Free Bullettime by Nick Mamatas Page A

you think he wasn’t a student?” Ann asks. “I mean, do you know every black kid in school?” She spits out the words
black kid
.
    “Uhm.” Dave wobbles on his feet. The uniform takes him by the shoulder and sits him down on an ottoman. “Where’s dad?” he asks. “Shouldn’t he be here? I’m hot. I want my dad, and a lawyer.”
    “You don’t need a lawyer, son,” the uniform says. “You’re the victim here, remember?” The detective is studying the photos on the walls. There aren’t many of them, none of recent vintage. Dave is ten years old in the newest, the smile flashing his last few milk teeth.
    “I go to Hamilton,” Dave says. “It’s a bad school.”
    “We’re not Catholic,” Ann says. The cops turn to look at her. “I didn’t want to send him to Catholic school. That’s why he’s in public school.” She mutters again, “We’re not Catholic.”
    “When is your husband due home, ma’am?” the detective asks.
    “Oh, he works late,” Ann says. “He’s in IT, you know.”
    “He’s in
it
!” Dave says, and giggles. Ann guffaws.
    “I’m about ready to call child protective services,” the detective says, and it’s like a cold wind tore through the room. “Listen, ma’am, get your kid to the precinct first thing tomorrow morning, and I want a note from an ER doctor about those stitches. If I don’t see him at my desk by noon, I’m going to come here and pick you up, then drive you to Hamilton and pick him up”—the detective’s fat finger is seemingly pointing everywhere at once; at Ann, at Dave, at his own chest, in the direction of the school—“and then I’ll bring you both back for questioning before me, a social worker, and whatever foster parents they can dig up on an hour’s notice.” The uniformed officer works his tongue over his teeth. Neither Ann nor Dave have the chance to say anything before they stomp out.
    Finally Ann says, “I’m going to sue that cop, that wop, to atoms.” She holds in a little burp, then turns to Dave, her eyes blazing. “To wop cop atoms!” she shouts. She snorts her exhalations, then her energy leaves her.
    “Can we get pizza?” Dave whines. Ann doesn’t answer—she’s weeping softly—but Dave knows her credit card number and makes the call. He’s fed himself and left the other half of the pie atop the stove to stay warmed by the pilot light, and is on his computer upstairs by the time Jeremy comes home and the shouting begins.
    In the morning, Ann stays in bed. Dave wakes up to his father looming over him.
    “I called the precinct. It took some doing, but you don’t have to go in. Not to school and not to the police station. That asshole detective was entirely out of line,” Jeremy says. There’s an edge in his voice. “I made an appointment with Doctor Khan to check out your injury and your little Cub Scout first-aid attempt.”
    “I need to go to school,” Dave says. That’s where Erin will be, and Erin’s ogre father won’t be. “Uhm, I have a test. An important one.”
    “What subject?”
    “Uhm, Social Studies.”
    “What about Social Studies?” Jeremy says.
    “Well, Latin America,” Dave says.
    “What’s the capital of Peru?”
    I whisper in his ear, because I want to see Erin again too. “Lima,” Dave says, a femtosecond behind me, in a version of my own voice.
    “At least you studied. Fine,” Jeremy says. “I have to get to work.” And he leaves.
    There’s a war inside Dave. Erin will be in school. She should be in school anyway. But as he approaches Hamilton, he starts thinking of the guy who stabbed him. Of the little white pen the kid used. How it felt like the air was coming out of the balloon of his body. He could be anywhere in the crowds of black kids clumped by the steps. Dave manages to get himself into the building without panicking. A cough-syrup flavoured burp soothes his fevered imagination for a moment. He looks around for Erin, doesn’t see her. He looks around for