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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Brown, Nick Allen, 1978-

The astronaut from Bear Creek : a novel / by Nick Allen Brown. -- Trade paperback edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-915180-53-0

1. Orphans--Fiction. 2. Astronauts--Fiction. 3. Widows--Fiction. 4. Adoption--Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.R722426A88 2015

813’.6--dc23

2015003359

Next to Justin sat his hedgehog of a wife, finishing off her order of loaded cheese fries. Painted on her chubby lips were remnants of melted cheese, sour cream, and a smattering of grease. She reached for the last of her margarita as Justin signaled the barkeep.

“Margarita too,” Judy Creeson said. Her voice sounded as if her throat were packed with gravel…a byproduct of twenty years of discount cigarettes. She was twelve when she started smoking, a vain attempt to look cool while wearing powder-blue eye shadow and red lipstick. From the beginning of her pre-teen years till now, she had amassed two miscarriages and a stretched-out stomach, which advertised her alcoholic and caloric achievements. Using the back of her Cabbage Patch hand, she wiped the slop from around her mouth before she turned her head back toward the TV. The barkeep, a thin, thirty-something brunette wore a tight, black tank-top, and tried her best to look inconvenienced, hoping her last two customers got the point. She hurriedly punched in the orders on the touch screen at the end of the bar as she exhaled in frustration.

Justin looked down at his digital watch. 1:29AM. Hearing a swishing noise, he looked up at a man sweeping sawdust and peanut shells into a dustbin. The kitchen crew bustled behind a stainless steel swinging door as they noisily put away pots and pans. Justin watched as the tank-topped barkeep filled up a tall glass of frothy light beer that he considered free-of-charge.

Earlier that day, Justin had been asked to watch the counter for a few hours at Edwards Auto Garage. It was a nice change from his daily routine of replacing alternators and installing brake pads. With no customers around and being that he was the only employee at the front, it gave him the chance to slip several twenty-dollar bills from the register and into his front left pocket.

Justin loved to splurge on food and as a result, his waistline splurged over the top of his jeans. After forty-three wings and seven mugs of beer, he felt gastrointestinal pain and was forced to stand up for relief. The loaded cheese fries and margaritas were testing the limit of Judy’s brown T-shirt and brown sweatpants giving her the appearance of a potato wearing a leotard. She grunted as she shifted uncomfortably on her barstool before laying her head on the bar.

Once 2:00AM arrived, the barkeep gladly handed them their check. A few minutes later, Justin and Judy Creeson stumbled out the front doors of Wild Bill’s Sports Bar and clumsily walked across the wooden plank porch. Their discount sneakers clopped and puttered about as they headed for the parking lot in a drunken haze.

Once on the roads of Bear Creek, Justin Creeson drove his forest green ’92 Camaro with his eyes wide open, as if he was able to focus past his intoxication. He managed a left turn and used both hands on the worn and sticky steering wheel. What once was a cool sports car now resembled a heap of metal, fiberglass and Bondo. The engine seemed to cough like an elderly man with pneumonia and could be heard inside the houses as they drove down Sycamore Street. The throaty rumbling engine woke a few light sleepers as it sped down the road.

“You’re weaving, and the cops gonna pull you over,” Judy said as she tried to light up a cigarette. Her alcoholic haze and the lack of shock absorbers in the junkmobile prevented her from successfully igniting the tobacco. She spoke as she held the unlit cigarette in her mouth and her eyes on the flame of her lighter. “You’re not supposed to be driving anyway.” Justin let up off the brake and hit the gas pedal too hard, sending the Camaro down a hill.

Judy took the unlit cigarette out of her mouth and yelled, “You’re going way too fast. Slow down, moron. Arrows don’t weave.”

The front left tire abandoned the road first. Justin tried to steer it back onto the asphalt and overcorrected. Skidding tires. Screaming. The telephone pole snapped when the passenger side slammed into it with jagged, splintered wood piercing Judy’s skull like a toothpick into a watermelon. Her unwashed, stringy hair whipped around as the car flipped over. Her body broke free of the wreckage and smacked the road with sounds of cracking bone and slaps of fat. Her body skidded to a quick halt and left a trail of blood with bits of skin and tissue ground into the road. The car came to a stop on its roof, the tires spun freely, mangled hoses bled fluid onto the asphalt. Justin remained in the drivers seat upside down. He looked at the shattered windshield in front of him as his unwieldy weight bore down on his broken neck. Paralyzed and unable to correct the restricted airflow, blood gurgled and spurted from his mouth just as the pools of gasoline around him caught fire.

Jerry Pike and Alan Toms were known to other pilots in the flying community as “Tom and Jerry.” Decades ago when they were both in flight school at the U.S. Air Force Academy, they roomed together and had been like brothers ever since.

Sitting in the cockpit of a NASA-owned Cessna Citation VII, they talked while they waited for their passenger. The overhead lights in the hangar were off, but the sunlight from the mouth of the giant structure let in plenty of light. While the hangar could hold five airplanes, only the Citation VII was parked inside. Carrying on a casual conversation, they each held an overpriced cup of coffee.

“As soon as I see it, I throw it in the trash. Gone. The whole, entire loaf of bread,” Jerry said before taking a sip of his steaming coffee.

“Even worse.” Jerry looked out the window of the plane for their passenger. No sign of him.

“Do you eat blue cheese?” Tom asked before stirring his hot coffee and blowing on the surface to cool it down.

“I don’t know. How can mold be good?” Both of their heads turned toward the front of the plane as they watched a late model Honda Accord enter the giant mouth of the hangar. The sedan drove past the Cessna and headed toward the left corner. Jerry continued.

The Honda Accord parked, and the driver exited and placed his worn tassel loafers onto the polished concrete floor of the hangar. In his left hand was a brown, zippered case containing a tablet computer. In his right was a cup of coffee from the same coffee shop as Tom and Jerry‘s expensive java. A blue button-up shirt displayed a coffee stain—the spillage from a hazardous sip taken while approaching a red light, while his old, faded blue jeans hid similar splattering from a hairpin turn taken at thirty-five. The late-as-usual Dr. Daniel Stanton, 52, looked at the coffee stain on his fresh shirt and continued as if it were completely okay that it featured a noticeable, brown stain. He walked lazily up the stairs of the Cessna while carefully balancing his coffee. The heels of his loafers thunked on each metal each step until he entered the cabin of the plane, still wearing his sunglasses.

Dr. Daniel Stanton bent slightly with a grunt as he sat in a plush leather seat, still keeping his coffee level. He looked at the pilots through his dark sunglasses and nodded as he said their names: “Tom, Jerry.” They shifted around in their seats and leaned on their armrests as they looked back at Dr. Stanton.

“So there’s a rumor going around that you’re going to meet with Jim Crazyfield,” Jerry said with a mischievous smile.

“You are actually going to see him?” Jerry asked, and Tom added, “In person?”

“The propulsion chamber. He was testing something. That was fifteen years ago.”

“I evaluated him eleven years ago for spaceflight. He was nice. Seemed normal then,” Stanton said as he shrugged his shoulders and slid his sunglasses to the top of his head. “All I know is I have orders to pick him up, and he has to wear a straitjacket during the flight,” Stanton said nonchalantly, never smiling once.

“Yep,” Stanton said as he casually took a sip of his hot coffee before continuing. Tom and Jerry hung on every word. “He’s a flight risk. He has to wear a scream helmet too.”

“You guys are soft. What the heck is a scream helmet anyway? I just made that up.”

“Geez, I swear I thought you were serious,” Jerry said as he released a deep breath.

“Of course not. You’re both flight risks,” Stanton said as flopped his tablet computer in the seat next to him and settled into his leather seat. He pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes, ready for a nap.

“Fell asleep at the half,” Stanton said, eyes closed as he spoke in a sleepy tone.

“Figured,” Stanton said during a yawn. “Seems a couple cold beers makes me sleepy now. I’m getting too old.”

“Nachos, cheese and jalapeños. I stay awake through the whole game,” Tom said. Jerry nodded as if it were a confirmed secret.

“I love jalapeños. Good tip,” he said as he closed the shade to his window.

“Hey, Doc,” Jerry started, “if you open a loaf of bread and you see only one slice of bread with mold on it, what do you do?”

“Trash. Whole loaf,” Stanton said. Jerry turned his head toward Tom with a look of confirmation.

“Makes sense that my wife keeps it then,” Tom said as he rolled his eyes. Jerry laughed, and Dr. Stanton cracked a smile with his sunglasses still hiding his eyes.

The procedure for takeoff began. Switches were flipped. Headsets were placed and fitted, and screens displayed scrolling flight data. Dr. Stanton took another sip of his coffee, returned it to the cup holder, and leaned to one side of his plush leather chair and found a comfortable napping position. Tom initiated with the tower, speaking into his headset microphone. Stanton could feel the slow roll of the plane as it inched toward the end of the hangar. Before the plane reached the runway, Dr. Stanton was asleep, slouching like a careless teenager.

At Pocono Mountains Municipal Airport, the Cessna Citation VII sat near the smallest hangar. Tom and Jerry exited the plane before Dr. Stanton stood up from his plush, leather seat. Tom opened the luggage compartment, removed two golf bags and set them on the asphalt. Jerry took off his shoes and replaced them with golf shoes. Tom did the same as they talked.

“I couldn’t do it. The pig was laying there on a table with an apple in its mouth, you know, like you see in the movies,” Tom explained.

“And it was cooked? People were eating it?” Jerry grunted slightly, showing his age as he tied the laces on his shoes.

“Yep. They were just cutting into this poor animal. It doesn’t feel right eating out of a carcass.”

Dr. Stanton stepped out of the plane yawning, still donning his sunglasses. His hair was a puffy mess from napping, and his coffee-stained, blue button-up shirt was partially untucked. Even though he looked like a wreck, he seemed comfortable with his appearance.

“You sure about bringing Crazyfield on board?” Jerry asked with a smile. Stanton looked at the open gate to the airport and searched for his ride, then glanced at his old Movado watch as he came down the stairs.

“Doubt he’ll even come back with me. This thing is more of an evaluation,” Stanton’s tattered loafers clicked, clacked and scratched on the asphalt. “You guys playing a course nearby?”

“Yeah. Buck Hill. Call us on the cell if you need us back sooner,” Jerry said as he put on his sweater vest. A mini-van taxicab entered the gate of Pocono Mountains Municipal Airport and headed cautiously toward the Cessna.

“You know, you could end up buried beneath the floorboards of his motel if you aren’t careful,” Tom said. He and his golf buddy laughed as Stanton’s loafers lazily smacked the pavement. The sound of the mini-van’s weak four-cylinder engine almost drowned out the laughter from Tom and Jerry. Almost.

In the mini-van taxi, an old black man named Del looked at his clipboard and confirmed the address. He looked up and watched in his rearview mirror as Stanton got in the backseat. Del’s voice rattled off the address as if his throat had a motor in it while his eyes peeked over the top of his drug store reading glasses.

“You know it’s closed, right?” Del asked as he turned around and looked at him over the top of his glasses.

“Okay,” Del nodded, “we’re on our way.” He set the clipboard in the front passenger seat and shifted the cab into drive.

“Actually, I want to grab something to eat first. Can you recommend anywhere?”

“Well,” Del said as he looked at his watch. “I could use something to eat myself. If you don’t mind Murray’s Diner, I’ll get something too. You won’t lose your ride and you won’t have to eat on the meter.”

“Alright then,” Del said as he turned the steering wheel. “Best Reuben sandwich in PA”

Murray’s Diner had been around since the 1970s. The Formica lunch counter and the swivel barstools reflected the era of its inception. Bacon, eggs, grits, hash browns and the occasional omelet made up the limited, but delicious and quick breakfast fare. BLTs, ham sandwiches, chicken tenders and Murray’s famous Reuben were the favorites of the lunch crowd…especially the Reuben. Darla Pettigrew, a big-boned, 55-year-old waitress sliced cabbage with a chef’s knife behind the lunch counter. She always wore her hair up, which did nothing to compliment her thick, dangling cheeks that resembled Richard Nixon’s jowls. Her cheeks jiggled slightly as she managed the cabbage on a wooden cutting board. In her younger days, she was a third base softball player and built up a muscular physique. Her eating habits stayed with her over the years as her athleticism declined. With the grip of a commercial fisherman, she used a chef’s knife to slice the cabbage into thin strips, adding salt every so often to help draw out the moisture. The water and salt helped create the brine in which the cabbage could ferment without spoiling. It’s no secret that Murray’s famous Reuben was famous because they made their own sauerkraut.

When Stanton walked into Murray’s, the place was packed. While it was more of a local diner, tourists would wander over from the Poconos Mountains to patronize the boutiques and antique shops from time to time. Murray’s was one of the few lunch options in Bear Creek. Stanton sat down at a small table in the middle of the hungry diners, looking out of place. The locals knew what a tourist looked like and since they couldn’t place him, they shot odd looks his way from the corners of their eyes. When Darla first approached him, he was looking at the menu.

“You guessed it. Just passing through,” Stanton said as he pointed to the Reuben on the menu. “Cab driver said you have the best Reuben in the state. Set me up and I’ll take a cup of coffee, too.”

“You got it,” said Darla, thinking it curious that a man who was passing through used a cab driver. After putting in Stanton’s order, she sidled up to Del who came in shortly after parking his cab. “Hey, Del, who’s the stranger?” she asked as she set a steaming cup of hot coffee in front of him.

After thirty minutes of serving guests, clearing tables, refilling soda and cups of coffee, Darla brought the check to her mystery customer. Speaking to Stanton in a friendly way, trying not to sound too nosey, she asked him a question as if they were acquaintances.

Stanton looked up at her friendly face while she crookedly held a half-full coffee pot in her right hand.

“Nope. I’m here to visit a local over at Bear Creek Inn,” Stanton answered. The people sitting around him overheard him and stopped eating. They turned their head to see who had said the name.

“Bear Creek Inn? The astronaut?” Darla asked, a little too loudly. Now everyone was silent. The entire diner looked at Stanton. All of a sudden the thought of being hacked up and buried underneath the inn didn’t sound so ludicrous. Before Stanton could answer, Darla broke the silence as she looked out the front door.

“Daggone it,” Darla said under her breath. Dr. Stanton turned his head and saw a truck sporting a Pennsylvania State Parks logo. The truck parked and Steven Burns exited followed by a co-worker wearing the same blue-collar attire. Darla hung her head and reached into her apron, and pulled out a check for Stanton. “Pay at the counter when you’re ready.” Darla said as she prepared herself for Steven.

He entered the diner, his eyes searched for a table. The patrons quickly went back to their food and periodically glanced at Stanton from the corners of their eyes. Steven and his co-worker found an empty booth at the far back corner.

After Stanton took the last bite of the Reuben sandwich, he moved his plate to the other side of his table and sat back in his chair, sipping his coffee. He glanced at Del, hoping that he was nearing the end of his lunch so he could escape the uncomfortable, shifty stares from the surrounding lunch crowd. Two elderly men sitting on barstools at the lunch counter surrendered their typical conversation of fishing to discuss the astronaut instead. Stanton couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

“I don’t know, four or five years ago, I think. Who knows, probably wasn’t even him.”

At the far end of the lunch counter sat a thick, burly man named “Bull”. He wiped his mouth and paid for lunch by reaching into his pocket and produced a thick wad of fives and tens. He peeled off fifteen dollars and placed it on top of his check as he looked around the diner. Bull’s real name was Jeremiah Dower, but it had been fifteen years since anyone had called him by his first name. Back in his high school days, his teammates wore out the “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog” song during his four years as an offensive linesmen on the football team. By the time he graduated, the name “Bullfrog” stuck. In his later years, he just introduced himself as Bull. He turned his head toward the back of the diner and saw Steven Burns and his co-worker. He grabbed his cup of coffee and walked over to the booth.

“Have a seat if ya want,” Burt Poole said. Burt wasn’t the dumbest of the three, but he was close. He and Steven had been friends since junior high and wherever Steven went, Burt followed, including working in the local State Game Lands. Bull squeezed his linebacker frame into the booth, sitting next to Burt and set his cup of coffee on the table.

“What’s that?” Steven asked. Bull’s eyes darted in the direction of Stanton as he spoke.

“Of course he’s crazy. You’d have to be out of your mind to lock your- self up in your own motel for ten years,” Steven explained.

“You know about his visitors, right?” Steven said quietly. “I’ve seen green lights over there in the sky.” He gestured by pointing straight up. Bull looked up at the ceiling.

“You should go talk to that guy and see what’s going on,” Burt said. Steven’s eyes darted between Burt and Bull as if he was about to accept the dare.

Stanton had paid and just finished the last sip of his coffee when he sensed that the man approaching his table was going to speak to him.

“Are you visiting the space man?” Steven asked as he crossed his arms and looked down at a seated Dr. Stanton. The patrons around them stopped talking and waited for him to respond. Noticing Steven’s structurally compromised, country accent, Stanton slightly mimicked him.

“Yup. Well, crazy space man or crazy astronaut or…” Steven tried to continue until Darla interrupted him.

“I’m a psychiatrist, and I’m here to see him. So what do you think?” Stanton asked.

“Pretty much.” Stanton stood up, forcefully lost eye contact with Steven and grabbed his tablet computer, implying he was done with the conversation.

“What do you think happened?” Stanton asked. Steven had heard the rumors late one night while hanging out at the rock quarry with friends and drinking cheap beer. He thought about his response before saying it out loud while the diners around him waited for his answer. Finally, he spouted it off.

“I don’t know…little green men?” Steven said. Darla shouted as she started to push him toward his seat.

“No, no! Looks like the doc wants to answer. Let him answer,” Steven said, stopping Darla from pushing him. Darla turned her head thinking the answer might surprise her. The diners once again sat in silence waiting for Dr. Stanton’s answer.

“Ha! I knew it!” Steven shouted with laughter as he slapped the formica top of a nearby table.

“All right! Go. Go sit. Leave him alone,” Darla shouted as she made him walk toward his seat while he yelled out to Stanton.

“I knew it anyway, Doc. It’s our secret. I won’t tell anyone!” Darla waited until Steven sat back down before leaving his side. She walked back toward Stanton.

“I can’t stand that boy,” she said under her breath. The customers looked at Stanton and then at Darla. “I’m sure sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. Every town has one,” Stanton responded softly causing several of the patrons in the diner to laugh.

After lunch at Murray’s, Stanton once again sat in the cab. On the way there, they passed by two cop cars and a tow truck. On the other side of the road was a telephone pole, ripped in half, but moved out of the way of traffic. Officer Lancaster motioned for Del to go on through. Del couldn’t help but notice a Camaro in the shape of an accordion sitting atop a flat bed tow truck.

As Del drove on, Stanton was able to see some of the small town of Bear Creek. They passed by quaint boutiques selling trinkets and antiques. A little further down, he saw an ice cream parlor that looked inviting and family-oriented. Most of the houses seemed to be from the 1950s with many of them sporting white picket fences and brass knockers on the front door. The mini-van cab turned onto Bear Mountain Road, a steep incline that cut through a thick forest of trees. Stanton looked out the windshield seeing that they were in a tunnel of trees with sunlight peeking through the foliage. The engine of the mini-van seemed to breathe a sigh of relief once they approached Bear Creek Inn. Just off Bear Mountain Road, a quaint entrance to the inn was built with stone pillars and an iron gate. A path made up of pebbles and loose rock wound through the dense forest which obstructed the view of the inn from the road. Once a welcoming accent to guests, the gate appeared as if it had been riddled with bullets from an automatic rifle. Scraggly weeds poked through the stonework causing much of the bricks to shift and crack. Long ago, a tree had fallen during a thunderstorm and knocked the silver and black call box to the ground.

“Seventy-eight dollars and thirteen in change,” Del said as he read the meter. Stanton handed Del a hundred dollar bill as he stared at the disheveled gates wondering how he would get past them.

“Much obliged. You be careful in there,” Del said tucking the bill into his shirt pocket. Stanton got out of the cab and slid the van door shut just before Del drove off.

He stepped off the asphalt and onto the pebbled road in front of the gates to Bear Creek Inn. The pebbles crunched beneath his loafers as he approached the fallen call box. He bent over and used his hand to brush the leaves and grass off of the front and located a red button. After pushing it, he quickly decided it was a lost cause and stood up.

Stanton looked at a space between the stone pillar and a maple tree. Deciding that was the only way past the gate, he began to maneuver through the opening. He pulled himself clear of the ironwork and looked to his left. He noticed a large wooden sign on the ground that once hung on a tree. The worn and tattered sign read Welcome to Bear Creek Inn—once a warm greeting—and to Stanton it seemed eerie and foreboding as invasive plant life had grown through the rotted cracks. Stanton walked up the gravel trail and spotted a deer. He stared at it as he slowed his walk and stepped quietly. The deer dropped its head and picked at a sprawling maidenhair fern and brought its head up to chew. Stanton’s shoes caused a pebble to crack as he took a step. The deer stopped chewing and noticed him before scampering off deep into the forest. He continued around the gravel path as he breathed in the clean mountain air while taking in the beautiful near-silent scenery. When he finally came to the end of the path, the gravel trail opened up to a clearing with a cobblestone driveway that ended at a large two-story inn tucked away at the base of Bear Mountain. The grounds were in dire need of a landscaper. Tall grass had taken over the lawn. Shrubs and bushes looked as if they hadn’t been tended to in years. The roof over the wrap-around front porch was missing enough shingles to cause concern. Stanton stood in front of the inn and looked up at a pair of beautiful French doors made from thick oak. In the center of each door, a pane of beveled glass was covered by a window shade. On the right door a black sign hung with orange text that read – Closed.

Stanton imagined that at one time the grounds were well kept, the porch was inviting and guests came and went. Looking at the overall condition of the front porch, he saw that it needed to be repaired or even replaced due to the splintered and weathered wood. Inviting it wasn’t.

Dr. Stanton climbed the warped, wooden stairs that had endured decades of swelling and contracting every time it rained. He stepped up onto the porch allowing his loafers to loudly smack the wooden planks under his feet, announcing his presence. The hollow thud of each step resonated around him as he looked to his left at a parking lot. Except for an old, rusted, red truck, the lot was completely empty and overtaken by grass and weeds. On the driver’s side of the truck, written in faded letters were the words Bear Cr with the rest of the letters worn off. Stanton looked back at the doors in front of him.

The city of Wilkes-Barre was only fifteen minutes from Bear Creek, and when the good people of Bear Creek said, “I’m going into town”, they meant Wilkes-Barre.

Mallory Cain sat at her desk surrounded by cupcakes and birthday cards. Her shoulder-length hair and petite figure made her look younger than forty-five. With a birthday celebration waiting for her after work, she focused on a file in front of her. Mallory had been given the Abbey Creeson case, a nine-year-old girl in Bear Creek who was orphaned after her aunt and uncle were killed in a DUI car wreck at 2:15A.M.

Mallory’s boss walked across the government office that was crowded with desks, lamps and load-bearing I-beams. Mallory turned toward him as he approached, fully expecting him to give her more bad news. Grady Davis, a former college basketball player for Oklahoma, could talk your ear off about playing in the National Championship and losing to Kansas. Most of his employees had heard his story more than twenty times. His build was thick and his height would have made him intimidating, except his mannerisms were more like Superman than a villain. Nearly a year ago, Mallory was walking to her car in the office parking lot at night when she saw two men wearing disheveled clothing. After considering that there was a real possibility of getting mugged, she hurried to her car and quickly drove away. Ever since her close encounter, she fantasized that Grady would have appeared from the shadows and disassembled the attackers limb by limb with his bare hands. He spoke with the tone of an educator, both pleasant and helpful.

“It ain’t much, but here’s what I got. There will be a service but no proper funeral. The state is transporting their bodies to the forensic science program at Penn and the service will be held in four days, so make sure the little girl is there. Now the hard part, the children’s home isn’t quite closed, but it will be in a few weeks so they won’t intake any children. For the time being, all orphans go to Philly. Problem is Philly is overcrowded, and you’ll have to wait until they transfer some of the children. You may have to find a home for a few weeks.”

“Weeks? Mallory asked. “All the homes around here are already full because of the orphanage closure.”

“Who knows? Could be sooner. Maybe just one week. See if there are any available foster parents in the county, and if there aren’t, let me know.” Grady left her desk in a hurry and headed to the next fire. Mallory looked at the contents of the manila folder once again. She was familiar with the file, as she had been assigned Abbey’s case twice in three years. The first time was when her mother abandoned her at the age of three, leaving her little girl at pre-school and never picking her up. The second time, Abbey had been playing on a junk pile in her aunt and uncle’s backyard, only to slip and fall onto an old pane glass window. A shard of glass sliced Abbey’s leg, and after incessant screaming, she was eventually retrieved from the junk pile. Justin and Judy Creeson gazed upon her deep wound knowing they were without any kind of medical insurance, and the free clinic would just send them to the hospital. After a week of bandages and first aid tape, the wound became infected, and a visit to the hospital became necessary. When the hospital discovered Abbey’s leg was infected to the point of amputation, the child protection agency was called. A negligence complaint to the state concerning the welfare of Abbey was filed, and Mallory assisted with the investigation.

The file on her desk had several photographs of the home where Abbey resided—a small house built in the 1960s without central heat and air. From the photos one would easily come to the conclusion that the Cresson’s were sloppy, filthy people who had little respect for themselves, let alone anyone else. When the investigation into Abbey’s injury concluded, Justin and Judy were ordered by family court to undergo a series of mandatory classes for three months. Instead of making every available class in order to get Abbey returned to their home as fast as possible, they would miss a class here and there, show up late and fail written assessments. What should have taken three months became six. Abbey didn’t mind the long absence as she stayed in a clean foster home with a comfortable bed, central heat and air and better food. Recovering from an amputation would have been torture in her aunt and uncle’s home, but being with friendly and caring foster parents made it easier.

The newest stack of papers in the file was the police and coroner’s report on the accident and death of Justin and Judy Creeson. She flipped through the papers, noticing a new addition to the file, a death certificate of Abbey’s biological mother. Just as she began to look it over, one of her co-workers walked up and handed her a birthday card and spoke in a happy, sing-song voice, “Hey there, Birthday girl!”

Tescily Kennedy, called Tess by her friends, has had to endure lifelong questions concerning her famous last name. After her first child, she put her dreams of being a fashion designer on hold indefinitely. Since she only wore pastel colors, her friends considered it a good move.

“Please, I’m hardly a girl.” Mallory took her hand off the file and let the manila flap lay open, exposing the contents of Abbey’s life.

“You’re not that old, and you look much younger than you are. You shouldn’t be sad about it.” Tess reached out and tugged Mallory’s hair playfully. She noticed a picture of Abbey among a coroner’s report in the file. Fearing the worst, she covered her mouth, as her eyes grew large. She looked at Mallory. “Oh no. Tell me she’s okay. It’s that Creeson girl isn’t it? Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay.”

“Well, I suppose it is good news although we probably shouldn’t think so.”

“Yeah? What?” Tess said with an expression as if she was about to be told a secret.

“That is good news. Well, you know I don’t want anyone to die or anything, and I don’t want a little girl to be orphaned but…”

“Abbey is better off,” Mallory said as she opened the birthday card. Kittens in party hats adorned the cover and interior.

“I should say so. Karma, huh?” Tess said as she watched Mallory open the card.

“I hate it for Abbey, but I’m glad for her too. Thanks for the birthday card.”

“No problem. Lunch is on me tomorrow. Mulligan’s has half-priced appetizers from eleven to one.”

“Happy birthday to you.” Tess walked away toward the other side of the office strutting in her lavender and honeydew outfit while Mallory flipped through Abbey’s file. The file photo of little Abbey was taken at her school on picture day and was paper clipped to a child abuse/neglect investigation report. Mallory rubbed her thumb over Abbey’s pretty face, thinking that the little girl had finally caught a break.

Mallory Cain hung up the phone after a frustrating hour of making calls to foster homes in Luzerne County. Due to the closing of the Wilkes-Barre Orphanage, all participating foster homes were at full capacity. Little Abbey Creeson was officially homeless. An idea sparked in Mallory’s head and she quickly spun in her chair and faced the other side of her desk. She opened a drawer packed tightly with files and fished out a folder marked State Placement Guidelines: Minors and Emergency Placement. She opened the file and scanned through several stapled documents. Using her index finger, she found the paragraph she was searching for.

Minors under the ages of 18 can be granted approved lodging under section 4 and 5 of Pennsylvania child placement law should the minor(s) and or agency not have access to immediate approved placement home(s) and or state facility. For child endangerment protocol see AR.22;SEC9.

Mallory fumbled through her desk in a mad search. Upon opening a drawer, she removed three blank forms. Purse. Keys. Sunglasses—and out the door she went.

At Bear Creek Elementary, nine-year-old Abbey Creeson was deep in thought as she calculated answers for her fourth grade math quiz. The 61-year-old Mrs. Watt took a stroll around the desks, watching the students for signs of cheating. A forgotten relic in the Bear Creek school system, Mrs. Watt was nearing retirement and the end of her cruel reign over the students who were unlucky enough to be placed in her fourth grade class. Feared by her students, loathed by the other teachers and an enemy to the staff in the lunchroom, she carried on day-to-day with a frown. Abbey came to the last three questions on the math quiz with her shoulder-length hair falling on either side of her face. Even if another student wanted to copy her answers, they wouldn’t be able to see her paper due to the curtain of hair covering both sides of her paper. After she answered the last question, she turned her paper over and popped her head up, pushing the bridge of her glasses to the top of her nose. Her glasses were a constant reminder of an uncomfortable day when she picked them up at the county health clinic. Under the assumption that the glasses were paid for by the state welfare office, Abbey’s uncle, Justin Creeson yelled at the office manager of the free clinic. Being forced to pay a ten-dollar co-pay angered Justin to the point of swearing at everyone behind the counter while Abbey stood behind him.

Mrs. Watt glanced at Abbey’s math quiz, noticing an error. A teacher worth her salt may have pointed out the error to further educate the student on the subject they were working on. Instead, she casually picked up Abbey’s quiz and walked between the desks, inciting fear in the children’s souls while she silently laughed at Abbey’s mistake.

When the school bus arrived outside of Abbey’s home that morning, she was standing beside the mailbox in a worn coat and pink backpack she bought at a garage sale with her own money. Her aunt and uncle never came home from their late night out, which wasn’t anything new, and she was left to get herself ready and to the mail box by 7:35AM. Getting ready in the morning wasn’t easy for her as she had to hobble around on one leg until she was dressed and ready to force the end of her knee into the one-size-too-small prosthetic leg. Thankfully, the bus driver was aware of Abbey’s disability and would honk the horn and wait for her to waddle the gravel driveway if she was ever running late. The day proceeded like any other, until shortly after lunch, when she was called to the principal’s office.

A victim of discount fashion, Mr. Phelps, the school principal, saved money by buying all of his clothes from discount stores that sold irregular clothing. Sweater vests, button-up shirts and dress pants all bought at a fraction of the price with the small caveat that most were ripped, torn or damaged in some way. He was an unattractive man, destined to live a life with novice sewing skills that mended most of his flawed clothes. Thinning gray hair and a fast-food build, he walked toward his office where little Abbey waited for his arrival.

The sheriff’s office had placed a call to Mr. Phelps early that morning and explained that Abbey Creeson’s aunt and uncle were killed in a car accident the night before. Mr. Phelps was asked to keep the information to himself until arrangements were made for Abbey. After a second phone call stating the sheriff and a state social worker would be arriving shortly, Mr. Phelps had Abbey summoned to his office.

“Hello,” she said as she sat on the edge of the chair. She had removed her prosthetic leg and sat it next to her. Since it was a size too small, Abbey loved to take it off whenever she had the chance. Her other leg dangled and swung back and forth freely in the air.

“There are some people coming to see you, and I thought we could wait in the music room, okay?”

“Okay,” Abbey answered as she pushed the bridge of her glasses up to the top of her nose and pulled her prosthetic leg to her knee and forced her appendage into the top. She stood up and limped out of the office. On the way to the music room, Mr. Phelps walked slowly and asked her questions to break the silence.

“Mrs. Watt said that if we couldn’t spell our words we wouldn’t have recess.”

“Yeah,” Abbey answered. Mr. Phelps bit his bottom lip while his memory brought up all the instances in which Mrs. Watt had caused him problems. Protesting fun and educational field trips, proposing to increase the amount of homework, and attempting to shorten recess were just a few. Mr. Phelps opened the door for Abbey upon reaching the empty music room. As she limped in, footsteps could be heard approaching behind them. The school secretary walked up to Mr. Phelps and spoke in a low tone. Aware of the situation, she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with Abbey.

“Oh, okay,” Mr. Phelps said before turning to Abbey. “Abbey, could you wait in here momentarily?”

“Of course,” Mr. Phelps said with a smile. Just as he closed the door, Abbey limped toward the upright piano. Mr. Phelps walked back to his office as he looked himself over. A small tear in his sweater vest had been mended, but it was still noticeable. With an attempt to conceal his cheap nature, he covered it with his left hand as if he was patting his stomach. Once in view of Mallory Cain and the sheriff, he expressed his professionalism by holding his head up high as he extended his right hand for a handshake as if he were a politician.

“Hello. I’m Principal Phelps,” he said as he shook hands with the sheriff.

After the introductions, a meeting commenced in Mr. Phelps’ office. School bus routes were discussed, notes about grief counseling during school hours, notification of Abbey’s plight to teachers and staff, and the preparation of her school records for when she transferred. Once Mallory had completed the necessary forms and cleared everything with Mr. Phelps, she was ready to see Abbey.

Weeks before Stanton flew to Bear Creek, Pennsylvania, an email was sent to Jim Mayfield. The email asked if they could send someone to speak with him about a mission that NASA would be working on and that it pertained to Jim’s area of expertise. The email was lengthy, explaining some of the details, and within an hour, they had their response.

A few more emails were sent to Jim that explained in further detail that crates would be sent with computers, servers, and touch displays. He would be given access to NASA’s SHELL satellite, and a gigabit internet connection. A few days passed, and then a second email from Jim Mayfield hit the inbox of the mission director.

Stanton knocked on the door, unsure if he should knock or just go in. He looked down at the porch taking notice that it could be entirely possible that theJim was casual and relaxed with his right leg resting on his left knee. He had let himself sink into the chair and looked comfortable as he spoke and sipped from his near empty bottle of beerre were bodies piled up underneath, just as Tom and Jerry said. When there was no answer to his knocking, he decided to try the door. When the door opened, Stanton pushed it open, but stayed on the front porch.

“Hello?” Stanton hollered out and smiled out of uncertainty. “Hello?” he said again. “It’s me, Dr. Stanton.” He walked in and took notice of a massive stone fireplace to his right that extended twenty-five feet in the air and into the knotty pine rafters. Exposed wooden beams supported the high ceilings, and the walls were covered in dated, beige patterned wallpaper. To the left of the hearth were worn leather couches and chairs angled toward an analog rear-projection television. Stanton could imagine families gathering and watching TV shows and ballgames. He closed the door behind him and took several steps in the lobby.