On Sunday, the Screech Owls practised at noon–Nish skating, but unable to shoot–and afterwards Muck asked the team to assemble again at the hospital in an hour. They were going to visit Data.

When the Owls got there, they found Data’s doorway almost blocked with other patients trying to look inside. There were even a couple of doctors on tiptoe trying to get a peek over the crowd. The fact that the doctors weren’t pushing their way through to get to Data and were smiling told Travis there was nothing to worry about.

Everyone made room to let the Owls pass through, single file. There were more people in the room, doctors and nurses, and a man in a blue suit leaning over Data’s bed. The man had dark curly hair that was turning grey. Who was it?

Whoever he was, he looked up when Muck came in and shook his hand warmly. Muck looked sheepish, but the man seemed delighted, as if running into an old friend he’d been missing. Travis was no closer to guessing who the man was, but he did look oddly familiar.

Muck turned to the small crowd around Data’s bed, and everyone went even quieter than they had been.

“This, here, is Paul Henderson,” he said.

Paul Henderson! Of course! Travis had a special coin at home with Paul Henderson on it. He had a sheet of stamps with Paul Henderson on them that he had put away. Paul Henderson, hero of the 1972 Summit Series, the man who had scored the winning goal for Canada against the Soviets with thirty-four seconds left in the final game. The most famous goal in hockey history.

“How ya doing, boys?” Paul Henderson said, then caught himself, seeing Sarah and Liz off to one side, Jenny and Chantal on the other. “And girls? Good, good, the Screech Owls are a truly modern team, I see.”

“Mr. Henderson has something to announce,” Muck said.

“Well, actually it’s something Larry–sorry, Data–and I would both like to announce,” said Paul Henderson. He turned, smiling, towards Data.

“We’re going to play a game!” Data said from his bed. His voice sounded surprisingly strong.

“I proposed to Data that I bring a team of NHL old-timers up to Tamarack for a match. Muck’s lined up the Flying Fathers to play against us. They’re a bunch of priests who happen to play hockey–some of them pretty darn good–and they put on a great show. So–whatdya say to that?”

“Go for it!” shouted Nish.

“Yes!” shouted Andy.

“Shhhhh,” cautioned Sarah, reminding them where they were.

“Data, here, is going to need a few things,” said Paul Henderson. “We want him to have the best wheelchair money can buy. And we want to get him a special computer so he can get back to school. And his parents are going to need a special van so they can get him to hockey games and the like.”

Travis glanced quickly at Sarah, who smiled back. Travis wondered if Paul Henderson should even be talking about such things. But then, Data was already making unbelievable progress. The halo was gone, the small wounds where the screws had been tightened right into his skull were healing well. Best of all, he was getting some feeling and movement back in his shoulders, and he could move his right arm, though he had trouble gripping with his hand.

There was still nothing, however–no feeling at all–from Data’s chest on down. The doctors said it likely wouldn’t come back, and unless science one day figured out how to repair spinal cords, Data was never going to walk again.

“How did you find out about Data?” Fahd asked Paul Henderson. They were all wondering the same thing, but no one but Fahd would dare ask.

Paul Henderson smiled at Muck, who was standing in the far corner of the room, trying to avoid any attention.

“From my old friend, Muck. My old winger, I guess I should say.”

Winger? As in hockey winger? Muck seemed to be blushing.

“Muck played with you?” Fahd asked.

“I played with Muck,” Paul Henderson laughed. “We were on the same line in Kitchener.”

Every face in the room, including Data’s, was now turned towards Muck, who seemed to wish he could vanish into the wall. Every one of them was looking at Muck as if they’d never seen him before. He played with Paul Henderson?

“Was he any good?” Fahd asked.

“A lot better than me!” Paul Henderson laughed. “Maybe if you hadn’t busted that leg so bad, Muck, you’d have scored that goal in Moscow.”

“I’d’ve missed the net,” Muck muttered.

Then Muck cleared his throat, changing the subject. “Let’s clear this room so Data can get some rest now, okay?”