Free Sleepless by Cyn Balog Page A

you in this neighborhood again, I will call the police.”
    “Yes. Yes, sir,” I say, heading across the lawn, toward thestreet. If Chimere were watching, she’d giggle and say, Making friends already, are we?
    When I am out of the view of the gardener, I marvel at the pavement, at the way the morning sun makes its surface glitter like a chest of jewels. It’s been over a hundred years since I’ve been in a sun this brilliant; usually I’d spend the daylight hours hidden in the shade of the trees. In the dying orange rays of daytime, things take on a more somber, muted quality. Everything now is so much more intense I can’t help blinking furiously.
    A middle-aged man in shiny underpants lumbers toward me on the sidewalk. His face is ruddy, and he is breathing hard. His blank, unseeing eyes suddenly fix on me and narrow. It’s been years since humans have looked at me, and I shiver from the thrill of it. I tip my hat and say, “Good morning,” but the man does not reply. That is when I notice a small round device in his ear; the man must be hard of hearing. “Good morning!” I shout. But the man simply sneers and jogs on.
    Chimere’s voice rings in my ears. Oh, yes. You fit in quite gloriously here .
    I shrug and continue down the path, squinting in the light. Everything—the rooftops of the neighborhood colonials, the leaves on the trees, the identical black mailboxes—everything glints as though it were winking at me, welcoming me. Or perhaps warning me.
    I pull a crumpled paper from my vest pocket and study it, though I know perfectly well what it says: V. Harmon, 26 Hart Avenue, 2B . I memorized that information, for it holds the key to my human livelihood. How could I possibly survive morethan a few days as a human without money, without a place to live? V. Harmon is a former Sandman who offered up a room and some other items to help get me on my feet. Though I’ve never met him, I know he will be welcoming; he received the same kindness from another former Sandman when he returned to human life. It will be nice to have one friend in this world, one understanding soul to confide in.
    At the entrance to Julia’s development, there are a few people standing at a small glass-enclosed shelter. It’s a motley crew, a pretty woman with a baby, an old lady in a flowered dress, and a young man, perhaps my age, reading a magazine. The two women stare me up and down, looking shocked, and I’m certain it’s because of my dress. A dark three-piece suit, a top hat, and spats are too formal and stuffy for such a warm day. Perhaps V. Harmon will have some more fashionable attire for me to wear.
    I steal a look at the young man’s wardrobe. A vulgar black cotton shirt, sleeveless, like underclothes. It says Save the Trees—Eat a Beaver on it. Blue jeans, the kind I wore in the factory. The young man doesn’t look up. He slouches forward, rocking his head back and forth to some inaudible rhythm, a black nest of hair cluttering up his face. He, too, has wires coming from his ears; it’s strange how so many young people these days have hearing problems. I lean over to him and enunciate, “Good day. Would you happen to know where 26 Hart Avenue, 2B, might be?”
    The man turns to me. “Up yours, homo.”
    The lady with the baby taps me on the shoulder. “It’s about ten blocks down that way,” she says tentatively, inspecting me as she points down the street. Just then a frighteningsight—a huge, hulking metal monster—screeches to a halt before me. I jump back, but the woman motions to it as two doors groan open. “This bus stops there.”
    “Thank you, ma’am,” I say, tipping my hat. I marvel for a moment at the enormous vehicle. Of course. A bus! I’ve been on a bus only once, on a trip to New York City with Mama and my stepfather to visit some DeMarchelle relatives. This isn’t the least bit similar. I offer my arm to the kind young woman, but she must not notice, for she struggles to step up on her