Mr. Dillinger was awake – sort of – but still technically in a coma. He made no attempt to talk, and even if he had tried to speak, the tubes running down his throat for feeding and breathing would have prevented him from doing so.
But his eyes were open. At times, he seemed to recognize the faces that loomed in and out of his vision. If Mr. Dillinger could see, Travis figured, he must have wondered who all these young men and women were. They would have looked vaguely familiar, but not quite right – taller, larger versions of the kids he had once known as the Screech Owls. Fahd might still be Fahd, but this Fahd had a three-day growth of beard and a small diamond in his left earlobe.
The Owls held a private reunion party at Travis’s apartment that first evening, but it was hardly the grand celebration that Travis envisioned when he first planned it. After their initial high spirits, the players were subdued, talking quietly about their new lives and laughing sporadically as one or another remembered a particular incident from the past, like the time they piled shaving cream on Travis’s head when he was sleeping, or the time they froze Nish’s underwear.
Nish was missed. But so, too, eventually, was Sam. The others had noticed she had failed to show at the hospital, even though Travis said she came every day.
“I don’t understand,” said Jenny. “She was always first to join in on anything.”
“She’s completely caught up in the fight against the casino,” explained Travis, but he knew it was just an excuse. She could easily have come.
“Fahd says she won’t play,” said Lars. “That true?”
“I don’t think she will,” said Travis.
The air was slipping out of the reunion, and everyone at Travis’s apartment could feel it.
Travis was almost glad of the distraction when the doorbell rang. Had Fahd and Data ordered pizza?
The sound of the doorbell was followed by a sharp rap on the door.
Travis hurried and opened it.
Instantly, he felt the gathering regain its excitement.
It was Sarah.
Sarah had not changed a bit. No, that wasn’t it: she had changed incredibly. Sarah had become a charismatic and very attractive young woman, her golden brown hair sparkling in the light of the room and her smile as infectious as ever. She was a gold-medal winner, the hero of the Canadian Olympic victory over the United States. She was being talked about in the papers as the likely winner of the Athlete of the Year award. She was on the front of the cereal box on the table in Travis’s small kitchen. She was on the cover of magazines. She was on the television talk shows, featured in a half-dozen different advertising campaigns, from milk to fair play in hockey to new Chevrolet cars. She was a genuine star.
But she was also still the Sarah Cuthbertson they all knew, ever the thoughtful friend. She went around the room with a hug and a kiss and a special word for every single person there. It was as if the Owls had never broken up, never gone their separate ways. It was as if the Screech Owls were a team for life, a team forever, with Travis the captain, Sarah the heart and soul, and Nish the …
“Who does he think he is, anyway?” Sarah asked after she had heard the tale of the missing Nishikawa.
“He won’t answer my calls.” Travis said.
“Do you have the right numbers?” she asked.
“I got them from his mother,” Travis answered. “I get his voice asking to leave a message. There’s no doubt the numbers are his.”
“Give me them,” Sarah ordered. She was in a no-fooling-around mood. Travis immediately got his notebook.
“Do you have a phone in your bedroom?” Sarah asked.
Travis nodded.
“Let me have it for a bit,” she said.
Travis led her to the bedroom, opened the door – petrified that she would find it a mess – and watched as Sarah stepped in and firmly shut the door behind her.
This would be a private call.