Free Rough Draft by James W. Hall

She could feel the vibrations radiating from his body like the hum of a tuning fork buried deep in the bone, a low throb that had begun to pulse years ago, that morning when he found his grandparents dead.
    The watershed moment. Everything forever different afterward. His startle reflex on hair-trigger. Now he was jumpy. Any little noise, a bird exploding into flight, an avocado falling from the tree would send him reeling. His appetite was erratic. He was depressed, quiet, stayed in his room. He had manic bursts, long hours lost in his programming language, deaf to the world.
    â€œHave you been sleeping, Randall? Did you sleep last night?”
    He pointed and clicked, pointed and clicked.
    â€œRandall?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure. How do you know if you’re asleep? You lie there in the dark, you close your eyes, how can you tell?”
    â€œHave you stopped taking your medicine again?”
    â€œI take it some of the time.”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “Well, go wash your face, put on a fresh shirt. We’re going to see Dr. English.”
    â€œDo I have to?”
    â€œYes, you have to. You always feel better afterward, you know you do.”
    â€œI feel better because the appointment’s over.”
    â€œWhen you grow up, Randall, you should be a lawyer. You’re so good at arguing.”
    â€œDo lawyers have to play soccer?”
    â€œNot unless they want to.”
    â€œThen that’s what I want to be, a lawyer.”
    She ruffled his thick mop, gave his scalp a gentle scraping with her fingernails, something that usually made him croon. Today he was silent.
    â€œWe’re still pardners, aren’t we, Randall?”
    It was an old refrain. Single mother, only child, the mantra of their loyalty.
    He lifted his hand from his mouse and turned to look at her. She gave his scalp another scratch.
    â€œI’m not crazy, Mom.”
    â€œNobody said you were.”
    â€œOnly crazy people go to shrinks once a week.”
    â€œThat’s not true. A lot of people go to psychiatrists. It’s because they want to feel better, because they want to understand how they can start enjoying life.”
    â€œI enjoy life.”
    â€œDo you?”
    He moved his cursor around the screen, sailing across the electronic net.
    â€œI’m not crazy,” he said. “I’m not a wacko.”
    â€œDid somebody call you that? Somebody at school?”
    â€œNever mind,” he said. “Just never mind.”
    â€œIs somebody bothering you? Tell me his name. I’ll talk to his mother.”
    â€œOh, yeah, talk to his mother. Boy, you really know how it works, don’t you?”
    â€œRandall,” she said. “If somebody’s bothering you …”
    â€œNobody’s bothering me. I’m fine. Just a little crazy, that’s all.”
    â€œOh, come on. Don’t say that.”
    He settled finally on his own Web page. In a banner across the top
Randall’s World
glowed in a brilliant red. He had created the page a few months back as a school project and every week or so he redid it, another look, another motif. This week there were animated frogs swimming and flying over a purple bayou. Others perched on a floating log. Their long tongues unfurling, snapping flies out of the air. Silly and childish, something any eleven-year-old boy might like. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mom,” he said. “I guess I’m just in a bad mood.”
    â€œBad moods are allowed,” she said. “As long as you give equal time to good ones.”
    He looked up at her, managed a smile.
    â€œSo we’re pardners then?” she said.
    â€œSure, Mom,” Randall said, looking back at the flying frogs. “Pardners.”

FIVE
    Monday, 4 P.M ., hour sixteen of Operation Joanie. No sign of Hal Bonner.
    Frank Sheffield was sitting behind the wheel of one of a