The Stolen - Jason Pinter [51]
and newspapers. He seemed to like to argue about politicians, people he said were doing this country more harm
than good. Elaine always nodded and smiled when he talked
like that, but didn't really seem to have any opinions of her
own in that regard.
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The house was so huge, bigger than her old one, and
the girl was scared to walk around alone. Not that she ever
had to, since Elaine insisted on holding her hand almost
everywhere she went. The girl felt strange, this woman
she'd just met acting so friendly, but Elaine was nice and
it meant not having to be scared. Even though she was still
confused, the girl loved running up and down the lengthy
hallways, laughing as Bob helped her slide down the
banister. Elaine placed both of her hands around the cup,
took a sip and placed it on the wooden table. Bob picked
it up, frowned at her, then took a glass coaster emblazoned with a bright yellow sunflower and put the cup back
down on it.
"She might just have a cold," Bob said. "Kids get colds.
Not everything is a life-threatening disease."
She'd heard Elaine mention that the Reed family had
lived in this house for just six months, and still hadn't quite
grown used to its nooks and crannies, the way it creaked
during high wind, the way the linoleum was cool in the
spring and hot in the summer. Yet for all the comfort,
Elaine said she still felt isolated. The days were sunny and
clear, and when the windows were left open the girl could
see the trees, high oaks. And the fence surrounding the
property.
Bob Reed had a bit of a temper. Or as her daddy would
say, his blood got up something. Bob complained that they
had to drive three miles just to see a human being. And he
had to fiddle with some sort of remote control to work a
"stupid" motor-controlled gate that allowed access to the
driveway. Not to mention some brick wall that obscured the
surrounding area. Elaine would put her hand on Bob's
shoulder and say, "We know why this is happening. We need
to make the best of it." Bob would look at her, nod, then go
off on his own.
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Jason Pinter
But right now they seemed concerned. A few days ago,
the girl had come down with a cold. She felt shivery and
warm at the same time, and no matter how many blankets
Elaine piled on top of her it never went away. When they
first realized she was sick, Bob and Elaine grew pale, and
this scared the girl.
"Kids cough," he said now, trying to be strong. "Look
at Patrick. Hawked up a ball of phlegm every night until
he turned three."
"Well, this one is six," Elaine said. "And that coughing
doesn't sound right. Maybe we should take her to see
someone."
"Not him," Bob said. "I don't trust that man."
"Neither do I, but we have to. He told us if we ever
needed medical help, we had to see..."
"Screw that crazy, scarred-up old man," Bob said. "He
doesn't have to live like this. He didn't have to change his
life for some strange kid."
"Patrick," Elaine said. "Think of Patrick."
Bob sighed, put his head in his hands. "Her cold will
pass," he said, reaching for the newspaper. "Can't even get
the newspaper delivered because 'he' said so."
"Speaking of which," Elaine said, "I think it's time for
her shot."
Bob nodded. He said, "I'll do it this time."
He stood up. Headed toward the bathroom. A minute
later Bob came back carrying a plastic bag.
He opened the bag and took out a gauze pad, a syringe,
a small vial and a bottle of clear liquid that smelled funny.
The girl watched all this. It all seemed vaguely familiar.
And though that needle looked huge, like the size of a
knife, for some reason she wasn't scared.
"Did you wash your hands?" Elaine asked.
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"Of course," Bob replied. He took the small vial and
rolled it gently between his fingers. Next he took a cotton
ball, opened the bottle of clear liquid, held the ball against
the open top until it was wet, then cleaned the top of the
vial with the cotton ball.
"That smells funny," the girl said. Elaine scrunched her
nose and smiled.
"It does, doesn't