That night Galen slept fitfully and woke up tangled in the sheets. He had twisted them tighter trying to burrow into the bed, like an animal digging its way out of danger. The meetings did that to him, and he hated it. But there was nowhere else to turn. His days were empty without the mystery school.
Standing in the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror, saddened by the puffy roundness of his face, his absent hairline, and his bloodshot eyes. Why was nothing working?
Nobody owes you anything, he reminded himself. Get a grip.
Back in the bedroom he pulled on the pants and shirt he’d flung over a chair. A bright spot glinted out of the corner of his eye. He leaned over and picked up the penny, which had fallen out of his khakis.
Really? he thought. It wasn’t clear what another dose of magic would do. He’d already floated through the universe. He was tempted to throw it away the minute he got to the hospital parking lot. Galen had a deep suspicion of magic. It was primitive and mindless. As a child, he recalled random visits from a whiskery, smelly uncle, the last of the farming stock his mother came from. When Galen was ten, Uncle Rodney pulled him aside and produced a dollar bill from his wallet.
“I got somethin’ real important to show you,” he said. His tone was conspiratorial. He pushed the boy’s hand away when Galen reached for the money. “This isn’t for you, no sir.”
Uncle Rodney gave the bill a snap. “This is the first dollar I ever made. It’s sacred to me. If I ever lose it, Lord knows what will happen.”
“You’d have one less dollar,” said Galen.
“No! Much worse. I’d probably go bust.”
“Why?”
His uncle frowned. “What do you mean why? Don’t you believe in luck?” His breath smelled of chewing tobacco and bad teeth.
Galen turned and fled, much to his uncle’s disgust. The only luck was bad luck—the boy knew that very well. Fortune was a secret enemy, and no matter how often you begged her to be kind, her treachery could never be appeased.
This recollection distracted him from throwing the penny away. He thoughtlessly pocketed it along with the rest of his loose change, which he’d neatly laid out in rows on the dresser. The winter sun was bright and high in the sky. Time to go out.
Because he was sulky and absent-minded, he didn’t notice that he was headed in the wrong direction, away from the bus stop. Galen hung his head, mechanically counting his steps, when a stranger bumped into him. The next second, he felt something wet and hot. The man had spilled coffee down Galen’s front.
“Watch it!” Galen snapped. He looked up, and it was no stranger. It was Malcolm, the kid reporter, who had rushed out of a Starbucks without looking where he was going.
“Jeez, are you okay, man?”
“I don’t know.” The coffee wasn’t boiling hot, but it was Galen’s habit to make someone else squirm for a change when he had the chance.
Malcolm looked genuinely apologetic. “Listen, I have a little time. Can I get you something to eat? How have you been?”
What is this? Galen thought. The last person who had said a kind word to him was Iris. The memory brought a stab of pain. His natural instinct was to brush the kid off and scurry down the street.
Before he could do this, Malcolm said, “You’ve been keeping out of trouble, I hope.”
Malcolm’s cell phone rang. He held up his hand, saying, “Just a second,” and answered it.
Galen’s hand wandered into his pocket, touching the change he was carrying. At that moment an unusual thought came into his head.
This kid pities you. Is he wrong?
Galen didn’t know how to react. Malcolm’s call was brief, and when he said good-bye, his face had fallen.
“I guess I have more time on my hands than I thought,” he muttered. “They cancelled my assignment.”
Galen’s hand lingered in his pocket. In the back of his mind he knew he was touching the magic penny.
Without a second thought he said, “You’re going to be fired tomorrow.”
“What?” The kid backed away a step.
“Tomorrow morning the city editor is going to let you go. That’s why he took your story away.”
“Jesus.” Malcolm looked badly shaken. He had a sinking feeling that he was hearing the truth. “What am I going to do?”
The words came out involuntarily. The last person on earth he wanted to share his trouble with was the nut job from the museum fiasco.
“I know you think I’m a loser,” said Galen, “but I can help. Come back here after they fire you.” He saw the doubt written on Malcolm’s face. “Sometimes weird people like me actually know something. You and me, we’re a lot alike,” he added.
“Wow, it’s that bad?” Malcolm mourned. Galen was older than his father. He resembled a dumpling in wrinkled khakis. He probably had nothing to do but wander around all day pestering people. How could they be alike?
But by then Malcolm was starting to feel panicky. He turned away mumbling, “I have to make some calls” as he punched numbers into his cell phone. He wandered down the sidewalk without saying good-bye.
The voice in Galen’s head said, He’ll be back.
Which wasn’t good news. Galen was almost as shaken as the kid. Some impulse he couldn’t control had taken over. Why else had he said those things? He wasn’t the kind to meddle in other people’s affairs, ever.
Retracing his steps, Galen scurried home to clean the coffee stains off his jacket and scarf. This took only a few minutes, and afterward he didn’t feel like mingling with the crowd at the mall anymore. Who does that anyway, besides losers?
The next morning he went back to the corner where the Starbucks stood. It took half an hour to talk himself into going; this time the only coin he put in his pocket was the penny. The day was gray and windy. There were gusts of sleet, and Galen almost turned back. A lifetime of missed opportunities told him not to.
Amazingly, Malcolm was there, sitting on the steps of the coffee shop. He looked miserable. “All right, I got sacked. So tell me the wisdom of the weird.”
He followed Galen inside. As they stood in line, neither spoke. Galen felt cold with panic. Why had he lured this kid into meeting him?
The voice in his head returned. Don’t worry. It will be like talking to your double.
Galen laughed, and Malcolm whipped around. “Something funny?” He looked irritated and as nervous as Galen.
“Potentially,” Galen replied. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
After they took a table, Malcolm didn’t make eye contact. He gulped his coffee until Galen said, “Slow down. No one’s keeping you here.”
“I’ve been thrashing this out in my mind,” Malcolm said. “You took a lucky guess yesterday, didn’t you?”
It would have been easy to say yes, and that would have been the end of it. But Galen remembered Meg’s image of living behind bars. For the first time in his life, he asked for guidance.
Malcolm mistook his silence. “I thought so,” he said, pushing his coffee away and starting to get up. “It was nice knowing you.”
“If you stay, you’ll get your job back.”
“Bull.”
“What have you got to lose?”
“I dunno, my self-respect?” Malcolm hesitated, perplexed, but he sat back down again. “What’s the plan?”
Galen clasped his hands together under the table to keep them from trembling. “Go back to the paper. But you have to take me with you.”
“Now?”
“Yes.” Galen managed what he hoped was a confident smile. “I’ll know what to do when we get there.”
“Because you’ve run your life so spectacularly that way, right? Jesus!”
Malcolm didn’t mute his insolence. He felt entitled to it, being young and employed. Except that the second part wasn’t true anymore. The gap between them was closing. Wearily he got up and let Galen follow him out of the coffee shop, not looking over his shoulder.
They drove in silence through the cold, gray day. In the newspaper parking lot, Galen expected the kid to get cold feet, but he marched the two of them upstairs to the newsroom. The city editor’s desk had several reporters gathered around it, drinking coffee and shooting the breeze. No one looked Malcolm’s way.
Coming to his senses, he shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Why did I listen to you?”
Without replying, Galen walked up to the desk. “I’m Malcolm’s father. He’s sick of being on obits, but he didn’t want to tell you.”
The city editor was Galen’s age, but robust-looking, as red-faced as an Irish boxer. Behind him on a coatrack hung a trench coat and a fedora. He thought of himself as an old-school newspaperman.
“He should have had the guts to come to me himself,” he said.
“He was afraid he’d get fired,” Galen said.
“Fired?” The editor pointed to the circle of men around his desk. “These hacks would go first.”
He grinned wickedly at the reporter lounging on the corner of the desk. “Isn’t that right, Nicky?” The man stood up, faking a smile. No one looked very happy.
By this time Malcolm had walked up. He couldn’t believe what Galen was trying to pull off.
“This isn’t my fault,” he said apologetically.
His editor looked annoyed. “You call in sick yesterday, and now I don’t see any copy coming across my terminal.” He tapped the computer screen in front of him. “Your old man’s got a point. Forget obits. Someone else can pick up the slack. I want the story on police corruption you promised me.”
He seemed oblivious of the fact that he’d fired Malcolm earlier that morning. The reporters around the desk had all witnessed the scene, had watched Malcolm clear out his desk. Without comment they drifted back to their cubicles.
To keep the kid from opening his mouth, Galen dragged him away. It wasn’t easy.
“He doesn’t remember a thing,” Malcolm whispered. He sounded very agitated.
“Do you want him to remember?” Galen hissed.
“I want an explanation.”
Galen searched his mind for one. “He can’t remember because it never happened.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I must be.” Galen had no idea why such a bizarre explanation had come out of him. “Keep moving, and close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.”
Malcolm could have said, “It’s winter, there are no flies.” But he was dazed. Galen dragged him through the nearest door, which opened onto a stairwell. They both felt weak and sank down on the steps.
“This goes a lot farther than weird. Really. I guess I should be thanking you,” Malcolm managed to say.
Galen shook his head. “I didn’t do anything. I was just there.”
“So you’re not, like, a shaman or whatever?” Malcolm took a hard look at Galen and laughed. “Of course you’re not.” He got to his feet. “I meant that in the best possible way.”
Galen shrugged. “I doubt it.”
Malcolm opened the door to the newsroom, anxious to get back to work before his job vaporized again. He bit his lip, trying to think of something else to say. Nothing came, so he smiled weakly and left, letting the stairwell door bang shut behind him.
Galen took the magic penny out of his pocket and held it up to the light. It looked completely innocent, and the voice in his head said, Sometimes being here is all it takes.