Free The Anybodies by N. E. Bode

worried about him now, the way you’d worry about someonewandering around with a lit match who could bump into the curtains, setting the whole place on fire. “No one ever showed up at the front door to complain when your mother and I were together. No one ever showed up trying to catch flies with their tongue.” The Bone scratched his chin with his knuckles. “The process has developed some kinks.”
    Fern fiddled with the key on her necklace. She thought of her diary with her mother’s photograph in it. She was still not used to the idea that she had another mother, much less one she would never get to see. “Do they have to live like that for the rest of their lives?”
    â€œOh, no, it wears off in a couple of months or so.”
    â€œMonths!”
    â€œBut you’ll be able to set Mr. Harton straight right away. I know it.”
    Fern was doubtful. “I will? But I have no idea what to do.” She wanted to explain to the Bone that she wasn’t very good at doing things in general. Maybe there had been some kind of mistake. I mean, so much of what the Bone had said fit in with the strange aspects of Fern’s life, explaining some of the unexplainable, but this? Fern was sure she was going to disappoint the Bone, and she didn’t want to. He had his hopes pinned on her.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll walk you through it. It helps that you have the gift handed down to you. I don’t want youto be just a sideshow act. I want you to be someone who really can help people one day. But there’s that other ingredient. The one I had once but don’t now.” He gazed off for a moment, his eyes catching on the photograph his wife had taken of him and the Miser laughing.
    In the Bone’s defense (and I do defend the Bone, because although he’s kind of a squirrelly guy and imperfect, he is good, deep down), hypnosis is an imprecise science. Actually, when you think of chemistry with its H this and its O that, and when you think of biology with its test tubes and beakers and its dissected worms, well, hypnosis isn’t a science at all. And it isn’t really an art, either, in light of the Mona Lisa and ice sculpting and baton twirling. And it isn’t a sport, because you don’t get points or win those statues of miniature golfers or divers glued to marble. So I’m not sure what to call it, but really it’s murky territory. It’s mysterious, yes, that’s it. It’s a mystery.
    The Bone set to work. He opened the apartment door and then the main door to the house. He walked out into the yard behind Mr. Harton and flushed him inside by clapping and waving his arms. Mr. Harton was all high-step and flap. He stood in the middle of the room, his head bobbing now and then. He stared at Fern and then started to preen. He used his nose like a beak, picking at his shoulders. The Bone rolled the vacuum cleaner overto Mr. Harton, but Mr. Harton didn’t even look at it. The Bone rolled it back and forth right in front of him, but again Mr. Harton ignored it.
    â€œThat’s a bad sign,” said the Bone. “He’s in deep.”
    With a little force, the Bone sat Mr. Harton down in a chair next to Fern at the table where she’d eaten. Her orange peel sat in the empty soup bowl with the tough heart of the onion and its crisp brown skin.
    â€œOkay,” said the Bone, “try to get him to look at you. Try to catch and hold his stare.”
    Fern stared at Mr. Harton. He had pale blue eyes that looked a little teary. They darted around the room, falling occasionally on Fern’s eyes, but not staying put. Fern moved her face to block his view. She was certain that she wouldn’t be able to do it. She was bound to let the Bone down, and what then? Well, terrible things could happen. Mainly, the world could come to an end. But, Fern reminded herself, she wasn’t a Drudger who fibbed because of an overactive