chair and, leaning forward, he shoved them and the chair toward the audience.
“Hey, wait, no,” Lenny said. “Max. This is highly inappropriate.” The chair wobbled and bucked as it slid and screeched along the stage, with Max moving one side forward, then the other. It scratched the stage with the resistance of wood against wood, and squeaked in places as Max fought its weight. Max stood back, then leaned in and pushed the full force of his heft against the chair.
The chair went over. As it toppled, Lenny flung out his arms in unbalanced circles and tumbled out of his seat into the crowd, a complex blur of flailing limbs, knocking against one of the chairs in the audience.
The chair that Lenny fell on toppled too, and the one behind it teetered and collapsed, setting off a magnificent clattering procession of chairs knocking over chairs. A chorus of gasps and screams erupted. Movement passed through the audience in a great spiraling wave that was almost beautiful.
But Max did not stay to see. He grabbed his office chair by an arm rest and, pushing it, rolled it toward the back of the stage. Behind him the stage hand and nurse were still staring, dazed, at the debacle, but when the stage hand saw where he was headed, he unfroze and his eyes widened.
The stage hand put his massive bulk between Max and the bassinet, and as Max went forward, the man grabbed Max by his shirt.
Max wrenched away, lifted his chair, pulled it back, and swung it as hard as he could at the stage hand, knocking him backward and into the gasping nurse. The stage hand did not cry out but, struggling to regain balance, he stared at Max in amazement.
Before the stage hand could fully recover his senses, Max gathered the bundle of baby from the bassinet, her weight warm and soft. He pulled her close against his chest as her fists latched onto his shirt.
“Come on,” he whispered as he headed toward the door. “No more needles.” The down of her hair felt soft against his chin.
The baby babbled as he moved behind the curtain toward the doors in the dressing room that led outside. As he made his way into the alien streets he could hear, behind him, a terrified cry, “The atavist is gone!”
In the darkness Max hurried as fast as he could without dropping Josie. There were no streetlights to guide him, but the full moon cast a silvery haze into the mist. The white, luminous particles reminded him of falling snow.
As he ran, he remembered the day he lost his trail and could imagine that his new life had picked up where his old one left off. Once more, he had to find a way to safety. But this time he would not fail. Before, he had no purpose. Before, he had no path.
But he was on a road this time, and roads led places, even dark ones.
He knew there would be many more to cross. But he would cross them, all of them, no matter how dark or treacherous, to keep Josie safe, the hopeful, squirming weight of her, the whole of humanity vibrant, warm inside his arms.
Becoming the Story Page 3