Free The 14th Day by K.C. Frederick Page A

the homeland on a map. It’s no surprise that he strikes out at someone he doesn’t understand. Would he be more hospitable if Jory learned to prattle about basketball with him? Blessedly, the engine starts up. When the truck pulls away, rakes and shovels clatter, an earthy smell rises from the bushes bound with twine, their roots encased in burlap. As the engine shudders into gear, vibrations pass into Jory’s back through the cool metal; the ride settles into an even pace. He watches the landscape move by, absently running his finger across the hard, pointed tines of a rake, his earlier feelings already subsiding. It’s taken only a few moments of the truck’s steady, jittering progress to calm him, to allow him to think more clearly.
    Because, he’s beginning to realize, it isn’t really Carl he’s upset about. Carl is stupid and narrow-minded but he isn’t worth the trouble, he isn’t the problem. Jory glances toward the cab: this time the sight of the man brings no reaction. Still, there is something that’s bothering him: it’s that message from Fotor that Jory can’t put behind him. Reaching out like that, all the way from his island, Fotor is the demon at the bottom of the lake who teasingly brushes the swimmer’s leg. Jory doesn’t want to follow that thought, though. He lets his mind go blank for a few moments before he catches a glimpse of the university’s arboretum, a green rectangle bounded by a low stone wall. He walked through it not long ago—it might have been that day after he got Fotor’s message, when he was so upset. And still, he remembers, he told himself this town was going to be his last place of exile. He smiles at the memory. He was hopeful then; he’s determined to be hopeful once more. What’s happening now has nothing to do with either Carl or Fotor. It’s his life, after all.
    The truck climbs a hill, stone dormitories slide by. His earlier discomfort is only a faint, bitter aftertaste; out here in the sunshine it’s easy to feel better about things. Yes, he assures himself, I can still make choices, I’m not trapped. Really, there’s no reason to be upset by Fotor, who’s an amusing man in his own detached way. It would be just like him to send that emissary of his as a kind of joke. And from Fotor’s point of view, giving him that phone number might be considered a thoughtful gesture. In case of emergency, the man who gave him the number said. As Fotor and Jory have good reason to know, emergencies can never be discounted. No, he shouldn’t be upset by his countryman’s action, he ought to be grateful. It must mean something, after all, that he didn’t tear up the paper with the phone number but has kept it all this while.
    Once more he remembers the face of his fellow exile, the little smile that always played about the corners of his mouth. There were times when Jory was convinced the man had the moral vision of a lizard but he was pleasant company, and he had a brain. In that country to the north Fotor took an interest in Jory; he was always trying to make a convert of him. Chameleon that he was, he found his countryman’s dedication to the homeland droll. “You can’t really believe that a sane man would agree to hold his breath until those thugs who are running things there are finally sent packing,” he’d say. Then he’d gesture with the bottle and refill Jory’s glass. “Oh, they’ll be gone eventually but as the nuns used to say about the end of the world, only God knows when it will happen.” He’d laugh to himself. “I’ve heard people say that God has a sense of humor. That may be, but I’ve never been able to understand his sense of timing.” Fotor’s little performances would go through several stages, the least welcome for Jory being the one near the end when the man was quite far into his cups, or