Luis had felt bad for the woman trying to answer questions. He hoped he never had a job like that. But the lady wearing the Bernie shirt seemed to think she was hiding something. Was it an accident that the electricity was off? Or was it something else?
Luis thought about what he’d heard. A grid, okay, that was like the pattern on graph paper, a bunch of connected squares. So maybe the power grid was a bunch of interconnected circuits, like his science fair project, or his house, only bigger. And instead of lightbulbs or toasters or microwave ovens on the circuits, there were whole households, whole businesses, whole factories.
The wires on the poles outside, they were part of the grid, right? Part of the network of circuits. And the battery? That was the power plant.
Reasoning had taken Luis that far when the commercials ended and the local news came back. Sitting behind a desk was an Asian woman. She also had smooth hair and straight teeth.
“If you’re tuning in, officials so far blame several accidents on the power outage still gripping the region at this hour,” she said. “A fifty-four-year-old woman was seriously injured this morning when her 2005 Chevy Cavalier was struck by another vehicle at an intersection where traffic signals were out.
“Two more people, a man and a woman, both elderly, were found unconscious after relatives failed to contact them. Apparently, the backup power to their breathing apparatuses failed. They are currently being treated at Whitman Hospital. As you heard from NJL spokeswoman—”
“This is bad,” Maura said.
Luis shook his head. “I always thought disasters were like storms and bombs and earthquakes. I never thought of this.”
When commercials came on, Luis and Maura returned to the emergency room waiting area. Mrs. Brown was there, giving information to a clerk writing on a clipboard. The clerk kept apologizing for how long it was taking. The hospital had generators providing emergency power, she said, but there were problems with the Internet connection, and some of the computers were down.
“That’s why we’ve got these paper forms,” she said. “It’s a whole new system for most of us, and it takes forever. I know it’s hard on the families too.”
Finally, Mr. O’Hara was assigned to the intensive care unit—the ICU—on the fifth floor. Mrs. Brown went with him on a special elevator for patients. On the regular elevator, Maura and Luis found a sign taped up: USE STAIRS IF POSSIBLE.
“Five floors?” Luis complained.
“It’ll be good for us,” Maura said—but she didn’t look like she meant it.
The stairwell was crowded and dark. Luis stayed to the right and kept his palm on the railing for guidance. On the fourth-floor landing an overweight man leaned against the wall, wheezing and sweating.
“Are you okay?” Maura asked him.
“Just gotta get my breath,” the man panted. “Thanks.”
Luis had never thought of climbing stairs as dangerous before, but what if that guy had a heart attack? Had there even been tall buildings before there were elevators? Luis figured maybe not.
Luis and Maura were both out of breath when at last they made it to the fifth floor. Mrs. Brown was there already, sitting in the ICU waiting area. Her eyes were closed, and she was leaning her head against the wall behind her.
“Mom?” Maura said. “Resting your eyes?”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Brown said.
“Have you talked to the doctor? What did he say?” Maura asked.
“It’s a she, actually, and your grandpa has had a stroke.” Mrs. Brown opened her eyes. “They’re going to do a CT scan as soon as they can and give him medicine. They need to find out what part of the brain is affected.”
“I know that word—stroke—but I don’t really know what it means,” Luis said.
“It means a problem with the way your blood flows in your brain,” said Mrs. Brown. “Maybe there’s a clot, like a scab only on the inside. Maybe a blood vessel broke. Either way, it causes damage. The question is how much.”
“Is that why Grandpa’s face was all funny?” Maura said. “Is that why he couldn’t talk?”
Mrs. Brown shut her eyes again and nodded. “It could be. The affected part might be the part in charge of speech.”
“But will he be okay?” Luis asked. This seemed like the important question. Cut to the chase.
Mrs. Brown shrugged one shoulder. “They’ve already done some tests and given him medicine. The nurse told me people sometimes recover fully, but it depends. Right now he’s resting.”
“Can we see him?” Maura asked.
“He was awake when I came out here,” said Mrs. Brown. “The nurses were fussing with something, so I gave them some space. They’ll be gone by now, so go ahead if you want. Oh, wait.” She leaned forward and got to her feet slowly. Her eyes were still red, and her face looked pale. “I think I have to go with you. Kids aren’t allowed on their own in the ICU.”
Luis and Maura followed Mrs. Brown through the double doors. Inside, half a dozen people wearing scrubs stood behind a counter as tall as Luis’s chest. All of them were writing on clipboards, talking on the phone, or both.
“The worst part is no coffee,” one of them said.
“These are Mr. O’Hara’s grandchildren,” Mrs. Brown said.
“Don’t stay too long,” said the woman who was seated. She did not look up.
The ICU was about half the size of the Dudley gymnasium. Lining the walls were hospital beds, each one set off by curtains. Most of the beds were occupied, and all were surrounded by equipment—bags of liquid on poles, beeping heart monitors, wires everywhere. The patients seemed to be part machine themselves.
Unlike the corridor, the ICU was brightly lit. This is how hospitals are supposed to look, Luis thought. Finally, I’m in a room full of normal.
Mr. O’Hara’s color had not improved. When Maura saw him, she blinked and wiped her eyes. Luis said a little prayer to Jesus: Please, whatever happens, don’t ever let me look as bad as that.
“Grandpa?” Maura said. “It’s Maura. My friend Luis is here. The ambulance brought you, remember? Everything is going to be fine.”
Luis said a second prayer: One more thing, Jesus. Please never again let anyone talk to me in a preschool-teacher voice.
Suddenly—spookily—Mr. O’Hara’s right eye opened wide, or maybe it only looked wide compared to the collapsed left side of his face. The eyeball darted around as if seeking someplace to focus. He looks scared, Luis thought, and then Luis felt scared himself.
Mr. O’Hara opened his mouth, closed it, then mumbled something that seemed to be nonsense. “Zap,” he said, and then, “Seven forty-two.”
CHAPTER TEN
Mrs. Brown hadn’t understood what her father said. Maura repeated it, and she shrugged. “According to the doctor, they babble sometimes. It’s like the signal between the brain and the tongue is bad.”
“Didn’t he say it before, though?” Luis asked Maura. “Zap.”
Maura didn’t answer. Mr. O’Hara had closed his eyes again. Now he looked more peaceful. Maybe he was delivering a message, Luis thought. He said it, and now he feels better. But what does the message mean?
“I think we can go home, kiddo,” Mrs. Brown said to her daughter. “It’s been quite a day, and I am beat and starving. How about a can of cold chili for dinner? Mmm—doesn’t that sound good?”
Maura told her grandpa good-bye, and the three of them made their way back through the ICU.
“You’re forgetting, Mom,” Maura said. “We’ve got a camp stove. We can heat up chili—and tea and hot chocolate too.”
In the corridor, Mrs. Brown blinked. “I did forget,” she said.
“Maybe we should invite neighbors over?” Maura said. “Luis, do you want to come? Other people aren’t as lucky as us, after all. They are going to be hungry for something warm.”
“Luis is always welcome,” Mrs. Brown said. “The power will be back soon, but if it’s not . . .”
“What?” Maura looked a
t her mom.
Mrs. Brown shrugged. “If it’s not, we might need those supplies for ourselves. The neighbors will be fine. No one’s going to starve.”
“Hot food sounds great, thanks, but I’m gonna go home,” Luis said. “I should see about my parents. For sure their phones are dead.”
The TV was still on in the lobby when they walked through after the long descent. “—with alarm systems out of commission, there are scattered reports of looting and vandalism coming in from around . . . ,” the news anchor was saying.
Luis had to push hard on the automatic doors to open them. Under the portico outside, a security guard with a flashlight met them. “Walk you to your car, folks?” he said.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, will it?” Mrs. Brown said.
“It’s a good idea, ma’am,” he said. “Situation like this brings out the worst in some people. With your kids, and all . . .”
Mrs. Brown shrugged. “Okay.”
“My bike’s right here,” Luis told the guard.
“Sure you don’t need a ride?” Maura asked. “We can throw the bike in the trunk.”
“Actually . . .” Mrs. Brown looked embarrassed. “I’m almost out of gas.”
“I gotta make a stop on the way anyway,” Luis said. “If any bad guys try to chase me, I’ll outrun ’em.”
“See you at school tomorrow,” Maura said. “At least I hope.”
Luis smiled. “Did you ever think you’d say ‘I hope’ about going to school?”
Luis unlocked his bike and jumped on. Bathed in darkness, the town of Hampton felt unfamiliar, and the ride seemed much longer than it should have. The only light came from the moon, the city across the river, and the few cars out on the road. The darkened fast-food places made the landscape especially weird. McDonald’s, Popeyes, and Taco Bell were as much a part of his geography as the river was. With them changed, everything else seemed to be changed too.
Cresting a hill, Luis briefly viewed a black ribbon of water and the tall buildings of the big, brightly lit city beyond. In English at the end of last year, they had learned about metaphor. A metaphor was when you used one thing to stand in for another, like calling sadness a dark sea, or a fast-moving football a bullet. Now it seemed to Luis as if the bright city and the dark city were metaphors—one for hope and the other for despair.
The stop Luis wanted to make was at Señora Álvaro’s bodega. He’d been hauling around the chocolate milk all day in his backpack. What were the odds that it was still okay to drink? Anyway, he had to fess up that he’d never found the genius. He’d go looking tomorrow, he’d promise. He hoped she was still there. He hoped she wouldn’t be too mad.
Two blocks from the bodega, Luis saw shadows moving in the vacant lot on Erie Street. As he watched, they morphed into three slender figures—kids, teenagers probably. Luis’s mental map of the neighborhood had been earned by thorough exploration. They must have come through the rickety fence from the alley. Luis swung his bike left onto Main Street. Halfway down the block, he could make out the bodega on the corner. It was dark like everywhere. Had Señora Álvaro given up in the dark? But wait, something flickered inside. A candle maybe, or a lantern. Like Maura’s grandpa, Señora Álvaro must have been prepared for a blackout. If Luis had to bet, he would bet she was in there counting up cash.
Señora Álvaro was meticulous that way. “Meticulous” was one of her words, meaning careful to do things right. She always said que no era Einstein—she was no Einstein—but she was meticulous. That was how she kept her bodega in business. Meticulous and tough.
Without bothering to brake, Luis threw his leg over his bike seat, jumped off, and ran alongside till the front tire bumped the door.
“¡Hola, Señora! Hey, it’s me, Luis!”
“Dios mío. Un momentito,” Señora Álvaro said. “¿Qué quieres, Luis? How has the dark day treated you? One thing good, for once I go to bed early. Tú también. Take my advice. No watching videos on your phone. Save the battery!”
“Claro, Señora, por supuesto,” he answered, and then he hesitated. He didn’t really want to confess. He’d put it off a second or two. “Are you okay here by yourself? I saw some kids around, and I heard on TV there’s been trouble—people stealing from stores, I guess.”
Señora Álvaro shook her head. “My neighbors would never mess with la señora. If I close up, where do they get their cigarettes and Red Bull?”
“Bueno, bueno—” Luis was getting ready to say why he’d stopped by when a crack interrupted. This was followed by the sound of shattering glass, then sharp voices, and a squeal of laughter—all of it much too close. It sounded like a window smashed in the storeroom behind the bodega.
Luis felt a pang and straightened up. He wasn’t so much afraid as he was ready: If you’re coming in, let’s do this already.
“Dios mío,” Señora Álvaro murmured, and Luis thought he saw her cross herself. “Don’t you—,” she started to tell him, perhaps remembering the kid setting himself up to protect her was all of eleven years old.
Luis wished his brother were there. He wished there was only one kid instead of three. He even wished—halfway—that he had ridden on by Señora Álvaro’s bodega so that he was home now, bored maybe, but safe in his own blue room.
He hadn’t, though. And he’d known Señora Álvaro all his life. She needed his help. Unconsciously, he squared his shoulders.
“Hey, you kids!” He tried to make his voice deep and scary. “You get outta here before we call the police.”
More sharp voices. More laughter. Then a crack like a stick hitting the metal siding of the store. A stick, or a baseball bat? Luis didn’t like to think of baseball bats. Did they have a gun? Señora Álvaro had always bragged she didn’t need one. Like she said, the neighborhood needed her bodega and would protect it.
So tonight I am the neighborhood, Luis thought.
The sounds seemed to be moving from the back of the bodega toward the front. Maybe breaking a window, making noise—it was just somebody’s idea of entertainment. Or were they coming inside?
Luis got his answer a moment later when the front door pushed open, and the shadows became all too solid flesh and blood.
“You kids get out of here!” Señora Álvaro puffed up with courage. “What would your parents—”
“You been taking in cash all day, right, Señora? It’s only right you should share,” said the tallest of the shadows—a boy with a red ski mask covering his face.
“Share and share alike,” said a girl, “you know, same as Sunday school.”
She was about Luis’s height but had a very grown-up shape. She wasn’t masked, but Luis didn’t know her. She must not live in the neighborhood. Maybe the tall kid was trying to impress her?
The third kid, a boy also without a mask, began to laugh uncontrollably. He was unsteady on his feet. He leaned against the freezer case and hiccupped.
“Share and share alike,” the girl repeated. She must’ve liked the way that sounded. Now Luis realized the two of them were drunk. The odor of tequila breath filled the small space.
“Get outta here,” Luis repeated. “Get outta here now. The señora is my friend.”
“If she’s so friendly, she wants to help us out, right?” said the tall boy, who was crazy if he thought the mask disguised him. His name was Tony Cencerro, and everyone knew he bossed a loose band of kids who were in and out of trouble for stupid petty crimes. Bad as he was, Tony disliked guns. That was one reason a lot of parents turned a blind eye if their kids ran with him. The parents hoped it would keep their kids out of worse trouble, more dangerous gangs.
The drunk boy began to moan. “I don’t feel so good.”
Tony looked down at him, disgusted. “Entonces, go on home to Mamita.”
Luis began to calculate. Tony’s around sixteen, I think. I can take him if I have to. I can take him because I’m smarter. Also, I haven’t been drinking. No problem.
An opposing voice spoke in Luis’s h
ead, too, a sane one, his brother’s maybe, and it said: What are you talking about? You’re eleven. You are half his size. All those push-ups won’t count for much against his weight advantage. You are going to get annihilated. Run while you can!
“I called the cops. They’re are on their way,” Señora Álvaro lied.
“The police got emergencies all over South Jersey,” Tony said. “They’ll get here next week if you’re lucky.”
With that Tony advanced toward the counter.
And Luis sidestepped to face him.
“What’re you, the Karate Kid?” Tony grabbed Luis’s shoulder, ready to shove him aside. But Luis set his feet and clenched his right fist. Annihilated maybe, but he’d get in one punch, and he would give it all he had.
But then Jesus, or someone, stepped in to help him out. From the vicinity of the drunk kid, who should’ve gone home to his mamita when he had the chance, came the unmistakable sound of puking—followed at once by the unmistakable smell.
“Are you kidding me?” Distracted, Tony looked over his shoulder at the still retching boy. Seeing his chance, Luis let go with a right that knocked Tony off-balance, followed by a left that knocked him into the candy rack. “Ow—hey!” Tony put up his hand and lurched forward so that his left foot skidded into the vomit and he sat down hard.
The girl, meanwhile, was shrieking. Laughing? Crying? Luis couldn’t tell.
Tony seemed to be paralyzed for the moment, still trying to figure out what had happened. One second he’d been on his feet about to grab some cash, and the next he was on the floor, his butt soaking in vomit.
Soon the sick boy stumbled to the door to leave. The girl—sulking now—was right behind him.
“Vaya con Dios,” Luis said.
“Tú también—you too.” Señora Álvaro nodded at Tony.
A minute passed before the masked boy accepted the inevitable, got to his feet, and made for the door—his jeans filthy, wet, and reeking. You could almost feel sorry for him, Luis thought. Almost but not quite.
Zap! Page 4