Free Gone by Lisa McMann Page A

makeshift shelving unit filled with boxes. Near it is a small bookcase. Janie pictures Henry sitting here in the evening, in the recliner, reading or watching TV in this almost-cozy house. She wonders what sort of life it was.
    She walks over to the bookcase and sees worn copies of Shakespeare, Dickens. Kerouac and Hemingway and Steinbeck, too. Some books with odd lettering that looks like Hebrew. Science textbooks. Janie removes one and looks inside. Sees what must be her father’s handwriting below a list of names that had been crossed out.
    Henry David Feingold
University of Michigan

    She squats down and pages through the textbook, reading notes in the margin. Wonders if those are his notes, or if they belonged to someone before him. The binding is broken and some of the pages are loose so Janie closes the book and returns it to the shelf.
    Cabel is looking through papers on the desk. “Invoices,” he says. “For all sorts of weird things. Baby clothes. Video games. Jewelry. Snow globes, for Chrissakes. Wonder where he keeps it all. Kinda weird, if you ask me.”
    Janie stands up and walks over to Cabel. Picks up a notebook and opens it. Inside, in neat handwriting, is a list of transactions. No two are alike. Janie puzzles over the notebook and then she goes to the front door. Pulls the packages inside and looks at the return addresses. Matches them up in the notebook.
    She flips her hair behind her ear. “I think he must have a little Internet store, Cabe. He buys stuff cheap and sells it in his virtual store for a profit. So he’s got a little shipping/receiving department over there.” She points to the large shelving unit.
    “Maybe he goes to yard sales and buys stuff too.”
    Janie nods. “Seems weird that he’d go to school forscience and end up doing this. I wonder if he got laid off or something?”
    “Considering the state of Michigan’s economy and rising unemployment rate lately, that’s entirely likely.”
    Janie grins. “You’re such a geek. I love you. I really do.”
    Cabel’s face lights up. “Thank you.”
    “So . . .” Janie sets the notebook on the table and picks up a well-worn paperback copy of
Catch-22
. Pages through it, losing her train of thought. Sees a torn piece of paper used as a bookmark. Words are scribbled in pencil on the bookmark.
    Morton’s Fork.

    That’s what it says.
    Janie closes the book and sets it back down on the desk. “Now what?”
    “What do you want to do? I don’t see any evidence that he’s a dream catcher, do you?”
    “No. But would you find any evidence of that in my house if you looked?”
    Cabel laughs. “Uh, green notebook, the dream notes on your bedside table . . .”
    “Bedside table,” Janie says, tapping her bottom lip with her forefinger. She walks over to Henry’s bed, butthere’s nothing there. Just the water glass. She even pushes aside the mattress and slips her fingers between it and the box springs, feeling for a diary or journal of some sort. “There’s nothing here, Cabe. We should go.”
    “What about the computer?”
    “No—we’re not going there. Really. Let’s just go. And besides, you saw the guy. He’s not all gnarled and blind.”
    “How do you know he’s not blind? You can’t tell that.”
    “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Janie says. “But his hands looked fine.”
    “Well . . . what did Miss Stubin say in the green notebook? Mid-thirties for the hands? He can’t be much older than late thirties, forty tops, right? So maybe it just hasn’t happened yet.”
    Janie sighs. Doesn’t want to go this deep. Doesn’t want to think about the green notebook anymore. She walks to the door and stands there a moment. Bangs her head lightly against it. Then she opens it, goes outside and sits in the sweltering car until Cabel comes.
    “Hospital?” he says, hope in his voice, when he turns the car onto the road.
    “No.” Janie’s voice is firm. “We’re done with it, Cabe. I don’t care if he was the