Free Amped by Daniel H. Wilson Page B

say.
    “Howdy, Luce,” says Jim. “Nick beat you here.”
    “He usually does,” she says. “Brought you guys some supper.”
    She hands over a couple TV dinners, paper curled and brittle from the oven. Jim takes them and nods. His gruff version of a thank-you.
    “This is Owen,” he says. “Friend of mine’s kid. Usual story. Was a schoolteacher, like you. Math or something.”
    “Hey,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Lucy.”
    I take Lucy’s hand in mine. Force myself to let it go.
    She’s looking up the steps at me and I’m thinking about how pretty she is, and after a second I realize that I’m not saying anything. She grins, amused, I hope.
    Her smile sticks with me for a long time. I guess I was memorizing it.
    “Th-thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
    “It’s the least I can do. Somebody has to make sure the old goat eats every now and then.” She lowers her voice, leans in to Jim. “Are you making another run?”
    “Leaving tomorrow morning,” he says. “Be gone a week or so. Visiting with folks at Locust Grove, Lost City, Tenkiller.”
    “Where are you going?” I ask.
    Lucy draws back and crosses her arms, eyebrows raised at Jim. “He doesn’t know what you do?”
    Jim takes another swig of his beer. Watches the park.
    “He’s our doctor,” says Lucy. “Has been for ten years. The only real implant specialist in Eastern Oklahoma. Goes out to the smaller communities. Without him, a lot of people would be out of luck. Especially now.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
    “Not that important,” says Jim.
    Lucy shakes her head. Her eyes settle on mine and I know. It’s important.
    Jim is out here paying his dues. Paying these people back for some sin, real or imagined. He built the Zeniths from scratch and let the military decide what they should do. It makes me wonder what might be inside the Zenith that was evil enough to make him uproot his life and sniff out the original Uplift site way out here in Sequoyah County.
    A band of light scans across Lucy’s face.
    We all turn at once. See the car headlights. Hear distant sirens.And the flow of everyday life splinters and falls apart just like that. People start heading inside, movements shaky with hidden panic. There’s too much bad shit out in the darkness. It’s not safe.
    The crunch from the parking lot is loud enough to cause an echo. Reminds me of a sled bouncing over ice-encrusted snow. Tires shriek. A car is crashing. A dark shape that bounces and grinds to a stop on the edge of Eden.
    A door thunks open. I don’t hear it close.
    Sirens scream in the distance, louder now.
    “We oughta get inside,” says Jim. He’s already up, folded chair in one hand and the rest of the six-pack in the other, a few sweating cans of beer dangling from his fingers by the plastic rings.
    I don’t move. I’m watching the crowd. Parents are hurrying children inside trailers. But some of the grown-ups are staying put. Stone-faced, the men and women of Eden are standing tall and grim.
    The sirens have arrived. Now they cut off. Red and blue lights flash in the parking lot.
    “Get inside, Owen,” says Jim. “Cops run your license and you’re finished.”
    Lucy glances at me, puzzled.
    Just then a kid bursts out between two trailers and stumbles into the central driveway. Huffing and puffing, he trips and falls in the dirt and catches himself with one outstretched palm. Keeps going. Head swiveling, he homes in on the nearest trailer.
    Ours.
    Jim moves to close the door. Too late.
    “Thanks,” breathes the kid, as he pushes past me and storms into the trailer. I notice a burnt-yellow splotch on his temple. Like everyone around here, he has a government-issued Neural Auto-focus. The “government cheese,” as Nick called it. Makes an average kid a genius and a dumb kid average. Mostly, they gave them to the dumb kids.
    “Dammit,” says Jim.
    The kid leaves behind the smell of sweat and grass and gasoline. He