Free Bonds of Earth by G. N. Chevalier

habit of catering to him. She prepared his meals and washed his clothes, he’d told her; when her day was done, she didn’t need to drop whatever she was doing to serve him.
    Debating with himself for a few seconds, he sat beside Sarah, easing into the chair as smoothly as possible considering all of his joints were creaking like rusty hinges. As he ate his cold pork and potatoes, he watched her write her numbers slowly and carefully, with the painstaking precision of a child.
    “Careful there,” he warned when she made a small error in her multiplication. Her pencil stopped, hovered over the numbers for a moment; then she reached for the eraser and corrected herself.
    “Thank you,” she said without looking up from the paper.
    “Not at all,” Michael said, heart hammering against his ribs. Those were the first words she’d spoken to him in what felt like ages, and he was astonished that it meant so much to him.
    Then she peeked up at him shyly, and he realized it wasn’t so astonishing. Against his will, the little thing was burrowing into his shriveled heart; he was defenseless against her.
    “I burn like that, too,” she confided.
    “Good thing you weren’t out today, then, or your grandmother would have two lobsters for the pot.”
    This prompted a tiny smile from her, and he felt warmth diffuse through his limbs. The three of them sat companionably for a few minutes, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator’s compressor and the scritch-scritch of Sarah’s lead against the paper.
    And then a muffled shout pierced the room, bringing Michael to his feet just ahead of Sarah and Mary. They raced for the hall door, Michael reaching it first and yanking it open.
    Seward was hobbling toward them at a quicker pace than Michael had ever seen him manage, his expression stricken.
    “It’s Thomas,” he said. “He’s collapsed. I couldn’t help him.”
    Behind Michael, Mary gave a soft cry. “Where?” Michael demanded.
    “In the library.”
    Michael picked up his pace, running past Seward. “Is the nearest hospital in Hudson?”
    “Yes,” Seward shouted back as Michael reached the door.
    He found the old man lying slumped in the wing chair near the fire. Kneeling before him, Michael felt for a pulse in the wrist. It was thready and fast, but it was still there.
    Behind him, he heard footsteps. Not bothering to look around, he said, “He’s alive.” Mary whispered a brief prayer of thanks, and Michael loosened Abbott’s shirt and removed his tie before lifting his slight body into his arms.
    “I’m coming with you,” Mary said, and Michael nodded.
    “So am I.” Michael turned to see Seward propped up against the door frame, chest heaving. Michael’s jaw clenched as the rage at Seward’s selfishness rose over his head, threatening to drown him. With a great effort of will, he resisted the urge to lash out at him. It would serve nothing, and only waste time Abbott might not have.
    “If you aren’t there by the time I have the car started, we’re leaving without you,” Michael said shortly, striding off down the hall with his charge without waiting for a reply.

5

     
     
    I T WAS only a handful of miles to Hudson, but it took Michael twenty minutes over rutted dirt roads to reach the hospital. The car was a huge, ungainly beast, and it skidded several times as he took a particularly sharp turn.
    Sarah sat with him in the front seat, grim-faced and silent, while Mary and Seward sat in the back with Abbott laid out between them. Michael had considered giving one of them instruction in how to check his pulse, then decided against it. His vital signs were weak enough that they wouldn’t be detectible over the vibration of the car’s engine, and if his heart stopped on the way, Michael doubted he’d be able to revive him. Their only hope was to reach the hospital in time.
    Michael skidded to a stop outside the front doors of the main building, then bundled Abbott out of the car and up the