Angela's Apple
Prologue
There are about a thousand of us and we've been here for five millennia. We were assigned human charges beginning
at their births. We are always nearby, being especially careful to avoid detection. Although our primary goal is observation and data gathering, there are times when we are expected to assist our charges. Such assistance is to be subtle, taking the form of timely
insight or a minor physical nudge to avoid premature termination of a charge, as this represents the loss of a valuable data stream, and would necessitate reassignment to a freshly born human. Thus has it always been, until one day I overstepped my role and changed the lives of both my charge and myself forever. Perhaps it was a mistake on my part, and then again, perhaps not.
Applegate Bogdanski was born in the Aldershot military camp in England in 1947. The singular first name was the result of a parental tribute given to the camp pastor, Rev. William Applegate, for his unselfish help in getting two displaced Europeans settled and started on a new life. In 1951, the Bogdanskis sailed to the United States, where Apple, as he is known to his friends, began his schooling at Saint James in Newark, New Jersey. The first years were difficult, since he entered school speaking a mix of Polish and German, the languages spoken at home. However, immature humans are quick to adjust, and Apple did just that.
* * *
The morning was much like any other in early Fall, 1958. With a brisk head wind tossing auburn locks across his eyes, Apple cinched up his windbreaker and scrunched over as he trudged to school. It was three blocks up Ferry and a turn onto Adams for another three.
Sister Bernadette began her third grade class punctually at eight AM, and Apple was late. At this hour, few people were about the normally crowded sidewalks. He hurried along Ferry, pausing only briefly at intersections before dashing across, all the while lugging a bulging leather bag containing every book needed for the day's lessons and more. He kept switching his carrying hand because his
short fingers slipped on the smooth handles. At the Adams crosswalk, he glanced quickly to his right and took a step off the curb, pausing a moment to heave the bag from one hand to the other.
Naturally, I saw things developing quite clearly. Just at that moment, several milk bottles in the back of a delivery truck slid off their
shelves and crashed to the aisle. The driver looked back and cursed.
Apple stopped mid-stride as the white blur of a truck screeched past him, grinding to a halt in the middle of the intersection. One more step, and he would have been hit. The truck turned onto Ferry and purred away. After a hard swallow, he continued across. When he reached his classroom, Sister Bernadette welcomed him with an icy stare.
"Where have you been, Mr. Bogdanski?"
Amid snickering from his fellow classmates, Apple peeled off his jacket, wrapped it around his seatback and sat down. His desk was at the front, directly under the watchful eyes of Sister Bernadette—an unfortunate outcome of the Sister's alphabetic seating arrangement. He reached into the gaping maw of his bag and secured a worn, green Catechism booklet. The morning always began with Catechism.
"I got up late this morning, Sister. We had a problem with the electricity last night and my mom got me up late."
Sister Bernadette harrumphed at the excuse and scribbled something into her notebook. She took up a long, wooden pointer, and swung it in Apple's direction. "Do you remember what we went over in yesterday's Catechism lesson?"
Apple thought back, his mind blank. After a moment, his face lit up. "Yes. It was about guardian angels, and how each of us has one to look after us."
"And what is it they look after, exactly?"
The pointer moved a little closer.
Adam knew the correct answer, but today he had a different answer.
"I think my guardian angel saved my life this morning," he said in a whisper, feeling a little embarrassed at his naked honesty.
Several classmates giggled, topped off by a mocking guffaw from the class clown in the rear. Sister Bernadette's mouth was locked in a disquieting ‘o'. She and her pointer took another step toward Apple.
"And exactly how do you know this?"
Apple gathered his thoughts. He stood up. "I was in a hurry and I was about to cross a street. I guess I wasn't paying attention. Just before I stepped off the curb, I felt a kind of tug, like someone grabbed the collar of my jacket. It's like I got yanked back. I just stood there wondering who did that, when a truck came flying right by me. Missed me by inches."
He held his hands close together to emphasize his narrow escape. "I think it must've been my guardian angel who stopped me."
Sister Bernadette lowered the pointer. "Mr. Bogdanski, you may have thought that an angel saved your life, but it just doesn't work that way. As we discussed yesterday, angels protect your soul, not your body. They help you make the right choices in life. If they also had to protect us from injury, then no one would get sick, there wouldn't be any accidents … why, we would live forever wouldn't we?"
She turned to the class for added emphasis, and asked, "Does anyone here know of anyone who's been alive forever?"
Apple slumped back into his seat. Feeling his face blush, he rested his head between his hands. Sister Bernadette had made her opinion clear, but he knew better. Something extraordinary had happened, and if it wasn't a guardian angel, it was something else.
* * *
Apple seemed to have been born mature. This did not mean he was overly dull, overly serious, or that he preferred to spend his time practicing the piano rather than playing football. Quite the contrary, it could be claimed that he was wilder than most, a free spirit who took chances and was more than happy to take on reckless dares. It was more the way he approached things. He had an independent mind, only willing to go with the crowd after weighing the consequences of an action against its potential glory—pretty unusual for his age, in fact, unusual for any age. I must say he was accident-prone, and often found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, he had one character trait that set him apart from most—he could never bring himself to lie. This was a saintly quality that, ironically, was not always appreciated by his superiors.
Sister Ethel, the school principal, waddled into Sister Alice's eighth grade class. Her stooped-over frame heaved several cartons unto the front desk. She arched her back in a failed effort to straighten up, and reseated her spectacles as she caught her breath.
After being formally greeted by Sister Alice, she made a show of dusting her hands by slapping them together several times. With everyone now focused on her, she addressed the classroom.
"As you know, our parish is in the midst of a Christmas fund drive. Monsignor Rearden and I have come up with a plan to help. The eighth grade class will serve as an example to the rest of the school. There are boxes of Christmas cards in these cartons, fifty to a box, that the Church would like you to sell. They're only ten dollars a box and you could easily sell them to friends and family. Remember, this is all for a very good cause."
Sister Alice stepped behind Sister Ethel and began lifting out the individual boxes. She held several up for all to see. Each one had a picture of the card design stamped on its face. Silver snow glittered around the three wise men atop their camels attending the birth of
Jesus.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" crooned Sister Alice. She placed the boxes beside the cartons, and took up her notebook and pen.
"We'll begin at the front. When I call your name, please stand and tell me how many boxes you wish to be assigned."
She glanced back. Sister Ethel reset her glasses with an index finger, and nodded in the direction of the first desk in the first row.
"Marjorie Abrams," called out Sister Alice.
Marjorie jumped up out of her seat even before her name was completed. Two seats behind her, Apple stirred.
"Let me say that I am proud to help the parish in any way I can. I'll be happy to take ten boxes."
A murmur skittered through the class. Sister Alice sported a Cheshire Cat smile as her pen scrawled figures in her notebook. Before looking up again, she threw a glance at Sister Ethel, who ticked her head in acknowledgment. She positively beamed when she looked up at the first row again.
"Thank you, Marjorie. Your support is very much appreciated."
"You are very welcome, Sister Alice."
Marjorie curtsied and retook her seat.
Everyone knew that Marjorie's family was well off. And, everyone knew that her parents would buy the boxes outright.
"Now, Thomas Blakey."
Apple was next. His mind raced. He thought about his dad's new job at the office equipment store. He could still see him covering his parents' bed with dollar bills from his first week's pay. He was so proud. There were one hundred of them. And they both surprised mom when she came home from the jewelry factory. She scolded his dad for being so silly with money.
Thomas arose, and said, "I'll take seven."
A frown flickered across Sister Alice's face for a beat, and then she said, "Seven boxes. That will be fine, Thomas."
Thomas sat.
"Applegate Bogdanski."
There was a lump in Apple's throat, as if his body was struggling to keep him from talking. He felt himself rise. It seemed as if his body was disconnected from his mind. A few moments passed, and Sister Alice prodded, "Well, Applegate?"
"Sister Alice." He paused, slightly breathless. "I would like to take zero boxes."
The moment froze, like a jammed movie reel at the theater. Apple heard a vague static hiss, punctuated by the projector's sprockets, tick-ticking in time to the beat of his heart. In that thin sliver of time, he saw both eyebrows rising above Sister Alice's glasses, Sister Ethel's specs slid to the tip of her nose as she began a slow motion step forward, his classmates' heads began pivoting in an attempt to get a better view of the impending slaughter. His words seemed to hang in the air, crystalline, reflecting the faint light beams
that slipped through shaded windows.
Suddenly, a crack sounded and Apple ducked as the words disintegrated into tiny shards, flying off in every direction. Sister Ethel smacked her wooden yardstick on the desk again. The hissing broke up into a spat of nervous laughter, which quickly evaporated into silence.
Sister Ethel spoke, or rather, grunted, "Mr. Bogdanski. Did I hear you correctly?"
Apple straightened himself. He fought down a strong urge to take everything back, to say it was a joke, a mistake, to fall on his knees and ask for forgiveness from both Sisters, and even from God Himself. It would be so easy.
"I'm sorry, Sister Ethel. For personal reasons, I do not choose to participate."
Sister Ethel took a step forward with yardstick in hand, causing Apple an involuntary, anticipatory wince. She stopped herself, and instead, turned her blood red face to Sister Alice. Her stare shouted, "Well?"
Sister Alice stammered, "This is not acceptable, Mr. Bogdanski."
Apple bent his head and stared at his feet, much like a death row inmate might do just before being led to the gallows. She then invoked the time-honored classic, especially when confronted with impending classroom chaos.
"Go sit in the corner. Face the wall, talk to no one, until I decide what to do with you."
Apple trekked to the stool in front of the classroom, specifically located for just such occasions, and with which he had some prior familiarity. Each step was an effort, like slogging through mud. When he passed by the nuns, their stares beat down on his neck like the heat of two suns. He reached the cool refuge of the corner, and slid onto the stool, physically relieved. For a moment, he felt a hand caress his shoulder, but when he looked back, he saw only a pair of disapproving glares. He sat up straight, and stared at the corner for the rest of the day, barely aware of the resumption of what now became the mandatory Christmas card assignments.
I must admit, I was as surprised as everyone in that classroom. It was then that my respect for Apple was transformed into a deep admiration. Here was a charge with conviction and real courage. One might say, I became fond of the boy. And it was his courage that
was destined to change both our lives.
* * *
Apple had barely finished college when he was drafted into the army. He served at home and abroad, where he was
awarded a Purple Heart and Bronze Star for his efforts in Vietnam, efforts that cost him everything below his left knee and bestowed upon him a torturous addiction to morphine. There was nothing I could do. There were rules. To make things worse, while away, his parents had died in an automobile accident.
In 1975, Apple lived alone in a first-floor apartment across the treet from a city park in Newark. When he wasn't working, he sat and gazed out the front window. The ball fields were usually empty until near suppertime.
He found a part-time job a mile away at a small bookstore located near Penn Station. He had no car, and hated buses. He preferred to walk there without crutches, making it a point to get used to the wooden prosthetic. The route took him through the neighborhood of his youth, and it included a weekly stop to pick up morphine from a local source.
The brownstone landmarks of Saint James School and Church were long-gone, torn down and replaced with pale reflections cast in sleek metal and pale cinder block. Every once in a while, Apple caught the smells of dinner—mouth-watering scents which wafted from house to house, at times mixed in with the sounds of children. He recalled his mom's cooking and her voice as he was called to
dinner. His dad would then fire off his own verbal volley, since Apple was almost always upstairs lost in his own world. He suppressed a laugh. Those were good times, really good times.
The elm trees lining Lafayette Street had covered the sidewalk with a fresh blanket of brown and yellow leaves, which morphed into interlocking grey puzzle pieces beneath the shadows of street lamps. Apple gave the thin, black canyons between apartment buildings a wide berth, angling himself toward the edge of the sidewalk as he passed. It was a precaution born of recent experience, and wholly unnecessary in a neighborhood he knew so well, or so he thought.
"Help."
Apple stopped. It was barely a whimper, a thin voice. He waddled across the street to investigate. Hugging a line of parked cars, he stooped low and moved from shadow to shadow, from tree to tree, until he heard a faint groan and a crisp warning.
"Old man, give it up. No use dyin' for money we're gonna take from you anyhow."
The retort was ragged and weak, nonetheless, defiant. "You're nothin' but scum. I ain't givin' you nothin'."
Apple heard a thud, and the whoosh of air leaving a frayed set of lungs. He stepped out of the shadows. "Hey. What do you think you're doing?"
There were two of them. Both wore black jackets, and had dark knitted wool caps drawn over their foreheads. One held a gray-haired man who looked to be unconscious. The other turned to Apple, sporting a smile and a gold front tooth.
"Well, whatta we got here? A hero? Maybe you lookin' to die tonight?"
Gold tooth reached into his jacket and flicked open a switchblade. He waved it at Apple, making sure it caught the streetlight.
"You gonna do somethin' stupid, or you gonna be smart and shove off?"
The old man slumped to the ground in a heap.
Apple's wooden limb clicked and he stumbled as he moved forward.
"Hah. Get a load of the cripple. Get lost before I carve you up, gimp."
Apple jumped at gold tooth, grabbing his knife hand. The move sent them careening into the dark embrace of the alley. In moments, Apple shook the knife loose, pulled off the wool cap, and had both hands around gold tooth's collar. He dragged him into the light.
"I know you. You live just down the street here."
The other one approached Apple from behind. He had his own knife. Apple struggled to raise himself, holding gold tooth up by his jacket. Behind him, a blade descended, aimed squarely at Apple's back.
*
A red light blinked, on and off, on and off. A siren danced with the light, then faded. Apple felt his head and shoulders shoved, shaken.
A far off voice asked, "Is he dead?"
Then from nearby, "Sir. Are you all right?"
It occurred to Apple that the question was being addressed to him. His head hurt. The words were slow to emerge. "Yeah ... Yeah, I think I'm all right."
"Get the medics over here."
The red light continued its almost mesmerizing undulation. Everything was covered in a haze. Men in white hovered over him. The world faded from red to black.
*
"How are we feeling this morning?"
Apple opened his eyes, and was greeted by a friendly smile and a dull headache. The nurse cocked her head. "It's time for your
breakfast."
She reached down and cranked something below him. The back of the bed rose, easing him into a sitting position.
"There now, that's better."
She swung a table over his lap and deposited a tray of food. "There're some gentlemen here to talk to you. Do you feel up to
it?"
Apple nodded and squeaked out a "Sure." He stared at the food.
The nurse glided out of the room, and a suit and a uniformed police officer entered.
"Mr. Bodganski?" asked the suit.
Apple nodded.
"I'm Detective Sanchez and this is Officer Santora. We're here to talk to you about last night. What can you tell us about what
happened?"
Apple sifted through the jumble that was left of last night. He was walking home. He heard something. He went to see if he could help. As the pieces began fitting together, he related the events as best he could, and when he finished, Sanchez said, "You know, you probably saved Mr. Positano's life."
The name was familiar. Of course, it was Al Positano, the owner of the luncheonette on Adams. Al's place was one of Apple's favorite hangouts as a child.
"How is he?"
"He took a good beating—a couple of broken ribs, maybe a concussion … but, the doc says he'll be okay."
"And, what about the two kids?"
"We got ‘em, thanks to you."
"What do you mean? I don't remember much after I disarmed Bobby."
Sanchez looked at Santora, and then turned back to Apple.
"A neighbor called about the noise in the alley. When we got there, we found the two boys tied to each other with their belts. Old man Positano was unconscious, and you weren't doing much better. Looks like you hit your head on something during the fight."
Before Apple could sort things out, Sanchez asked, "Were you in the military or something?"
"Yeah. Just got back from active duty a few months ago."
Sanchez looked at the artificial leg propped up in the corner of the room. "You must be damn good at hand-to-hand."
"Why is that?"
"Both boys said you went wild. You moved so fast … before they knew it, you had their belts off and them all trussed up like calves in a rodeo. They never saw anything like it."
Apple just stared at Sanchez.
"Nice work, Mr. Bogdanski. If there were more people like you around, our jobs would be a whole lot easier. Of course, that's off the
record."
Sanchez winked and the two left.
*
Several days later, Apple was released from the hospital. It was a Saturday and the Fall weather had mellowed out for a spell. He was happy to get out of the hospital and away from old memories, besides he was starting to get jittery. The perfume of freshly fallen leaves almost made him forget his pain. He was in need of a fix, and that's where he was headed. When he reached an
intersection, he felt a tug at his collar. His artificial leg dangled over the curb and he almost lost his balance as a bicycle scooted past. The rider threw him a Jersey salute.
"Close one, Apple."
The voice was female.
"Sorry about grabbing you. But I was sure you were about to get clobbered by that bike."
She was tall, radiant and wrapped loosely in a long gray coat. As she lowered her arm, brown hair cascaded over her shoulders. The smile was sincere, and her deep, dark blue eyes stared straight through him.
"That's… that's quite all right. I should have been watching where I was going."
She chuckled.
They stood at the corner, staring at each other, oblivious to pedestrians veering to either side.
"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" asked Apple.
"You'll have to forgive me. I'm kind of new at this."
"New at what?"
"It's a long story. Maybe over a cup of coffee?"
"Some other time." Adam hated himself for saying that, but he had business that couldn't wait. When he was halfway across the intersection, he glanced back. She was still standing at the curb, sporting a knowing and somehow disquieting smile.
"Hey, what's your name? And how about a rain check for that coffee?"
"It's Angela. Don't worry about the coffee. I'm in the neighborhood. I'll catch you later."
When Apple reached the opposite curb, he looked again. She was gone.
Chapter 1
A month later.
Wharton's was a used book shop on Market Street a block north of Penn Station. Dust covered the moldering tomes
stuffed into ten foot high shelving. There was no central catalogue and no alphabetical arrangement, and there were no paperbacks, and nothing published in the past twenty years. Frayed hard cover volumes crammed into protesting shelves attested to centuries of human triumphs and failures. They loomed overhead like boulders teetering on canyon rims.
Wharton had a system, and it mostly resided in his gnome-like bald head. He was a perpetually hunched over, diminutive man, with a deathly pale complexion who was pushing ninety. When he spoke, an unlit cigarette, sprouting from the corner of his mouth, had the disturbing habit of lolling up and down like a conductor's baton.
"You're late."
Apple closed the glass door behind him and shrugged.
Wharton exhaled with a rasp. "I don't know why I put up with you." He nodded, and pointed a gnarly finger at a pile of books on the floor. "Just came in today. Get 'em organized. Just stack 'em, you hear? I don't want those sold yet."
The old man gathered his wind breaker and swung it over his shoulder.
"Remember, we're closin' at five today."
Apple wondered what was so special about those books, but before he could ask, Wharton shuffled through the door and disappeared into the fading light of the late autumn afternoon. A few drops of rain skittered through the thread-bare store-front canopy, leaving behind jagged, iridescent traces on the hazy storefront windowpane. He eased himself onto a stool, happy for the relief to his leg.
Inspection born of habit included the lone counter drawer. He used the broken key jutting out of its brass lock as a handle. The two objects within remained as always, much like the rest of the immutable artifacts in this ancient warehouse—a notepad to keep
track of sales and an old revolver, a French World War I era Lebel. Wharton claimed he had retrieved the gun from a French officer after he was shot through the head. It was loaded—six eight-millimeter rounds, and if Wharton was to be believed, these were the original hand-made bullets, making the piece more of a museum relic than much else.
He stared at the stack of books on the floor, trying but failing to motivate his body into some kind of deliberate movement. The morphine coursing through him, which had cut the pain to a dull throb, was now working its magic on his eyelids, tugging at their corners, weighing them down. He spread his arms on the counter and dropped his head between them. He just needed a couple of
minutes to close his eyes. In seconds, his soul drifted up through the ornately molded plaster ceiling, through the decaying apartments above, and was at once lost and absorbed by the great nothingness beyond.
<Apple>
Somewhere within the addled recesses of his drug-besotted brain, an alarm went off. He raised his head an inch—just enough to crack open one eye and peer over his arm. The blurred image was moving, as if his horizontal controls were out of whack. He blinked the lone eye several times, trying to still the flickering.
<Apple>
His name. He lifted a chin onto an arm, and cracked open both eyes. The storefront remained empty. There was no one there. He felt the coolness of sweat on his forehead, and fought down a pang of nausea as he raised himself to a seated position. The sound had come from everywhere and nowhere. His hand felt for the drawer.
<Apple>
Now he heard it clearly. It was from nearby. He turned around several times, convinced that someone was in the shop hiding behind one of the book shelves. His hand was inside the drawer.
"Is someone there? Can I help you?"
Shadows flitted across the front window, coalescing into two figures which staggered to the door, one with a black fedora and long overcoat. The uneven movement was wrong. Apple slid off the stool and crouched behind the counter. The door chimed as the two lunged inside.
"You always leave the door open?"
Except for a low moan, the whispered question went unanswered. A pair of leather soles scuffed across the hardwood boards. Something was being dragged along with them. Apple withdrew the pistol and crawled back into the darkness behind a bookshelf. For a moment he thought about the fire door in the back—the chained fire door.
"Old man, tell me where it is or you're gonna take a nap, a real long nap."
The sound of a load of laundry hitting the floor prompted Apple to peer through an opening between a row of books. Fedora was bending over someone on the floor. The large bald head was a giveaway—Wharton.
"I ... I don't remember where it is."
Fedora took a step back and kicked Wharton in the side. The old man groaned and rolled into a fetal position.
"Does that help jog your memory?"
Heavy breathing betrayed deep agony. Wharton was hurting. Apple tightened his grip about the pistol.
"Please ... I don't know where it is."
"The boss needs the book. Like they say, 'It ain't personal'."
Apple heard another thud punctuated by a faint grunt.
He rose. "Stop it."
Fedora's head swiveled. Apple propped himself up against the shelving, holding the gun stretched out in his free hand, hoping that he wouldn't have to actually test it.
"Well, well. Ain't this sweet."
Fedora was a big man, wide and tall. Double-chinned and smirking, he opened the front of his coat. "I ain't carryin'. You ain't gonna shoot an unarmed man, are you?"
"Get the hell out of here."
"I'll be happy to leave ... that's after I get my book. Maybe you can help Mr. Wharton here with his memory."
Apple held a corner of the shelving and stepped out into the aisle. Fedora remained at the counter, silhouetted by the light filtering in through the store front.
"I'll ask you one more time. Leave now."
Apple took another step forward, teetering slightly as he pivoted on his artificial leg.
"Put down that pee-shooter before you hurt yourself."
Fedora took a step to the side of the counter. He stopped about two paces away and said, "Be reasonable. Maybe you can help me. We find the book and then I'll be gone, like I was never here."
Apple lowered the pistol and asked, "Exactly what book are you looking for?"
Fedora was fast, much faster than Apple expected for a man of his size. He would have had the gun except for the stack of books on the floor. His eyes bulged as he tripped. The two collapsed in a heap behind the counter with Apple pinned by the massive thug. The gun flew off somewhere out of sight. He squirmed in an effort to release himself, but when he realized that Fedora was not
moving, he rolled the dead weight off his legs. A closer look revealed the big guy was still breathing, and a triangular bruise on his forehead matching the corner of the counter explained the sudden siesta.
Apple stood, winced as he adjusted his prosthesis, and stepped over the unconscious hulk.
"Mr. Wharton. Are you okay?"
Wharton wriggled, trying to straighten out. He wheezed when Apple turned him over onto his back. Blood tinged the inside edge of his thin lips, and a vivid purple swelling closed one eye. The good eye followed Apple as he brought his head lower. After a wet inhale, Wharton tried to speak. "Apple ... son ... "
Wharton had never called him 'son.'
"Hold on sir. I'll get some help. Just hold on."
Wharton coughed and spat. "Son ... vanos ... ." He swung his arm in a half-arc and pointed at the scattered books partially hidden beneath Fedora's legs.
Apple was worried about the blood-red spittle. "Don't move. I'm going to call an ambulance."
The closest working phone was in the deli two doors away. As Apple reached for the door knob, a low bear-like grunt stopped him cold. "Just where do you think you're going?"
Apple turned his head, leaving one hand on the door. Fedora stood at the counter, straightening out the brim of his hat. The side of his bloated, cherubic face was marred by a swollen bruise. His other hand held a pistol which he waved at Apple. It was Wharton's antique Lebel.
"Mr. Wharton is badly hurt. He needs a doctor."
"That's really not my problem. What did he just tell you?"
"Nothing. He's in pain."
The firecracker report came with a flash, and he felt his stump jerk back. He clutched at his prosthesis as if it was the real thing, and dropped to the floor. "What the hell did you do that for?"
"Tell me what he said. Your other leg is next."
"Like I told you ... he didn't say anything."
"You're wastin' my time."
Fedora brought the gun up to his eye, aimed and fired again. This time the report was a thunderclap. For a moment, an overcoat stood unmoving beneath a puffy cumulus cloud. A second later, the grey vapor lifted and the overcoat collapsed. A lone black hat followed, tumbling brim over crown to settle atop the unmoving heap.
Before Apple could rise, the door behind him chimed.
"Is this a bad time?"
He propped himself up on one elbow and turned to see a girl outlined by the glass door, her features obscured by shadow. Apple knew at once who she was.
There are about a thousand of us and we've been here for five millennia. We were assigned human charges beginning
at their births. We are always nearby, being especially careful to avoid detection. Although our primary goal is observation and data gathering, there are times when we are expected to assist our charges. Such assistance is to be subtle, taking the form of timely
insight or a minor physical nudge to avoid premature termination of a charge, as this represents the loss of a valuable data stream, and would necessitate reassignment to a freshly born human. Thus has it always been, until one day I overstepped my role and changed the lives of both my charge and myself forever. Perhaps it was a mistake on my part, and then again, perhaps not.
Applegate Bogdanski was born in the Aldershot military camp in England in 1947. The singular first name was the result of a parental tribute given to the camp pastor, Rev. William Applegate, for his unselfish help in getting two displaced Europeans settled and started on a new life. In 1951, the Bogdanskis sailed to the United States, where Apple, as he is known to his friends, began his schooling at Saint James in Newark, New Jersey. The first years were difficult, since he entered school speaking a mix of Polish and German, the languages spoken at home. However, immature humans are quick to adjust, and Apple did just that.
* * *
The morning was much like any other in early Fall, 1958. With a brisk head wind tossing auburn locks across his eyes, Apple cinched up his windbreaker and scrunched over as he trudged to school. It was three blocks up Ferry and a turn onto Adams for another three.
Sister Bernadette began her third grade class punctually at eight AM, and Apple was late. At this hour, few people were about the normally crowded sidewalks. He hurried along Ferry, pausing only briefly at intersections before dashing across, all the while lugging a bulging leather bag containing every book needed for the day's lessons and more. He kept switching his carrying hand because his
short fingers slipped on the smooth handles. At the Adams crosswalk, he glanced quickly to his right and took a step off the curb, pausing a moment to heave the bag from one hand to the other.
Naturally, I saw things developing quite clearly. Just at that moment, several milk bottles in the back of a delivery truck slid off their
shelves and crashed to the aisle. The driver looked back and cursed.
Apple stopped mid-stride as the white blur of a truck screeched past him, grinding to a halt in the middle of the intersection. One more step, and he would have been hit. The truck turned onto Ferry and purred away. After a hard swallow, he continued across. When he reached his classroom, Sister Bernadette welcomed him with an icy stare.
"Where have you been, Mr. Bogdanski?"
Amid snickering from his fellow classmates, Apple peeled off his jacket, wrapped it around his seatback and sat down. His desk was at the front, directly under the watchful eyes of Sister Bernadette—an unfortunate outcome of the Sister's alphabetic seating arrangement. He reached into the gaping maw of his bag and secured a worn, green Catechism booklet. The morning always began with Catechism.
"I got up late this morning, Sister. We had a problem with the electricity last night and my mom got me up late."
Sister Bernadette harrumphed at the excuse and scribbled something into her notebook. She took up a long, wooden pointer, and swung it in Apple's direction. "Do you remember what we went over in yesterday's Catechism lesson?"
Apple thought back, his mind blank. After a moment, his face lit up. "Yes. It was about guardian angels, and how each of us has one to look after us."
"And what is it they look after, exactly?"
The pointer moved a little closer.
Adam knew the correct answer, but today he had a different answer.
"I think my guardian angel saved my life this morning," he said in a whisper, feeling a little embarrassed at his naked honesty.
Several classmates giggled, topped off by a mocking guffaw from the class clown in the rear. Sister Bernadette's mouth was locked in a disquieting ‘o'. She and her pointer took another step toward Apple.
"And exactly how do you know this?"
Apple gathered his thoughts. He stood up. "I was in a hurry and I was about to cross a street. I guess I wasn't paying attention. Just before I stepped off the curb, I felt a kind of tug, like someone grabbed the collar of my jacket. It's like I got yanked back. I just stood there wondering who did that, when a truck came flying right by me. Missed me by inches."
He held his hands close together to emphasize his narrow escape. "I think it must've been my guardian angel who stopped me."
Sister Bernadette lowered the pointer. "Mr. Bogdanski, you may have thought that an angel saved your life, but it just doesn't work that way. As we discussed yesterday, angels protect your soul, not your body. They help you make the right choices in life. If they also had to protect us from injury, then no one would get sick, there wouldn't be any accidents … why, we would live forever wouldn't we?"
She turned to the class for added emphasis, and asked, "Does anyone here know of anyone who's been alive forever?"
Apple slumped back into his seat. Feeling his face blush, he rested his head between his hands. Sister Bernadette had made her opinion clear, but he knew better. Something extraordinary had happened, and if it wasn't a guardian angel, it was something else.
* * *
Apple seemed to have been born mature. This did not mean he was overly dull, overly serious, or that he preferred to spend his time practicing the piano rather than playing football. Quite the contrary, it could be claimed that he was wilder than most, a free spirit who took chances and was more than happy to take on reckless dares. It was more the way he approached things. He had an independent mind, only willing to go with the crowd after weighing the consequences of an action against its potential glory—pretty unusual for his age, in fact, unusual for any age. I must say he was accident-prone, and often found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, he had one character trait that set him apart from most—he could never bring himself to lie. This was a saintly quality that, ironically, was not always appreciated by his superiors.
Sister Ethel, the school principal, waddled into Sister Alice's eighth grade class. Her stooped-over frame heaved several cartons unto the front desk. She arched her back in a failed effort to straighten up, and reseated her spectacles as she caught her breath.
After being formally greeted by Sister Alice, she made a show of dusting her hands by slapping them together several times. With everyone now focused on her, she addressed the classroom.
"As you know, our parish is in the midst of a Christmas fund drive. Monsignor Rearden and I have come up with a plan to help. The eighth grade class will serve as an example to the rest of the school. There are boxes of Christmas cards in these cartons, fifty to a box, that the Church would like you to sell. They're only ten dollars a box and you could easily sell them to friends and family. Remember, this is all for a very good cause."
Sister Alice stepped behind Sister Ethel and began lifting out the individual boxes. She held several up for all to see. Each one had a picture of the card design stamped on its face. Silver snow glittered around the three wise men atop their camels attending the birth of
Jesus.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" crooned Sister Alice. She placed the boxes beside the cartons, and took up her notebook and pen.
"We'll begin at the front. When I call your name, please stand and tell me how many boxes you wish to be assigned."
She glanced back. Sister Ethel reset her glasses with an index finger, and nodded in the direction of the first desk in the first row.
"Marjorie Abrams," called out Sister Alice.
Marjorie jumped up out of her seat even before her name was completed. Two seats behind her, Apple stirred.
"Let me say that I am proud to help the parish in any way I can. I'll be happy to take ten boxes."
A murmur skittered through the class. Sister Alice sported a Cheshire Cat smile as her pen scrawled figures in her notebook. Before looking up again, she threw a glance at Sister Ethel, who ticked her head in acknowledgment. She positively beamed when she looked up at the first row again.
"Thank you, Marjorie. Your support is very much appreciated."
"You are very welcome, Sister Alice."
Marjorie curtsied and retook her seat.
Everyone knew that Marjorie's family was well off. And, everyone knew that her parents would buy the boxes outright.
"Now, Thomas Blakey."
Apple was next. His mind raced. He thought about his dad's new job at the office equipment store. He could still see him covering his parents' bed with dollar bills from his first week's pay. He was so proud. There were one hundred of them. And they both surprised mom when she came home from the jewelry factory. She scolded his dad for being so silly with money.
Thomas arose, and said, "I'll take seven."
A frown flickered across Sister Alice's face for a beat, and then she said, "Seven boxes. That will be fine, Thomas."
Thomas sat.
"Applegate Bogdanski."
There was a lump in Apple's throat, as if his body was struggling to keep him from talking. He felt himself rise. It seemed as if his body was disconnected from his mind. A few moments passed, and Sister Alice prodded, "Well, Applegate?"
"Sister Alice." He paused, slightly breathless. "I would like to take zero boxes."
The moment froze, like a jammed movie reel at the theater. Apple heard a vague static hiss, punctuated by the projector's sprockets, tick-ticking in time to the beat of his heart. In that thin sliver of time, he saw both eyebrows rising above Sister Alice's glasses, Sister Ethel's specs slid to the tip of her nose as she began a slow motion step forward, his classmates' heads began pivoting in an attempt to get a better view of the impending slaughter. His words seemed to hang in the air, crystalline, reflecting the faint light beams
that slipped through shaded windows.
Suddenly, a crack sounded and Apple ducked as the words disintegrated into tiny shards, flying off in every direction. Sister Ethel smacked her wooden yardstick on the desk again. The hissing broke up into a spat of nervous laughter, which quickly evaporated into silence.
Sister Ethel spoke, or rather, grunted, "Mr. Bogdanski. Did I hear you correctly?"
Apple straightened himself. He fought down a strong urge to take everything back, to say it was a joke, a mistake, to fall on his knees and ask for forgiveness from both Sisters, and even from God Himself. It would be so easy.
"I'm sorry, Sister Ethel. For personal reasons, I do not choose to participate."
Sister Ethel took a step forward with yardstick in hand, causing Apple an involuntary, anticipatory wince. She stopped herself, and instead, turned her blood red face to Sister Alice. Her stare shouted, "Well?"
Sister Alice stammered, "This is not acceptable, Mr. Bogdanski."
Apple bent his head and stared at his feet, much like a death row inmate might do just before being led to the gallows. She then invoked the time-honored classic, especially when confronted with impending classroom chaos.
"Go sit in the corner. Face the wall, talk to no one, until I decide what to do with you."
Apple trekked to the stool in front of the classroom, specifically located for just such occasions, and with which he had some prior familiarity. Each step was an effort, like slogging through mud. When he passed by the nuns, their stares beat down on his neck like the heat of two suns. He reached the cool refuge of the corner, and slid onto the stool, physically relieved. For a moment, he felt a hand caress his shoulder, but when he looked back, he saw only a pair of disapproving glares. He sat up straight, and stared at the corner for the rest of the day, barely aware of the resumption of what now became the mandatory Christmas card assignments.
I must admit, I was as surprised as everyone in that classroom. It was then that my respect for Apple was transformed into a deep admiration. Here was a charge with conviction and real courage. One might say, I became fond of the boy. And it was his courage that
was destined to change both our lives.
* * *
Apple had barely finished college when he was drafted into the army. He served at home and abroad, where he was
awarded a Purple Heart and Bronze Star for his efforts in Vietnam, efforts that cost him everything below his left knee and bestowed upon him a torturous addiction to morphine. There was nothing I could do. There were rules. To make things worse, while away, his parents had died in an automobile accident.
In 1975, Apple lived alone in a first-floor apartment across the treet from a city park in Newark. When he wasn't working, he sat and gazed out the front window. The ball fields were usually empty until near suppertime.
He found a part-time job a mile away at a small bookstore located near Penn Station. He had no car, and hated buses. He preferred to walk there without crutches, making it a point to get used to the wooden prosthetic. The route took him through the neighborhood of his youth, and it included a weekly stop to pick up morphine from a local source.
The brownstone landmarks of Saint James School and Church were long-gone, torn down and replaced with pale reflections cast in sleek metal and pale cinder block. Every once in a while, Apple caught the smells of dinner—mouth-watering scents which wafted from house to house, at times mixed in with the sounds of children. He recalled his mom's cooking and her voice as he was called to
dinner. His dad would then fire off his own verbal volley, since Apple was almost always upstairs lost in his own world. He suppressed a laugh. Those were good times, really good times.
The elm trees lining Lafayette Street had covered the sidewalk with a fresh blanket of brown and yellow leaves, which morphed into interlocking grey puzzle pieces beneath the shadows of street lamps. Apple gave the thin, black canyons between apartment buildings a wide berth, angling himself toward the edge of the sidewalk as he passed. It was a precaution born of recent experience, and wholly unnecessary in a neighborhood he knew so well, or so he thought.
"Help."
Apple stopped. It was barely a whimper, a thin voice. He waddled across the street to investigate. Hugging a line of parked cars, he stooped low and moved from shadow to shadow, from tree to tree, until he heard a faint groan and a crisp warning.
"Old man, give it up. No use dyin' for money we're gonna take from you anyhow."
The retort was ragged and weak, nonetheless, defiant. "You're nothin' but scum. I ain't givin' you nothin'."
Apple heard a thud, and the whoosh of air leaving a frayed set of lungs. He stepped out of the shadows. "Hey. What do you think you're doing?"
There were two of them. Both wore black jackets, and had dark knitted wool caps drawn over their foreheads. One held a gray-haired man who looked to be unconscious. The other turned to Apple, sporting a smile and a gold front tooth.
"Well, whatta we got here? A hero? Maybe you lookin' to die tonight?"
Gold tooth reached into his jacket and flicked open a switchblade. He waved it at Apple, making sure it caught the streetlight.
"You gonna do somethin' stupid, or you gonna be smart and shove off?"
The old man slumped to the ground in a heap.
Apple's wooden limb clicked and he stumbled as he moved forward.
"Hah. Get a load of the cripple. Get lost before I carve you up, gimp."
Apple jumped at gold tooth, grabbing his knife hand. The move sent them careening into the dark embrace of the alley. In moments, Apple shook the knife loose, pulled off the wool cap, and had both hands around gold tooth's collar. He dragged him into the light.
"I know you. You live just down the street here."
The other one approached Apple from behind. He had his own knife. Apple struggled to raise himself, holding gold tooth up by his jacket. Behind him, a blade descended, aimed squarely at Apple's back.
*
A red light blinked, on and off, on and off. A siren danced with the light, then faded. Apple felt his head and shoulders shoved, shaken.
A far off voice asked, "Is he dead?"
Then from nearby, "Sir. Are you all right?"
It occurred to Apple that the question was being addressed to him. His head hurt. The words were slow to emerge. "Yeah ... Yeah, I think I'm all right."
"Get the medics over here."
The red light continued its almost mesmerizing undulation. Everything was covered in a haze. Men in white hovered over him. The world faded from red to black.
*
"How are we feeling this morning?"
Apple opened his eyes, and was greeted by a friendly smile and a dull headache. The nurse cocked her head. "It's time for your
breakfast."
She reached down and cranked something below him. The back of the bed rose, easing him into a sitting position.
"There now, that's better."
She swung a table over his lap and deposited a tray of food. "There're some gentlemen here to talk to you. Do you feel up to
it?"
Apple nodded and squeaked out a "Sure." He stared at the food.
The nurse glided out of the room, and a suit and a uniformed police officer entered.
"Mr. Bodganski?" asked the suit.
Apple nodded.
"I'm Detective Sanchez and this is Officer Santora. We're here to talk to you about last night. What can you tell us about what
happened?"
Apple sifted through the jumble that was left of last night. He was walking home. He heard something. He went to see if he could help. As the pieces began fitting together, he related the events as best he could, and when he finished, Sanchez said, "You know, you probably saved Mr. Positano's life."
The name was familiar. Of course, it was Al Positano, the owner of the luncheonette on Adams. Al's place was one of Apple's favorite hangouts as a child.
"How is he?"
"He took a good beating—a couple of broken ribs, maybe a concussion … but, the doc says he'll be okay."
"And, what about the two kids?"
"We got ‘em, thanks to you."
"What do you mean? I don't remember much after I disarmed Bobby."
Sanchez looked at Santora, and then turned back to Apple.
"A neighbor called about the noise in the alley. When we got there, we found the two boys tied to each other with their belts. Old man Positano was unconscious, and you weren't doing much better. Looks like you hit your head on something during the fight."
Before Apple could sort things out, Sanchez asked, "Were you in the military or something?"
"Yeah. Just got back from active duty a few months ago."
Sanchez looked at the artificial leg propped up in the corner of the room. "You must be damn good at hand-to-hand."
"Why is that?"
"Both boys said you went wild. You moved so fast … before they knew it, you had their belts off and them all trussed up like calves in a rodeo. They never saw anything like it."
Apple just stared at Sanchez.
"Nice work, Mr. Bogdanski. If there were more people like you around, our jobs would be a whole lot easier. Of course, that's off the
record."
Sanchez winked and the two left.
*
Several days later, Apple was released from the hospital. It was a Saturday and the Fall weather had mellowed out for a spell. He was happy to get out of the hospital and away from old memories, besides he was starting to get jittery. The perfume of freshly fallen leaves almost made him forget his pain. He was in need of a fix, and that's where he was headed. When he reached an
intersection, he felt a tug at his collar. His artificial leg dangled over the curb and he almost lost his balance as a bicycle scooted past. The rider threw him a Jersey salute.
"Close one, Apple."
The voice was female.
"Sorry about grabbing you. But I was sure you were about to get clobbered by that bike."
She was tall, radiant and wrapped loosely in a long gray coat. As she lowered her arm, brown hair cascaded over her shoulders. The smile was sincere, and her deep, dark blue eyes stared straight through him.
"That's… that's quite all right. I should have been watching where I was going."
She chuckled.
They stood at the corner, staring at each other, oblivious to pedestrians veering to either side.
"I'm sorry, but do I know you?" asked Apple.
"You'll have to forgive me. I'm kind of new at this."
"New at what?"
"It's a long story. Maybe over a cup of coffee?"
"Some other time." Adam hated himself for saying that, but he had business that couldn't wait. When he was halfway across the intersection, he glanced back. She was still standing at the curb, sporting a knowing and somehow disquieting smile.
"Hey, what's your name? And how about a rain check for that coffee?"
"It's Angela. Don't worry about the coffee. I'm in the neighborhood. I'll catch you later."
When Apple reached the opposite curb, he looked again. She was gone.
Chapter 1
A month later.
Wharton's was a used book shop on Market Street a block north of Penn Station. Dust covered the moldering tomes
stuffed into ten foot high shelving. There was no central catalogue and no alphabetical arrangement, and there were no paperbacks, and nothing published in the past twenty years. Frayed hard cover volumes crammed into protesting shelves attested to centuries of human triumphs and failures. They loomed overhead like boulders teetering on canyon rims.
Wharton had a system, and it mostly resided in his gnome-like bald head. He was a perpetually hunched over, diminutive man, with a deathly pale complexion who was pushing ninety. When he spoke, an unlit cigarette, sprouting from the corner of his mouth, had the disturbing habit of lolling up and down like a conductor's baton.
"You're late."
Apple closed the glass door behind him and shrugged.
Wharton exhaled with a rasp. "I don't know why I put up with you." He nodded, and pointed a gnarly finger at a pile of books on the floor. "Just came in today. Get 'em organized. Just stack 'em, you hear? I don't want those sold yet."
The old man gathered his wind breaker and swung it over his shoulder.
"Remember, we're closin' at five today."
Apple wondered what was so special about those books, but before he could ask, Wharton shuffled through the door and disappeared into the fading light of the late autumn afternoon. A few drops of rain skittered through the thread-bare store-front canopy, leaving behind jagged, iridescent traces on the hazy storefront windowpane. He eased himself onto a stool, happy for the relief to his leg.
Inspection born of habit included the lone counter drawer. He used the broken key jutting out of its brass lock as a handle. The two objects within remained as always, much like the rest of the immutable artifacts in this ancient warehouse—a notepad to keep
track of sales and an old revolver, a French World War I era Lebel. Wharton claimed he had retrieved the gun from a French officer after he was shot through the head. It was loaded—six eight-millimeter rounds, and if Wharton was to be believed, these were the original hand-made bullets, making the piece more of a museum relic than much else.
He stared at the stack of books on the floor, trying but failing to motivate his body into some kind of deliberate movement. The morphine coursing through him, which had cut the pain to a dull throb, was now working its magic on his eyelids, tugging at their corners, weighing them down. He spread his arms on the counter and dropped his head between them. He just needed a couple of
minutes to close his eyes. In seconds, his soul drifted up through the ornately molded plaster ceiling, through the decaying apartments above, and was at once lost and absorbed by the great nothingness beyond.
<Apple>
Somewhere within the addled recesses of his drug-besotted brain, an alarm went off. He raised his head an inch—just enough to crack open one eye and peer over his arm. The blurred image was moving, as if his horizontal controls were out of whack. He blinked the lone eye several times, trying to still the flickering.
<Apple>
His name. He lifted a chin onto an arm, and cracked open both eyes. The storefront remained empty. There was no one there. He felt the coolness of sweat on his forehead, and fought down a pang of nausea as he raised himself to a seated position. The sound had come from everywhere and nowhere. His hand felt for the drawer.
<Apple>
Now he heard it clearly. It was from nearby. He turned around several times, convinced that someone was in the shop hiding behind one of the book shelves. His hand was inside the drawer.
"Is someone there? Can I help you?"
Shadows flitted across the front window, coalescing into two figures which staggered to the door, one with a black fedora and long overcoat. The uneven movement was wrong. Apple slid off the stool and crouched behind the counter. The door chimed as the two lunged inside.
"You always leave the door open?"
Except for a low moan, the whispered question went unanswered. A pair of leather soles scuffed across the hardwood boards. Something was being dragged along with them. Apple withdrew the pistol and crawled back into the darkness behind a bookshelf. For a moment he thought about the fire door in the back—the chained fire door.
"Old man, tell me where it is or you're gonna take a nap, a real long nap."
The sound of a load of laundry hitting the floor prompted Apple to peer through an opening between a row of books. Fedora was bending over someone on the floor. The large bald head was a giveaway—Wharton.
"I ... I don't remember where it is."
Fedora took a step back and kicked Wharton in the side. The old man groaned and rolled into a fetal position.
"Does that help jog your memory?"
Heavy breathing betrayed deep agony. Wharton was hurting. Apple tightened his grip about the pistol.
"Please ... I don't know where it is."
"The boss needs the book. Like they say, 'It ain't personal'."
Apple heard another thud punctuated by a faint grunt.
He rose. "Stop it."
Fedora's head swiveled. Apple propped himself up against the shelving, holding the gun stretched out in his free hand, hoping that he wouldn't have to actually test it.
"Well, well. Ain't this sweet."
Fedora was a big man, wide and tall. Double-chinned and smirking, he opened the front of his coat. "I ain't carryin'. You ain't gonna shoot an unarmed man, are you?"
"Get the hell out of here."
"I'll be happy to leave ... that's after I get my book. Maybe you can help Mr. Wharton here with his memory."
Apple held a corner of the shelving and stepped out into the aisle. Fedora remained at the counter, silhouetted by the light filtering in through the store front.
"I'll ask you one more time. Leave now."
Apple took another step forward, teetering slightly as he pivoted on his artificial leg.
"Put down that pee-shooter before you hurt yourself."
Fedora took a step to the side of the counter. He stopped about two paces away and said, "Be reasonable. Maybe you can help me. We find the book and then I'll be gone, like I was never here."
Apple lowered the pistol and asked, "Exactly what book are you looking for?"
Fedora was fast, much faster than Apple expected for a man of his size. He would have had the gun except for the stack of books on the floor. His eyes bulged as he tripped. The two collapsed in a heap behind the counter with Apple pinned by the massive thug. The gun flew off somewhere out of sight. He squirmed in an effort to release himself, but when he realized that Fedora was not
moving, he rolled the dead weight off his legs. A closer look revealed the big guy was still breathing, and a triangular bruise on his forehead matching the corner of the counter explained the sudden siesta.
Apple stood, winced as he adjusted his prosthesis, and stepped over the unconscious hulk.
"Mr. Wharton. Are you okay?"
Wharton wriggled, trying to straighten out. He wheezed when Apple turned him over onto his back. Blood tinged the inside edge of his thin lips, and a vivid purple swelling closed one eye. The good eye followed Apple as he brought his head lower. After a wet inhale, Wharton tried to speak. "Apple ... son ... "
Wharton had never called him 'son.'
"Hold on sir. I'll get some help. Just hold on."
Wharton coughed and spat. "Son ... vanos ... ." He swung his arm in a half-arc and pointed at the scattered books partially hidden beneath Fedora's legs.
Apple was worried about the blood-red spittle. "Don't move. I'm going to call an ambulance."
The closest working phone was in the deli two doors away. As Apple reached for the door knob, a low bear-like grunt stopped him cold. "Just where do you think you're going?"
Apple turned his head, leaving one hand on the door. Fedora stood at the counter, straightening out the brim of his hat. The side of his bloated, cherubic face was marred by a swollen bruise. His other hand held a pistol which he waved at Apple. It was Wharton's antique Lebel.
"Mr. Wharton is badly hurt. He needs a doctor."
"That's really not my problem. What did he just tell you?"
"Nothing. He's in pain."
The firecracker report came with a flash, and he felt his stump jerk back. He clutched at his prosthesis as if it was the real thing, and dropped to the floor. "What the hell did you do that for?"
"Tell me what he said. Your other leg is next."
"Like I told you ... he didn't say anything."
"You're wastin' my time."
Fedora brought the gun up to his eye, aimed and fired again. This time the report was a thunderclap. For a moment, an overcoat stood unmoving beneath a puffy cumulus cloud. A second later, the grey vapor lifted and the overcoat collapsed. A lone black hat followed, tumbling brim over crown to settle atop the unmoving heap.
Before Apple could rise, the door behind him chimed.
"Is this a bad time?"
He propped himself up on one elbow and turned to see a girl outlined by the glass door, her features obscured by shadow. Apple knew at once who she was.