Specimen Days

'Yes. You should. It's the right thing to do.'

'You really think so?'

'Yes. I do.'

'And you'll stay with me?'

'I promise.'

His little mouth puckered up. 'Don't you want to go into the grass and the trees?' he said.

'Not yet. And I don't want you to, either.' 'We could do it later, right?'

She said, 'I'm going to take the lighter and get that thing off you now. Okay?'

'Oh, I don't think you should do that,' he said.

'I don't think the shells will make their sound for you if you have it on. They're very sensitive.'

'Oh. Well. Okay.'

And just that easily, he handed her the lighter. Here it was, a piece of red plastic you could buy anywhere for ninety-nine cents. She slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

She helped him out of his jacket. His chest was bare underneath. He was so thin, his sternum so sunken the bomb must have been heavy for him.

She got a pair of scissors and cut through the tape that held the bomb to his chest. It stuck to his skin as she pulled it away. He winced. She was surprised to find that she hated to hurt him.

When she had the bomb, she put it on the kitchen counter. It was only a footlong piece of pipe, with a cap on either end and a fuse sticking out of a hole drilled in one of the caps. Easy to buy, easy to assemble. It sat on her countertop, next to the coffeemaker and the toaster oven.

He was harmless now. He was just a little boy. 'So now we'll go?' he said eagerly.

She paused. She knew what she had to do. She had to take him to see the shells at headquarters. He couldn't hurt her, or anyone, now.

And yet. He was so trusting. He was so happy about being taken to a beach. He had no idea what was about to happen to him. She should at least let him get a little sleep first.

'Not right now,' she said.

'No?'

'We should wait until morning. You can't really see them at night.'

'Oh. Okay.'

'You must be tired. Aren't you?'

'No. Well, maybe a little.'

'Come on. You take a nap, and then when the sun's up, we'll go.'

'Okay.'

She took him into her bedroom, had him take off his jeans. There he was in a pair of tiny underpants. He was so frail. His right shoulder was three inches lower than his left. She tucked him into her bed.

'This bed is nice,' he said.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, touched his wispy hair. 'Sleep, now,' she said.

'If I had a dog, would he really sleep with me at night?'

'Mm-hm.'

'Would a dog like to go to the beach?' 'Oh, yes. Dogs love the beach.' 'Did you ever have a dog?'

'A long, long time ago. When I was a little girl.' 'What was his name?' 'Smokey. His name was Smokey.' 'Smokey's a good name.'

'Did you mean it when you told me you don't have a name?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Is there some kind of name you call yourself?'

'Not really.'

'We should give you a name.'

'I like Smokey.'

'Smokey is a dog's name.'

'Oh.'

'Go to sleep now.' 'Okay.'

He closed his eyes. After a few minutes, his breathing evened out.

She sat watching him, this changeling, this goblin child. What would they do with him? He hadn't hurt anyone, that would weigh in his favor, but others would know, as surely as she did herself, that he'd been fully capable of it. Still, he was a child, and a very suggestible one he could be reeducated. And once his picture hit the papers, good Samaritans would be lining up to adopt him after the government had done its work.

But would they release him, ever? People were spooked; people were seriously spooked. They'd want to study him, of course, but would they want to rehabilitate him? Not likely. What kind of message would it send, if you could be part of a group that blew up random citizens on the street, undergo intensive therapy, and be released back into society? No, it was zero tolerance for terrorists. Even child terrorists.

Here he was, sleeping in her bed. Here was the devil a malformed child who'd been meant to die in an alley in Buffalo, born prematurely to some woman who'd done God knew how many drugs. Here he was, dreaming about being taken to a beach to hold a shell up to his compromised ear. Willing to be called a dog's name.

* * *

She put the bomb into her bag, along with her copy of Leaves of Grass. Crazy to take it with her, but she couldn't leave it in the apartment with the kid, could she? She got her pills from the medicine cabinet, took one into the bedroom with a glass of water, and woke the kid up.

He blinked in confusion. He didn't seem frightened, though, not like a normal kid would in a strange new place. For a while now, everything had been strange to him. It had become the way of the world.

She said, 'Sorry to wake you up. I want you to take this pill.'

'Okay,' he said. Just like that. No questions. Endearing and creepy at the same time.

He opened his mouth. She put the sleeping pill on his tongue, gave him the water. He dutifully swallowed.

'Back to sleep now,' she said. She sat with him until he fell asleep again, which took only a few minutes.

Then she slipped quietly out of the apartment and locked him in. As she turned the key she paused for a moment over the possibility of a fire, saw herself as one of those women on the news, the ones who had just run out for a moment for cigarettes or milk, had left the kids alone because there was no one else, no one to watch them, it was always her, only her, and she needed cigarettes, she needed milk, she needed to be someone who could run a simple errand, and then a few minutes later there she was, held back by a fireman or a neighbor, wailing as the flames did their work.

Fuck it. He'd be okay. Please be okay, little killer.

She walked to the precinct. It was fifteen blocks or so, but she wanted the time, she wanted the solitude. She wanted to be somebody walking alone. It seemed briefly to her, as she walked the depopulated streets, that she could slip out of her life altogether, could be just anyone anywhere, herself but unhaunted and unharmed, untutored in the hidden dangers, a woman with a job and a child and the regular array of difficulties, the questions of rent and groceries. It seemed, as she walked, an unimaginable happiness.

Pete was waiting for her in front of the precinct office. He was smoking a cigarette. He'd quit smoking years ago. He stabbed the smoldering butt into his mouth, strode up the block to meet her.

He said, 'There's been another one.' His voice was soft and low.

For a moment she thought the boy had detonated in her apartment. No, she had the bomb in her bag.

She had a bomb in her bag. Right next to her copy of Whitman.

'Where?' she asked. 'Chicago.'

'Chicago?'

'It came over the wire twenty minutes ago.'

'What do they know?'

'Looks like the same thing.'

'In Chicago.'