Orphan X

EPILOGUE Loss

In a desolate stretch of the snowy Allegheny Mountains, a fire burns in a cabin, smoke spiraling from the chimney. Through the single-pane windows carries the sound of grunting. Inside, a three-hundred-pound water-filled heavy bag hangs from a ceiling joist. A scrappy twelve-year-old boy beats at it with all his might — fists, forearms, knees. A stocky man stands behind him, holding a stopwatch.

The boy’s blows become weak and infrequent, and finally the man clicks the stopwatch. The boy keeps his feet, panting.

“Albuquerque, molecular, thirty-seven, Henry Clay, grand slam, X-ray, loss, nineteen, Monaco, denoted,” the man says. “What is item nine?”

The boy’s thin chest heaves. “Monaco.”

“Item two?”

“Molecular.”

“The sum of items three and eight?”

“Fifty-six.”

A series of low beeps draws the man’s attention. He walks over to the counter where a blocky satphone rests. He ratchets up the stubby antenna, pointing it through the roof, and clicks to pick up.

“Jack Johns,” he says.

The voice comes through, scratchy with static. “He’s in the wind again.”

“Safe?”

“Yes. For now.”

Jack closes his eyes, lowers his head, exhales. Reaching over the top buttons of his flannel shirt, he scratches at the silver dollar of taut, shiny skin near his shoulder. This many years later and still it itches like sin in the winter.

The voice squawks through again. “You copy?”

“Copy,” Jack says.

He removes the battery, then tosses the phone into the fireplace.

The boy is at his side, sensing the shift in emotion.

“Did I say to stop?” Jack asks.

“No, sir.” The boy returns to his post by the heavy bag behind Jack.

On top of the burning logs, the phone blackens and melts. Jack keeps his eyes on the dancing flames. He has to clear his throat twice before he can continue the test. “Item seven?” he asks.

“Loss,” the boy answers.