Come to think of it, lots of people had died. And Jack was going to die, too. Diving in front of that bullet might have saved her for the time being—but apparently, it still wasn't good enough. Logan started to tremble. He could see Jack as if she were right in front of him: the way she dug up Robert's lawn, the way she peed on Robert's bathroom floor—the way she flew out of the woods and into Logan's arms when he thought he'd never see her again.
Now she was going to die.
Okay, okay, she wasn't dead yet. There had to be some hope. Dad was a good scientist. Wasn't he? She was under top care. She was still alive. She was badly hurt—unconscious, maybe—but alive. Logan squirmed under the covers. A hot ball of angry fire formed deep inside him. It started rising … rising up through his chest and into his throat and hitting his face and punching through— and all of a sudden, it exploded in a burst of tears.
To his horror, he found himself sobbing uncontrollably.
What am I doing? He had to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. He hated himself. He hadn't even wanted a stupid dog in the first place because the stupid dog was a stupid punishment handed down by the AllKnowing Dictator of Everything … and crying was pathetic and certainly not fitting for a master inventor or a fugitive from the law or a runaway. Not at all. But he cried so hard that he couldn't even catch his breath. And Mom and Robert just stood there, watching him. As if he were on display. As if he were some pathetic crying kid on a TV show.
He hadn't cried since he was seven years old.
“I'm so sorry, Logan,” Mom breathed. She stroked his hair with a tentative hand. “I'm so sorry.”
“Don't,” Logan choked out, brushing her hand away. His voice was thick. He sniffed and fought to control himself. “It's all right.” He drew in a couple of deep, shaky breaths. Relax. He was pretty sure that no more tears were coming—at least not right now. But that hot ball of fire was still there, still right behind his face. He could feel it.
Robert cleared his throat again. “Well, I … um, I'm going to go get that coffee,” he said. “Visiting hours are almost up.” His eyes flashed to Logan, then back to the floor. He took a deep breath. “Look, Logan, I just wanted you to know that …” He shook his head. “I don't know. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Logan stared at him. Make sure I'm okay. That might have been the stupidest thing Robert had ever said. Which, in a lifetime of stupidity, was a pretty impressive feat. But for once, Logan wasn't all that annoyed. Maybe it was because he was too angry and confused and miserable to be annoyed. Or maybe it was just that the All-Knowing Dictator of Everything had admitted something he never had before: “I don't know.” Now that was impressive. It didn't even matter that Logan had no idea what Robert was talking about. Robert didn't seem to have any idea what he was talking about—which meant that those three words must have been pretty tough for him to say. In fact, Logan actually felt sort of bad for the guy … the way he was just hovering by the bed with this strange, almost pleading look on his face. For a second, he almost wanted to reach out and pat Robert on the back.
“Thanks, Robert,” Logan said. “I'll be fine.”
Robert nodded. A strained smile crossed his face. “Hey, I meant to tell you,” he said. “Remember that remote control thing you made? It's come in pretty handy these past few weeks. I don't lose the remote anymore. I … uh, I guess I should thank you. As soon as you're better, you can show me how to work it the right way.”
He slunk out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Logan glanced at Mom.
“He's trying, Logan,” she whispered. “He really is.”
“So when can I go to the CDC Headquarters?” he asked.
Mom sniffed. “Logan, I think—”
Somebody knocked on the door.
“Yes?” Mom called.
A nurse stepped into the room. She smiled apologetically at Mom. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said. “But visiting hours are over.”
Mom nodded, blinking a few times. For a second, Logan wondered if she was going to cry. “I … I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” she whispered. She bent over and kissed him on the forehead, then hurried from the room.
The nurse smiled at Logan and shut the door.
Logan slumped back against his pillows.
For a long time, he lay still, groggily staring at the ceiling, struggling to sort out his thoughts. Why couldn't he go see Jack right now? What was the problem? They could take him there in an ambulance, couldn't they? His own father was working there, right? It was ridiculous. It stank. There was so much he wanted to know, that he had a right to know….
He really wished that nurse hadn't booted his mom out of here.
He really wished a lot of things, actually.
Well, maybe that wasn't quite true. When it came down to it, he pretty much had only one wish. He wished he were still unconscious. That way, he would still be with Jack.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
After three days of lying in bed—still hooked to all those different machines, with all those annoying tubes still jammed up his nostrils—Logan had a strange realization. He'd already watched more TV in this hospital, total, than he had in his entire life up until this point. It was kind of amazing.
Well, either that or pitiful. Or both.
Of course, it wasn't entirely his fault. The nurse on the day shift, Nurse Williams (who was really nice, in spite of the fact that she talked to Logan as if he were three) seemed to believe that he wanted the TV on at all times. She never asked if he wanted to do anything else. She seemed incapable of believing that a fourteenyear-old would want to do anything besides watch TV all day.
The interesting part was that Logan was starting to understand why she might think that—or more to the point, why so many people (Robert, for instance) spent so much time in front of the tube instead of, say, reading. Reading required actual concentration. If you skipped a paragraph, or even an important sentence, you could lose the entire story. With most TV shows, though, you didn't have to concentrate at all. You could space out for a good ten minutes, then come back and still figure out what was going on.
And that was a good thing, as far as Logan was concerned. At the moment, his concentration was completely shot.
He continued to stare blankly at the screen. It was a rerun of some ancient cop show. (That was another thing: at every hour of every day—even at 3 pm on a Saturday—you could always find a rerun of an ancient cop show.) As usual, there was a car chase. This episode was about how some rich guy had been murdered by his wife … or something. Logan was paying even less attention than usual.
Every few seconds, his eyes would drift over to the brand new set of How-To-Build Electronics books that Robert had bought for him yesterday. They sat untouched in a neat stack on top of his tray table, not two feet away. He really should crack one open. Then maybe he'd figure out how to build a miniature bionic lung so he could get out of this stupid bed and away from these dumb machines and be done with it.
But he didn't look at the books.
It wasn't just that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on them. It was that every time he glanced at them, his stomach kept twisting into a knot, and his brain kept producing a bunch of thoughts that he didn't want to deal with.
First, he thought about how truly shocking it was that Robert had done something nice for him. And not just anything nice, not just an offhand gesture, but something thoughtful and cool—and, in a symbolic sort of way, perfectly apologetic for all the lame things he'd done in the past, like taking away the books in the first place. Then he thought about all the other things that Robert done for him: getting him the baseball mitt, sending him to boot camp … and all that, of course, made him think about Jack. And then the hot ball of fire would start to rise and he would grit his teeth and the machine's beeping would get faster and louder….
Stop it.
Logan wrenched his eyes back to the TV set.
At the very least, he could wr
ite Robert a thank-you note. That would kill some time. It wouldn't take a whole lot of concentration, either.
Dear Robert, Thanks for the books. I mean it. Mom says you're trying, and I know that she's right, and I really appreciate it, and blah, blah, blah.
The standard thank-you note stuff. After that, he would—
“Your pet deserves the best!” a voice blared from the screen.
Logan flinched. He hadn't even noticed, but the cop show had cut to a cat-food commercial. Some woman who looked and sounded uncannily like Mrs. Dougherty from the animal shelter was snuggling with a little black cat. Right there. Right in front of his face.
Your pet deserves the best!
This was all wrong. Bad. Unwatchable. Logan fumbled for the remote and thrust it toward the screen, jabbing blindly at the buttons with his thumb.
The volume rose.
Logan's breath quickened. “Come on,” he hissed. “Come on—”
There was a knock on the door.
“Logan? It's Nurse Williams.”
“Okay!” he yelled automatically. The hot ball of fire was raging inside his body once more. His eyes darted to the remote and zeroed in on the power button. He grasped the remote with both hands and punched the button as hard as he could. The TV winked off just as Nurse Williams entered the room.
Logan glanced up at her. His heart was still racing.
He frowned. He couldn't even see her face. It was obscured by a massive floral arrangement.
“Look what I have,” she said in a happy, sing-song voice. “Lookwhat-I-ha-aah-ave.”
Logan gulped. He had no idea how to respond. The machine beeped away.
“Where shall I put them?” she asked.
“Uh … anywhere,” he finally managed. He shook his head, peering at the dizzying array of colors. “Are those for me?”
Nurse Williams laughed. “Of course they are,” she said, setting the flowers down on the hospital dresser. “Oh, doesn't that just brighten up the room? Some of your fans want to show their support.”
Logan wrinkled his forehead. “Some of my … fans?” he asked. It must be Dad, he thought. Of course. Apparently, Dad had been trying to call him several times a day, but every time he rang up, Logan was either asleep or getting examined. So this must be his way of saying sorry. Logan almost chuckled. Leave it his father to be clueless enough to send Logan flowers.
“It's from the Wallace family,” Nurse Williams said. She plucked a card from inside the pot and handed it to Logan.
His smile faded. The Wallace family?
“I'll leave your other mail on your tray, all right?” Nurse Williams said. She set down a small stack of cards and envelopes on top of the electronics books, then patted Logan on the head and left the room.
Logan blinked at the card. He wasn't sure which emotion was stronger: disappointment that his father still hadn't managed to get in touch with him, or disbelief that the Wallace family had sent him flowers. Best not to think about it, probably. He tore open the envelope.
The front of the card was blank, except for the words Get Well Soon embossed in gold lettering. Inside, there were two notes. The one on top was from Devon's parents.
Dear Logan,
Just wanted to let you know we're thinking of you and praying for a speedy recovery.
All Best,
Mr. and Mrs. Wallace
The other was from Devon himself.
Hey Logan,
I thought you might want to know that you're becoming a big celebrity around the neighborhood. Everybody asks me about Jack. I tell them that she dug out of your basement and ran forty miles to find you, which is the coolest thing ever. It's weird, because talking about your dog makes me feel a little better about my dog. I know that probably doesn't make a lot of sense. Otis died of POS three weeks ago. I guess I'm still kind of messed up about it. Anyway, I'm sorry I called Jack weird on the street that day.
Your friend,
Devon
Once again, Logan felt a peculiar knot in his stomach. He didn't know if he could take any more surprises. He'd always assumed Devon Wallace was an idiot. Devon Wallace had always acted like an idiot. But this … this was not the note Logan would ever dream Devon could write in a million years. Somehow, Devon managed to touch on what really was the coolest thing ever: that Jack had defied all odds and risked her life just to be with Logan. They were more than just dogowner and dog. They were partners. And Devon understood that.
The card began to tremble in Logan's fingers. He dropped it on the tray table. He knew he shouldn't think about Jack, but he couldn't help it. He should dig out of this hospital room and run away to be by her side. She brought out surprises in everyone: Robert, Mom … even Devon Wallace, somebody who barely knew her. But Logan understood why. Because when he'd been with Jack, he'd always surprised himself, too. He'd become somebody else, somebody better than the person he was by himself.
Only now did he realize it. Only now, while Jack was on lifesupport.
Logan swallowed and shook his head. Weird: His mood was crappy; he was on the verge of crying; he had plastic tubes up his nose; he was bedridden—but Devon Wallace had actually made him feel pretty good for a brief second. Now that was something he shouldn't think too hard about. At least not now. But maybe when he got back home, he would let Devon whip his butt in ping-pong.
Sighing, he reached for the envelope on the top of the pile. It, too, was plain white. There was no return address. He opened it and pulled out a letter.
Dear Logan,
I gave up trying to call, because you always seem to be asleep when I do. I know you need lots of rest, so I figured I'd write to you. This way, I can also think about what I really want to say.
First off, I hope you're feeling okay, in spite of everything that's happened. The doctor says that with some physical therapy, you'll be as good as new. But you know about doctors. After all, your old man's a doctor, and look at the way he turned out …
That was a joke.
I probably shouldn't be joking around right now. There isn't much to joke about. But I think anything that can make us laugh or smile is a good thing.
Logan, I know that you've heard about Jack's condition. And I know there's nothing I can do or say that will make you feel any better about it. I know, because I think about my own dog every single day. It's hard to describe. I've never been good with words. But every time I go for a walk, my hand feels empty, because there's no leash in it. And every time I sit down to eat, I lose my appetite because Jasmine isn't waiting for me to give her the scraps.
So I just want you to know, if you ever feel the same way, you won't be alone. You can even talk to me about it.
I want you to know something else, too. Because of what you did, we were able to keep Jack alive. That bullet would have killed her for sure.
But I also have a confession to make: I was angry with you for jumping in front of that gun. I was angry because if I had lost you, I'd never be able to tell you how proud you make me. You're honest and brave—two qualities that are generally in pretty short supply on this planet.
Anyway, we're going to keep Jack on life-support until you come and say good-bye to her. That's a promise. I've been working with Dr. Marks and the CDC to use her cells to create a treatment for POS. It's going to take a while longer, but things are looking very positive. I truly believe that soon, thanks to Jack, we'll put an end to this disease once and for all.
You deserve a lot of the credit for this, too. This was your dog. This was the dog that you chose and loved and cared for and fought for until the very end. You saved her life, and as a result, I think you're going to save a lot of other lives, as well— both dogs and people.
There's no quick fix. But there's hope for a cure.
I guess that's all for now. I'll see you as soon as you're well enough.
Love,
Dad
P.S. Mom was right about me. So were you. But I'm trying.
Log
an folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. A tear fell from his cheek and splashed on the paper.
There's no quick fix.
No, there never was. Dad had been right in the car that day: life wasn't stable. It was about as far from stable as you could get. Life was a rickety old spaceship in the middle of a meteor storm, bouncing around and getting smashed and making you feel like you were going to puke, and you just had to hold onto your fellow astronauts and try to make it through, because that was the only choice you had.
Which meant that maybe trying was enough. Or not.
But in the end, trying was really all you could ask a person to do.
EPILOGUE
OCTOBER 5
Article published on page 1 of The Redmont
Daily Standard,October 5
“JACK” LAID TO REST
CANINE RESPONSIBLE FOR POS CURE
BURIED AT HER HOME
BY SHEILA DAVIS
NEWBURG, OR, October 5—Jack, the only dog ever proven to be immune to POS (psychotic outburst syndrome), whose cell tissue was used in the recent development of an experimental POS antidote and vaccine, died Thursday night at a CDC research facility in Portland. She was approximately a year old.
Jack became internationally famous in the wake of the POS epidemic after it was discovered she could not be infected with the disease.
A wild mix of a variety of dog breeds, Jack was picked up by the ASPCA in June of this year, wandering on Route 78 just outside of Newburg. She was brought to the Newburg animal shelter.
“To be honest, we didn't think we'd ever find a home for her,” Ruth Dougherty, the director of the shelter, stated. “She was just too wild. And not friendly at all.”
Fourteen-year-old Logan Moore, however, apparently saw past her less than desirable personality traits. He insisted on adopting her, in spite of warnings from Ms. Dougherty and other employees of the shelter.
“It was pretty amazing to see them together,” Logan's mother, Marianne Moore, said in a recent interview. “Jack didn't seem to like most people, but she and Logan had an instant rapport.”
The Last Dog on Earth Page 18