.
Radar gave a sudden lunge. He arched his back, twisted free, and landed on all fours.
“RADAR!”
Alex expected him to hit the ground running. Instead, Radar circled around Alex and hid behind his legs.
Alex didn’t want to look. He already hated this house.
“Alex?” Nunu tugged at his sleeve. Alex couldn’t put it off any longer.
