Black Cat Weekly #121 E-Book

Robert Jeschonek

• Herausgeber: Black Cat Weekly
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 233

Beschreibung

This issue, we have original stories from Robert Jeschonek, John M. Floyd, Anne Swardson, and Phyllis Ann Karr, plus a recent tale by Anna Tambour. Classic reprints are from Keith Laumer, Piers Anthony, Raymond F. Jones, and Hal Meredith. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler. Lots of fun!

Here's the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Luckiest Man in the World” by Robert Jeschonek [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Garage Sale Mystery” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“A Christmas Movie” by John M. Floyd [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
“The Spice of Death,” by Anne Swardson [short story]
“The Ancient Monk,” by Hal Meredith [short story, Sexton Blake series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Witch of La Jícara” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]
“The Tin and the Damask Rose,” by Anna Tambour [short story]
“The Walls,” by Keith Laumer [short story]
“Quinquepedalian,” by Piers Anthony [short story]
“Stay Off The Moon!” by Raymond F. Jones [short story]

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE LUCKIEST MAN IN THE WORLD, by Robert Jeschonek

THE GARAGE SALE MYSTERY, by Hal Charles

A CHRISTMAS MOVIE, by John M. Floyd

THE SPICE OF DEATH, by Anne Swardson

THE ANCIENT MONK, by Hal Meredith

THE TIN AND THE DAMASK ROSE, by Anna Tambour

THE WITCH OF LA JÍCARA, by Phyllis Ann Karr

THE WALLS, by Keith Laumer

QUINQUEPEDALIAN, by Piers Anthony

STAY OFF THE MOON! by Raymond F. Jones

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2023 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

“The Luckiest Man in the World” is copyright © 2023 by Robert Jeschonek and appears here for the first time.

“The Garage Sale Mystery” is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

“A Christmas Movie” is copyright © 2023 by John M. Floyd and appears here for the first time.

“The Spice of Death,” is copyright © 2023 by Anne Swardson and appears here for the first time.

“The Ancient Monk,” by Hal Meredith, was originally published February 13, 1909.

“The Witch of La Jícara” is copyright © 2023 by Phyllis Ann Karr and appears here for the first time.

“The Tin and the Damask Rose,” is copyright © 2009 by Anna Tambour, originally appeared in Sky Whales and Other Wonders. Reprinted by permission of the author.

“The Walls,” by Keith Laumer, was originally published in Amazing Stories, March 1963.

“Quinquepedalian,” by Piers Anthony, was originally published in Amazing Stories, November 1963.

“Stay Off The Moon!” by Raymond F. Jones, was originally published in Amazing Stories, December 1962.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

This will be our final issue of 2023.

I’d like to thank all our Contributing Editors—Michael Bracken, Paul Di Filippo, Barb Goffman, Darrell Schweitzer, and Cynthia Ward—as well as staffers Sam Hogan and Karl Wurf for making this a successful year for BCW. Going forward, we will see some changes in the next year, as we continue to transition toward a magazine that uses more original fiction and relies less on reprints (even great ones!).

I think you’ll like this issue: we have original stories from Robert Jeschonek, John M. Floyd, Anne Swardson, and Phyllis Ann Karr, plus a recent tale by Anna Tambour. Classic reprints from Keith Laumer, Piers Anthony, Raymond F. Jones, and Hal Meredith. Plus, of course, a solve-it-yourself puzzler.

On a personal note, I have a short story (a collaboration with Leigh Grossman, a great friend from college; we met in an English class and I soon joined his fantasy role-playing group) in the current issue of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, and my first novel in more than a decade will be out in early 2024. (It’s called The Things from Another World, and quite obviously is a sequel to John W. Campbell’s “Who Goes There”—which was filmed by Howard Hawks as The Thing from Another World, and then John Carpenter as his masterpiece, The Thing.) So I guess you can say I’m writing more regularly now.

Here’s to an even better 2024!

As for this issue: here’s the complete lineup—

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Luckiest Man in the World” by Robert Jeschonek [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

“The Garage Sale Mystery” Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

“A Christmas Movie” by John M. Floyd [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

“The Spice of Death,” by Anne Swardson [short story]

“The Ancient Monk,” by Hal Meredith [short story, Sexton Blake series]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Witch of La Jícara” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story]

“The Tin and the Damask Rose,” by Anna Tambour [short story]

“The Walls,” by Keith Laumer [short story]

“Quinquepedalian,” by Piers Anthony [short story]

“Stay Off The Moon!” by Raymond F. Jones [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Enid North

Karl Wurf

THE LUCKIEST MAN IN THE WORLD,by Robert Jeschonek

“Five days!” shouted Pascoe the bookie, adjusting his yellow rubber gloves. “You have five days to pay me what you owe, you degenerate gambler, or you’re dead.” Hauling back one cowboy-booted foot, he plunged it into Ned Saltearth’s gut. “Are we clear?”

Ned groaned between his teeth and nodded. “Clear.” His sweat and blood mingled with the back-alley puddle in which he lay. The water was black, reflecting the midnight darkness that always seemed to saturate this part of Pittsburgh, even in daylight.

“Last chance, asshole.” Pascoe wagged a yellow-gloved finger at Ned. “I am dead serious this time. No more letting you off with a few broken bones.”

“I understand.” From any other bookie, the threat would have been empty; after all, a man couldn’t pay his debts if he was dead. But Ned had heard stories about Pascoe, who had a reputation as a head case. Ned hadn’t taken it seriously enough at first, but now he could see the truth of it in Pascoe’s bloodthirsty, bug-eyed gaze.

“You don’t walk away from this.” Pascoe gave his shaggy blond mane a toss, then clenched and unclenched his left hand. “If my hand is empty this time next week, you go right in the ground. Capiche?”

Ned nodded fervently as blood ran out of his nose, his mouth, and the cuts adorning his face.

* * * *

“Come on, come on.” Text and images flashed past Ned as he searched the Internet on his beat-up laptop, scrolling through one web page after another. He had to keep wiping blood out of his eyes because he’d gone online as soon as he’d gotten home instead of tending his cuts.

He zipped through social media, checking the accounts of relatives—but there weren’t many who hadn’t blocked him.

The fact was, members of his extended family did not always fare well after Ned made one or more of his special visits. When he got done draining their luck, using it to boost his own, they often experienced the unluckiest of circumstances. They could never prove their bad luck was because of him, but the fact that it often worsened during his visits seemed to suggest the timing might not be a coincidence.

“All blocked! All blocked or tapped out!” Ned’s searches of social media, his email contacts, and online news stories told him there was hardly anyone left who might fuel him. Any blood relationsof his would do, if he hadn’t already drained all their luck…but people like that were few and far between.

Good luck, he’d discovered long ago, was not an infinite resource. After he’d tapped someone enough times—the number of which varied from person to person—their reservoir of luck could not be replenished. Deprived of their rightful store of good luck, they were no longer of any use to him.

Such was the reason for his current state of misfortune. He’d drained the luck out of every relation he could find, and he had nothing left in the tank. Thus emptied, he’d gone deep in the red, crashing and burning with one bad bet and unwise deal after another.

He’d won big in the lottery a few years ago—and multiple times before that—but thanks to his gambling addiction and the bad fortune that arose when his stolen luck ran out (which it always did, perhaps because it was stolen), all that money was gone, and his life was at stake with Pascoe the bloodthirsty bookie.

He didn’t have a bit of luck left to fend off Pascoe these days; the special medallion on the gold chain around his neck told him that.

The medallion was an old gold coin, a Roman one with an emperor’s face on one side and an eagle on the other. He’d won it in a poker game as a kid, a game his old man the card shark had pulled him into as a ringer.

The medallion was the thing that had given him “the touch,” enabling him to draw luck from blood relations to fuel his own good fortune. Reaching under the collar of his shirt, he pulled it out for a quick check…and it was ice cold, meaning his luck had completely run out.

The thought of it filled him with panic. To say the least, he needed a fix…though the harder he looked online, the less likely it seemed he would score one.

With a cry of rage and despair, he finally swept the laptop off the table and threw his head down in its place.

Ned knew his blood was smearing the table, and he didn’t care. Everything in the squalid hotel room where he was living had seen better days, including him.

Sitting up, he scrubbed his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes darted right and left, nervously staring into the distance.

His laptop, at least, wasn’t totaled. He heard it beeping on the floor, signaling the arrival of incoming email.

“Where am I gonna get a hundred grand in a week?” He wiped more blood from his bright green eyes. “I don’t even have an effing stake.”

The laptop beeped again. Annoyed, he scooped it off the cheap beige carpeting and planted it on the table to the right of the blood slick.

Flicking an index finger over the laptop’s touchpad, he brought up the email program and looked at the latest arrival…at which point, he completely forgot about how much pain he was in.

He read the email twice to be sure what he saw. It was a Google Alert, tipping him off that one of the online searches he’d set up months ago had gotten a hit. Someone with the same last name as him, “Saltearth,” had been mentioned online.

Following the link took him to a crowdfunding site called GetFunded—and sure enough, he landed on a page dedicated to someone named Saltearth. A fundraising campaign was in progress for nine-year-old leukemia patient Tommy Saltearth.

So far, the campaign had raised $156,521.

As Ned gazed at the page, a smile spread over his face. Things were looking up.

Somehow, Tommy Saltearth and his family had escaped his attention until now. He had never tapped into Tommy’s luck…which, actually, was only bad luck when it came to his illness.

When it came to the fundraising, though, little Tommy’s luck had taken a turn for the better. Ned could recognize that special kind of good fortune from a hundred miles away—the kind that drew money to the boy as if he were a magnet, despite the negative health issues that afflicted him (or perhaps because of them).

More online research confirmed the news was as good as Ned could have hoped. Not only was Tommy having a run of financial good fortune, but he was related to Ned by blood. Tommy’s great-great-grandfather was Ned’s great-grandfather’s brother…which meant Ned could use the medallion to tap into the boy’s reservoir of good luck.

Now all Ned had to do was go meet the kid in Wheeling, West Virginia…then steal his good luck and use it to score the funds he needed to pay off that prick, Pascoe.

* * * *

“Get the hell away from me!” said the pudgy man in the sweat-stained white T-shirt, apron, and jeans. “I mean it! Get away!” He brandished his mop like a fighting staff, gripping it in front of him to bar the way.

Ned took off his neat white trilby hat—the one possession he’d never pawned or ruined—and carefully placed it on one of the tables. The little diner had just opened for the day; sun was streaming through the front windows, but there weren’t any customers yet. “Aw, c’mon, Frank. I just need a minute of your time.”

Frank Hammertoe waved the mop handle. “You want some more cuts and bruises to go with the ones you already got?”

“Don’t be like that, Frank.” Ned spread his arms wide and took a step forward. “You’re my favorite cousin, remember?”

Frank stumbled backward and tripped over his wheeled mop bucket. He knocked over the bucket as he went down, sending dirty gray water everywhere.

“Frank!” Ned rushed toward him.

“Just like always!” Frank floundered in the sloppy water. “You show up, and everything turns to shit!”

“Let me help.”

“Help?” Frank kicked the mop bucket across the floor at Ned. “What the hell else can you do to me?”

Ned sidestepped the bucket and walked over to Frank. He reached down with his left hand to help him up, but Frank just stared like it was a hunk of maggoty liver.

“Since you first showed up, my bar burned down,” snapped Frank. “I got arrested. My wife left me. Now this is all I got left, this shitty job workin’ at this lousy diner…and you still gotta come sniffin’ around?”

Ned shook his head. “You had a run of bad luck, that’s all. Just a coincidence I happened to be in the picture.”

Even as he said it, he lunged, planting his right hand—with the Roman medallion clutched in his palm—firmly on Frank’s breastbone. Frank grabbed at his arm, and Ned swatted his hand away. He needed to give himself a couple of seconds…just long enough to finish “the touch.”

“Get off me!” shouted Frank.

There was a tingling in Ned’s hand that confirmed the transfer of good luck from Frank. He was glad he’d left a little in Frank’s tank instead of draining him dry years ago. Having a luck source nearby in case of an emergency had been a smart strategy that might just keep him alive in the long run.

When the tingling stopped, Ned pulled away—just as Frank erupted in a flurry of spastic movement, flailing and kicking on the floor.

“All right, be that way.” Ned retrieved his trilby and placed it lightly on his head. “I’ll come check on you later, when you’ve had a chance to cool off.”

With that, he strolled out the door.

Out on the sidewalk, Ned hung the medallion around his neck and slipped it under his shirt. Then, he straightened his gray tweed blazer (ratty but still passable) and dusted off his last pair of black trousers. Looking down, he spotted a hundred-dollar bill fluttering amid a tangle of weeds in a patch of dirt under a skinny tree.

His stake had arrived. Like magic, he had a fresh charge of luck, courtesy of his now-unfortunate cousin. It wasn’t much, and it wouldn’t last long, but it might just make the rest of his plan possible.

With the help of that hundred-dollar stake, he could get his ass to Wheeling and drain his new favorite cousin of every drop of luck he had to his name.

* * * *

“If you’re my husband’s cousin, how come I’ve never heard of you?” After opening the door of the house, Tommy Saltearth’s mother, Gwen, narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

“There was a split in the family three generations ago.” Ned smiled and gestured with the trilby. He’d managed to grab a nap on the bus ride from Pittsburgh to Wheeling, which he’d paid for out of the hundred bucks he’d found.

“A split?” asked Gwen. “Why was there a split?”

Ned shrugged. “No one remembers anymore. Which I guess means it doesn’t matter.”

Gwen didn’t exactly look like she was loving him yet. He wondered if it was because of the cuts and bruises on his face, the tattered clothes…or something deeper.

“Anyway,” said Ned. “I read about Tommy online, which was the first I knew I had family in Wheeling. ‘Saltearth’ isn’t a common last name, so I figured we must be related.”

“And you just decided to drop in?”

“I came as soon as I could.” Ned did his best to radiate harmlessness and sincerity. “I couldn’t wait to meet my cousins for the first time.” His smile became a look of deep sympathy. “Especially Tommy.”

For the first time, Gwen’s cool composure flickered.

Ned gripped the trilby’s brim with both hands. “My heart went out to him. He’s such a brave boy. Is he here?”

Gwen pushed her short blond hair behind her ears and shook her head. “He’s at Wheeling Hospital with my husband, which is where I’d be right now if I didn’t absolutely need to take care of some things here. You’re welcome to visit him there if you like.”

* * * *

“Hi, Tommy.” Ned grinned as he stepped into the hospital room. “Your mom said I might find you here.”

A nine-year-old boy looked up from the bed, his hairless head turning slowly in Ned’s direction.

“Our long-lost relative!” Tommy’s father, a muscular fireplug of a man whose head was shaved as bald as his son’s, jumped up from a chair by the bed and hurried over. “Gwen called and said you might be coming. How are we related, exactly?”

“Your great-grandfather, Caleb Saltearth, was my great-grandfather’s brother.” Ned took off his hat with one hand, leaving the other behind his back, where he held a surprise. “My great-grandparents were Sam and Louise Saltearth of Pittsburgh.”

Tommy’s dad frowned. “Which makes us—”

“Who knows?” Ned laughed. “Let’s leave it at cousins. I’m Ned.”

“And I’m Ryan.” Ryan reached for a handshake.

“Hold on.” Ned gave him a wink. “I’ve got something to give Tommy first.” With a big grin, he brought around the gift he’d been hiding—a stuffed Corgi dog, eight inches long, from the hospital gift shop. It had taken a few more dollars out of his stake, but that was okay; he’d saved money by walking to the hospital instead of calling a cab when he couldn’t talk Gwen into driving him. “Here you go.”

A smile flickered onto Tommy’s face as he accepted the dog. “I want a real one of these.” His voice lacked the forceful energy of a typical nine-year-old’s, but he didn’t sound like he was on his deathbed, either. The leukemia that had landed him there—and led to the online fundraiser—hadn’t killed his spirit yet. “Please, Dad?”

Ryan chuckled. “We’ll see.” When he folded his thick arms over his chest, it looked more like a friendly pose than a hostile gesture. “First, what do you say to Cousin Ned?”

Tommy was already hopping the Corgi around on his hospital-gowned chest. “Thank you for the dog, Cousin Ned.”

“Sure, Tommy.” Ned smiled. “What are you going to name it?”

“Lucky,” said Tommy. “You’re my lucky dog, aren’t you, boy?”

* * * *

When a male nurse came in to change Tommy’s IV bag, Ryan stepped into the hall, nodding for Ned to join him.

“Thanks for coming by, and thanks for the dog.” Ryan glanced into the room. “Anything to take his mind off…you know.”

“My pleasure.” Ned smiled. “I’m just glad I found this lost branch of the family tree.”

“How long are you going to be in town, anyway?”

“A few days,” said Ned. “I’d love to visit some more, if that’s all right with you.”

“Why don’t you come by for dinner tonight?” Ryan nodded sideways at Tommy’s room. “As long as you don’t mind Salisbury steak and Jell-O.”

Ned grinned and rolled an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “There’s nothing better.” Laughing, he reached over and tapped Ryan’s breastbone like a good friend sharing a joke. The medallion was tucked in his palm, enabling him to draw luck from the man…though his goal was not to drain him dry. He suspected Ryan didn’t have much good luck to spare, what with Tommy’s health woes, and he wasn’t ready to empty those limited reserves just yet. It would be better not to upset the apple cart, Ned thought, until he’d soaked up his dream payoff from Tommy before his illness could get the better of him.

“Good,” said Ryan. “Tommy should get to know you.”

“I’ll be here for sure.” Ned’s hand tingled, and he pulled it away. “But first, I have some business to take care of.”

* * * *

“Yes!” Ned threw his arms up and cheered as the greyhound he’d bet on blew past the finish line. The odds on a win by Wicked Cheatin’ Cheetah had been so long, the bet had seemed laughably stupid.

Yet there he was, that very dog, dashing over the finish ahead of the pack. As always, putting the touch on an untapped family member had juiced Ned’s luck. Even the limited charge he’d gotten from Cousin Ryan had been enough to bring him a nice win at the Wheeling Downs racetrack.

Not that he had enough juice to break the bank. His special medallion told him that. When he held it now, it felt warm, not hot…meaning he was almost tapped out. Maybe he had enough luck for a couple table games at the casino before the last of it faded.

That was fine with him. He just needed enough cash to pay for a motel room and incidentals while he worked his cousins.

And he needed a bigger stake for when his ship came in, which ought to happen any day now. Because that cancer-ridden kid, believe it or not, had money luck out the wazoo.

* * * *

Tommy was never alone.

Someone was always with him in the hospital room, whether it was Ryan, Gwen, a doctor, a nurse, an orderly…or Cousin Cray, Ryan’s 20-year-old computer whiz second cousin who ran the fundraising campaign (and set off Ned’s well-trained asshole detector whenever he was in range).

Worried that he might get banned from the room if someone caught him in the act, Ned didn’t dare put the touch on Tommy with anyone in the vicinity. Playfully patting Ryan’s breastbone had been one thing; inexplicably clamping an ancient medallion on a frail kid with leukemia would be quite another.

For this reason, dinner didn’t go as he would’ve liked. Ned sat across the room from Tommy and couldn’t get near him. Gwen sat on one side of the bed and Ryan and Cray on the other, leaving no way to get to the kid’s luck bone (as Ned called the breastbone) short of crawling up over him from the foot of the bed.

The only thing Ned could do was make conversation while picking at his hospital food. It was frustrating, but not a waste of time; hanging out with the family could help him build trust.

As for Tommy, he was so busy asking Ned questions that he hardly ate a thing. “What caused the family split, Cousin Ned?”

Ned shrugged. “Nobody knows.”

“But what do you think caused it?”

“Well…” Ned speared a chunk of gravy-soaked Salisbury steak, got it halfway to his mouth, and put it down again. “It could have been a fight about money. Either that, or one side of the family found out everyone on the other side was an alien zombie.”

Tommy grinned. “Then which side would you be on?”

“Which side do you think?” Ned bugged his eyes out, cranked his mouth open wide, and groaned like a flesh-eating monster.

“Do it again!” said Tommy.

Just then, Ryan interrupted. “Eat, young man, or no going online for you tonight.”

Suddenly, Tommy snapped to attention. “But I have to check the fundraiser!”

“Cray can do that,” said Ryan. “It’s what we pay him the big bucks for, remember?”

Ned’s curiosity was instantly piqued at the mention of Cousin Cray getting paid to run the online campaign for Tommy. Until then, he’d assumed the fundraiser operator was doing it out of the goodness of his heart, applying his expertise free of charge to bring in the cash to save Tommy’s life.

“Don’t worry, Tommy,” Cray said with a warm smile. “I’ll share the latest numbers after dinner.”

“I wanna know now!” said Tommy. “The last time I looked, we had a hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars in pledges!”

“The real-time total was closer to eighty-thousand bucks, actually,” said Cray. “After all the fees and cancelled pledges were deducted.”

“But I saw a hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars!” Tommy sounded deeply disappointed.

“Sorry.” Cray combed his fingers through his shaggy blond hair. “It’s just the way the GetFunded site works, little guy.”

“We shouldn’t worry, though, should we?” asked Ryan.

Cray chuckled and shook his head. “No, we shouldn’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “We’ll get those numbers up soon enough. The campaign isn’t nearly over yet, and I’ve got plenty of tricks left up my sleeve.”

I’ll bet you do, thought Ned. Like the one that gives the sick kid’s family less than half the amount pledged onscreen by GetFunded backers.

Ned felt sorry for the kid and his naïve family, even as he licked his own chops at how easy it was going to be to take advantage of them and how massive the payoff in luck would likely be. He might even tap Cray at some point for a bonus hit…but not yet, when straying from the plan might get in the way of landing the biggest fish of all, little Tommy.

“Thanks again for running the campaign, Cray,” said Ryan. “We really need that money, and none of us have your level of expertise with crowdfunding.”

“The money will go a long way toward covering Tommy’s treatment costs,” said Gwen.

“The ol’ HMO doesn’t exactly pay for everything,” said Ryan. “The hospital bills have really been stacking up.”

“And there’s a promising trial we’d like to get Tommy enrolled in,” added Gwen.

Tommy interrupted. “Do you think we’ll pass two-hundred thousand dollars, Cray? Or half a million, maybe?”

“Who knows?” Cray smiled and shrugged. “I don’t think we’ve hit the ceiling yet, though.”

As much as Ned didn’t like or trust Cray, he couldn’t help salivating at his rosy prediction. If the campaign succeeded at that level, it would prove the kid’s incredible money luck—and therefore, his potential to supercharge Ned’s own luck when tapped.

Often, Ned had found, the richest veins of good luck could be found alongside the biggest deposits of misfortune. It was like a consolation prize awarded to someone in dire straits, a last gusher of prosperity to make up for the suffering that person had to endure.

“I think it’s cool that so many people are trying to help,” said Tommy. “And we don’t even know all of them, ’cause they’re amonymous donators.”

“You mean ‘anonymous,’” said Ryan. “They don’t give their names, but they still do what they can to pitch in.”

Tommy frowned at Ned. “Are you one of the amonymous donators, Uncle Ned?”

Ned shrugged. “Well, uh…actually…”

“Eat your dinner, Tommy.” Gwen pushed the tray closer to her son.

“And Ned’s your cousin, not your uncle,” said Ryan.

“But he’s more like an uncle to me.” Tommy grinned at Ned. “Can I keep calling you ‘Uncle Ned?’”

“Sure.” Ned laughed. “You can call me whatever your heart desires, Tommy.”

* * * *

“I just wish I didn’t feel like shit right now.” Out in the hall after dinner, Ryan leaned against the wall and rubbed his eyes. He’d asked Ned to step out with him while Gwen helped Tommy to the bathroom.

Ned frowned. “There are a lot of bugs floating around a hospital. I wonder which one got you.” Though of course he knew exactly which bug was to blame. Just like Frank Hammertoe, Ryan had been on the wrong side of Ned’s touch.

“I need some ibuprofen or something.” Ryan scowled as if a bolt of pain had flared behind his eyes. “My head is killing me.”

“You should go home and get some rest. I’ll be glad to sit in for you.”

“Not a chance.” Ryan lowered his voice. “I don’t want to miss a single minute that he has left.”

Ned looked in the room, where Gwen was leading Tommy back to bed. “It seems like his spirits are up.”

“Because you’re taking his mind off things,” said Ryan. “Before you got here, he wasn’t this good.”

“Really?”

Ryan dropped his voice even lower. “He’s dying in there. He’s got a few more weeks, tops.”

“But what about that study you were talking about?”

Ryan shook his head slowly.

Ned’s frown deepened. A few weeks? His first thought was that didn’t leave much time to harvest the luck he needed.

His second thought was something else altogether. “You’re lying to him?”

“We don’t want him to lose hope,” whispered Ryan. “We want him to keep fighting. We want as much time with him as we can get.”

“But doesn’t he deserve to know—”