Thanks to inkling, for beta reading and lotsa other squirrel stuff.

I'd rather be accused of being a quack writer than a hack writer--but if you have comments of *any* kind, I'd love to hear them!  (peregrin_anna@hotmail.com)

The smells and sounds of every elementary school hallway--chalk dust and morning bells, cafeteria food and band practice--faded as Patrick stepped into the kindergarten classroom.  Unlike the rest of George Washington School, this room was quiet, but it was full of eyes, all wide open and staring at him.  Patrick gulped.

This is not a drill, this is not a drill, he thought over and over again, in a desperate attempt to rouse himself from a panic-induced trance.  His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as he listened to Mrs. Henderson speak to the children--the students.

His students.

"Boys and girls," the principal was saying, "you all know that Miss Sanders became Mrs. Gardner last weekend, and for the past couple of days I've been teaching your class.  But I am the principal of this school, and that means that I have a number of things I need to do, as much as I like spending time with you.  So starting today, you will have a new teacher."  Beaming encouragingly, whether for the students' benefit or his own, Patrick wasn't sure, she held out a hand in his direction.  "This is Mr.. Quinn."

"Well, hey there kids, good morning!"  Patrick grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

No response.  Not one of them as much as blinked.

Out in the hall, another bell rang, and Principal Henderson moved to the door.  "Now, I expect you all to make Mr. Quinn feel welcome here.  This is his first day with us, so you might need to show him where things are."

That was the understatement of the year.  Patrick had pulled into town late the night before, expecting he'd have the rest of the week to settle into Bend.  Instead, he'd found a message from Linda Henderson waiting for him when he checked into the Motel 6:  "Need you to start immediately."

The teacher he was replacing, who was supposed to be married over the Thanksgiving holidays--and who was also supposed to spend a week training Patrick--had eloped over the weekend and left no forwarding address.  Hardly responsible behavior, and Patrick himself had done some pretty irresponsible things in his day.  But he'd never left a whole group of little kids shell-shocked like this.

Whatever the circumstances, though, it was his job--*his* job, he thought with a lurch of his stomach--to make things right.  So here he was in a classroom for the first time since he'd helped Mr. Hobson out at the high school the spring before.  But this wasn't a high school classroom.  The walls were covered with finger paintings, big alphabets and numbers in primary colors, and pictures of animals labeled in English and Spanish.  The tables at which the children sat didn't even reach his knees.  Shelves of picture books, puzzles, and blocks lined the far wall, under a bank of windows that looked out over a playground, lush with evergreens and what looked like a way cool set of monkey bars.  Two computers and an assortment of animal cages sat on small tables around the room.  There was also, of course, the teacher's desk: the place of honor, so to speak.  Patrick hadn't even had time to check it out.

"Now, Mr. Quinn, I'll leave you in your classroom--"

Patrick's ears were ringing.  *His* classroom.  He was responsible for all this?

Gulping again, he directed his attention to the sixteen expectant faces turned toward him.

He was responsible for all *them*?

He fought the urge to turn and run.  That would be wrong.

"Good luck."  Mrs. Henderson patted his arm as she passed him on her way out the door.

"Th--thanks," Patrick stammered.

Setting his backpack, which contained almost everything he owned in the world, on the floor just inside the entryway, he heard one little voice murmur in distress, "He's taller than my *dad*."

"He's a giant," another whispered.

Maybe they were as afraid of him as he was of them, but Patrick wouldn't have bet on it.  Nevertheless, he ventured closer to the four tables and asked the children, "So, uh, what are you kids learning about?"

"A'mals.  Duh," said one little tyke, pointing at the mobiles dangling overhead.  The name tag on the table in front of him identified him as Sean.

"Hey, that wasn't very--oh, did you mean ducks?"  Patrick looked up, realizing that the blue, black, orange, and green-with-purple-polka-dots blobs hanging from the ceiling were supposed to be birds in flight.  Heads nodded all over the room.  "Awesome!  I can totally do ducks!"  He reached for his backpack, but stopped when he saw a hand poke tentatively into the air.  "Yes, uh...Joey?"

"Miss Sanders said she was going to teach us a song about ducks before she left," said the boy, his brown eyes brimming with tears.

"Oh, okay, uh..."  Rubbing his hands together, Patrick glanced around the room, but no instruments presented themselves.  A capella it was, then.  "Okay, duck songs, duck songs..."  Why did his brain have to shut down *now*?  "If it walks like a...wait, that's not a song..."  He snapped his fingers.  "I got it!"  Patrick smiled as hopefully as he could at little Joey, who was still on the verge of tears.  There was a tugging at his sleeve, and he looked down at Emily, the girl who sat closest to him.

"We stand up to sing," she told him.

"Okay, then, everybody up and at 'em!"  Patrick clapped his hands while all the children stood.  Again, Emily pulled on his sleeve.

"You're supposed to say good morning first.  And we have to say the Pledge 'Legiance.  And do the calendar."

"And lunch count," offered the boy next to her.

"I'm Abbi," said a blonde girl, standing up and waving her arm.  "And today is our day to feed Snicks.  It's *my* turn."

"Snicks?" Patrick asked.

"Our snake," she told him solemnly.  She pointed at one of the cages.

"Okay, okay, uh..."  Patrick had no idea how to feed a snake or take a lunch count, or what he was meant to do with the calendar, but he decided making everybody comfortable was more important than either.  "One thing at a time, little buddy," he said, but he was watching Joey.  "I think today we'll start with the song, okay?"

Most of the children nodded.

"Great!  One, two, three--Disco, disco duck..."  Patrick struck the appropriate, Travolta-esque pose.  A few giggles rewarded his efforts, but Joey just wasn't going to pull it together.  The tears were starting to spill over.

"That's not a song Mrs. Sanders would have sung!"

"Okay, okay...uh..."  Patrick backed slowly toward his pack.  "I think I have just the thing here."  He thanked his lucky stars that this one going-away present hadn't been in the moving van when it exploded.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One whiff of the pair that walked into the office at McGinty's that Halloween night, and Miss Clark had stood quickly, her expression alarmed.

"Gary?  Is that you?  What happened?  It smells like--"

"Smoke?  That would be Patrick, here."  Mr. Hobson had dropped into the chair at his desk, while Patrick stood nervously, not sure what to tell Miss Clark.  He did know, however, that he was glad she couldn't see him; he probably looked like he'd rolled around in someone's fireplace.

"Are you guys all right?"  She turned, just as if she'd seen Mr. Hobson point, and frowned in Patrick's direction.  "Did you get hurt?  Patrick?"

"I'm great, Miss Clark!" he assured her.  "You should have been there!"

"Oh, yeah, he's right, Marissa," Mr. Hobson shot Patrick a strange look over the top of the computer.  "You shoulda been there."

"Where?  Gary, what happened?  You guys have been gone all afternoon and half the night."

"Well, we had some trouble tracking down the newspaper," Patrick told her, surprised that the response produced such a shocked look.  She turned to Mr. Hobson.

"The *newspaper*?"

"Yeah, remember, that's where I wrote that phone number I needed."  Mr. Hobson's voice was muffled, his forehead resting in one hand.

"And then at the rave, I figured out it was the truck!"  Patrick couldn't stand it anymore, he just had to tell someone.  "It was chaos theory, and I was the wild card!"

Frowning, Miss Clark leaned back against her desk.  "I'm officially confused."

"Well," Mr. Hobson told her, lifting his head, "it all boils down to the fact that Patrick's moving van blew up."

"Blew up?"

"Yeah, but it didn't hurt anyone at the rave, because I was driving it away!"

"Patrick?  Oh my goodness--but you're okay?"  Poor Miss Clark looked seriously worried, so Patrick gave her a hug.

"Better than okay.  Good news!  I'm not going!"

Coughing, she pulled back, brow furrowed.  "What?"

"All my stuff blew up," Patrick explained, stepping back and waving his arms.  He couldn't help but be effusive; the whole night had been so overwhelming, so full of...of destiny.  "It's a sign!"

"But you're supposed to be going to Oregon tomorrow."

"I tried to tell him that."  Mr. Hobson tilted back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest.  He glared at Patrick, but Patrick knew better.

"He fired me," Patrick told Miss Clark gleefully.

"Gary, you didn't!"  She maneuvered around the desks and stood before Mr. Hobson, her mouth agape.

"Oh, it's totally okay, Miss Clark," Patrick hurried to assure her.  "Mr. H. and I had a talk."

"You did?"

"Yeah, all about how...well, you know how we're like brothers and everything, and so I know that when he says stuff like that, he's just joshing me.  So I'm not leaving!"

The front legs of Mr. Hobson's chair hit the floor.  "Patrick, I told you, you have no job.  No place to stay."

"And that's when you offered me your place," Patrick reminded him.

Mr. Hobson stood, and suddenly Patrick wondered if he'd misread the situation.  "No, I did *not*.  You--"

"Gary."

Stabbing a finger in Patrick's direction, Mr. Hobson snapped, "He won't listen to me, Marissa, he's making me nuts!"

Even though he knew it was just exhaustion talking--after all, that sixth sense did seem to take a lot out of a guy--Patrick found himself backing up against a file cabinet.  Just in case.

"Aw, Mr. Hobson, you know--"

"No, I don't know--"

"Gary."  Miss Clark's voice cut through the brotherly banter.  "Two words."

Mr. Hobson turned to stare at her.  "Huh?"

"Two words," she repeated slowly.  "Lucius.  Snow."

Mr. Hobson's eyes grew wide; he looked as though she'd conjured up a ghost.  "What the heck are you talking about?"

Patrick wanted to know the same thing, but he knew better than to ask.

"I think you know," she said evenly.  Her chin lifted just a fraction.

Mr. Hobson took a step closer to Miss Clark.  "I think I don't."

"Do you want to end up alone like--"

Mr. Hobson interrupted her, placing one hand on her arm, then turned to Patrick.  "Uh, do you mind?"

"Oh, no, that's cool, I mean, I so totally need to take a shower!  Since I'm staying with you--"  Patrick pointed at the stairs to the loft.

"Go," Mr. Hobson said, his jaw clenched.  It must have been because Miss Clark was grabbing his arm so tightly.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Patrick emerged from the shower in Mr. Hobson's loft, they were waiting on the sofa, their backs to him.  Miss Clark held a flat, brightly-wrapped package in her hands, and Mr. Hobson was looking sideways at her, whispering, "Marissa, I don't want--"

"I don't give a rat's butt about what you want, Gary; you are going to do this, and you're going to do it right."

Patrick was so surprised to hear nice Miss Clark talking like that, he nearly dropped the towel he held wrapped around his torso.  "I--uh--" he stammered.

"Oh, Patrick, there you are."  Placing the package on the coffee table, Miss Clark stood and turned in his direction.  "Gary has something he wants to say to you."

Mr. Hobson bit his lip as he looked back over the sofa at Patrick.  "Get dressed first," he said.  "Please."  Miss Clark cleared her throat, and Mr. Hobson gestured at his armoire.  "There's some sweats in there."

"Gee, thanks, Mr. H!"  He didn't have to put on his singed jeans?  Patrick was feeling better by the moment. Digging around in the armoire, he found sweatpants and a T-shirt, and ducked back into the bathroom to put them on.  There was more hushed conversation out in the living room, but it stopped as soon as Patrick returned.  He pushed his hair up into his favorite look--just washed, sticking up clean--and joined his friends, who were standing near the windows.  "This loft is really great, Mr. Hobson, have I ever told you that?"

"Every time you've been up here."

"Well, I was thinking it would be so cool, I have this friend, Andy, you met him once, remember?  He paints the most incredible murals; I was thinking, the wall behind your bed, or even the ceiling, we could have him do something about the Cubs!  He'd do it gratis, I'm sure."

"Patrick--" Mr. Hobson began, but Miss Clark cleared her throat again, and Patrick hurried to the kitchen area get her a glass of water.

"Hey, if that keeps up, you should really see a doctor," he told her when he returned, placing the glass carefully in her hands.  "Or my friend, Starlight, she knows all kinds of homeopathic--"

"Really, Patrick, I'm fine."  Miss Clark set the water on the coffee table, clasping her hands together in front of her.  "Gary told me a little about what happened tonight, and your talk."

Patrick looked over at Mr. Hobson, whose gaze was darting from Patrick to Miss Clark and back.  Gee, Patrick hoped he hadn't embarrassed him.  There were things between guys that even Miss Clark probably couldn't understand.

"Gary?"  Miss Clark prompted, but Patrick decided it would be easier if he stepped in.

"Mr. Hobson, I really don't know how to thank you.  I mean, I'm standing in your home, and wearing your clothes, and--"

"That's enough, Patrick!"  Mr. Hobson's voice sounded sharp, but he wasn't glaring anymore, so it couldn't have been all bad.  "Look, you--uh, sit down next to Marissa, here."  Mr. Hobson helped Miss Clark to the couch, then took the big armchair, while Patrick plopped down between them.  Mr. H. looked down at his hands, lacing his fingers together, then back at Patrick.

"Patrick, I--I shouldn't have fired you.  That was...I wasn't thinking right."

Was that all he was worried about?  "Oh, I understand, I totally do!" said Patrick.  "It was just the relief talking after that big, you know--BOOM!"  Miss Clark jumped in her seat.  "You know, the sort of thing you say when you don't really know what you're saying.  Happens to me all the time."

"I just bet it does," Mr. Hobson agreed.

Miss Clark touched Patrick's arm.  "The thing is, even though Gary didn't go about it very...gently...he had a good point.  You can't stay here."  Patrick's stomach twisted as he saw how serious her expression had become.  "It's not that we don't want you here," she continued gently, "but we both think that you should take advantage of this opportunity.  You're going to be a fine teacher, isn't he, Gary?"

"Yeah like I told you, you're great with kids."  Mr. Hobson nodded at a photograph on the end table, a familiar redheaded boy with a baseball cap and glove.  "Henry, he, he adored you, ya know.  Marissa's right.  Those kids, they're gonna need you."
"But you need me, too.  The bar--"

"Patrick," Miss Clark said, in her non-nonsense voice, "there are lots of people who are good bartenders.  But to be a teacher, a good teacher...that's really special.  I think you need to think about the true reason you're hesitating."

Patrick shifted uncomfortably on the couch, while Mr. Hobson watched him closely.  "But you guys, you know, Mr. H., you with your sixth sense and everything, it's hard for you to be here to run the place..."

He shook his head.  "Marissa does just fine."

"But--"  Patrick's hand fumbled in the air as he tried to make them understand how much they needed him.  "--but we were good together, stopping that truck, and the jeep, and the dog, and I think I could help you even more, you know, now that I have this chaos theory thing figured out."

Again, Mr. Hobson shook his head.  "That's just it; I don't think you do."

"Patrick."  This time Miss Clark didn't just touch his arm; she squeezed it, demanding his attention.  He turned and stared at her.  "This is fear, plain and simple.  Isn't it?"

There was silence in the room, while Patrick thought that over.  How could he be afraid?  He'd just survived Armageddon in a truck; why should he fear five-year-olds?

And yet...all day he'd been feeling slightly queasy.  At first he thought it was the dread of breaking the bad news to Mr. Hobson; later, he'd attributed it to worry over impending disaster.  But disaster had come and gone, and the feeling was still there.

What if...what if it was his fear that had led to all the stupid stuff he'd done all day?

Running a hand through his hair, Patrick let out a long breath.  "Wow.  Miss Clark, I never thought--but maybe you're right."  He swallowed hard.  "Do you think I blew up all my stuff just because of some unconscious desire to stay here?"

"I think you mean subconscious," Miss Clark began, but a strange noise from the armchair interrupted her.  "Gary?"

Mr. Hobson seemed to be choking, so Patrick offered him the glass of water.  He accepted and downed it on one long draught.  "Fine," he murmured.

Miss Clark nodded.  "Good.  Patrick, I don't think you would blow anything up on purpose, consciously or not.  Look," she continued, "it's okay to be scared.  This is a big change.  But it's *right*, even if it seems like a challenge right now."

"You listen to her, Patrick," Mr. Hobson told him. He scooted forward on the chair and looked Patrick right in the eye.  "Don't give up.  Most of us can...well, we can handle more than we realize."

"I guess you know that, with all the stuff you know about the future and everything you have to handle."  Patrick looked down at his hands.  "Mr. Hobson?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you--do you know, in that way you have--do you know if I'm--if I'm gonna be any good at this?"

"Oh, Patrick..."  Miss Clark rubbed his arm, offering comfort.

"Well, I don't...I don't know it, Patrick, not that way."  There was a strange note in Mr. Hobson's voice; Patrick glanced up, and found that his boss was smiling at him, for the first time in...well, ever.  It wasn't a big smile, but it was encouraging.  "But I know you.  You're one of the most--"  He chuckled, shaking his head.  "--the most persistent people I've ever met.  You're gonna be a, a wild card out there in Oregon, and I have a feeling you're gonna do fine."

"But you'll--you'll miss me, won't you?"

"Of course we will," Miss Clark assured him.

"You know--I will, Patrick, I really will."  As Mr. Hobson continued to grin, Patrick felt a weight lift from his shoulders.  They thought he could do this.  They thought he'd be fine.

Miss Clark picked up the package she'd been holding earlier from the coffee table, offering it to Patrick.  "This is from both of us.  It's not much, especially not after what happened tonight, but...well, it seemed appropriate, somehow."

"You got me a present?  I can't believe this."  Patrick tore through the blue and yellow wrapping.  "Hey, a book, it's...uh..._Make Way for Ducklings_?"

"Wouldn't _Curious George_ have been more appropriate?" Mr. Hobson asked Miss Clark.

Patrick grinned.  "It was a way to remember you, Mr. H."

He looked blank.  "Me?"

"You know, Duckman!" Patrick reminded him, referring to a photograph of Mr. Hobson that had been published in the Chicago Sun-Times a few weeks ago.  His boss's face clouded over.

"Marissa, *tell* me you didn't..."  Mr. Hobson growled, and Patrick thought fast.  He didn't want to be the one to get Miss Clark in trouble.

"But really, that's not it, it's..." he stammered, and then it came to him, so obvious that he jumped up from the sofa, pacing the length of the sitting area and back in his excitement.  "I get it!  Miss Clark, I so *totally* get it!  This is your way of saying I'm like one of the baby ducks, and you're...you guys are like mother ducks, pushing me out of the nest, you know, because it's time, and you want me to fly on my own!  Wow..."  He came to a stop, looking from one of them to the other.  "You guys are just the best bosses I could ever ask for."

"Mother ducks?" Mr. Hobson asked, blinking hard.

"Yeah."  Miss Clark nodded, smiling.  "I like it."

"Wow."  Patrick dropped back down onto the couch, still clutching the book.  "Thanks."

"Gary has something else he wants to tell you."

"Uh, yeah, Patrick, we're--I mean, McGinty's--"  Mr. Hobson shifted in his seat, then held out one hand, rubbing its palm with his other thumb.  "Well, we're going to--you know, make sure you have what you need to get started, until you get your insurance money and everything."

There was the lump the size of a pumpkin in his throat.  Patrick didn't know what to say.  "You guys...wow..." he choked.

Mr. Hobson shrugged.  "Well, you, uh, you can't teach kindergarten in my sweats, can you?"

Patrick took a deep breath, settling into the finality of the moment.  "So I guess I'm really going."

"You're going to be fine, Patrick.  I don't need Gary's sixth sense to know that."  Miss Clark patted his hand.  "It's getting late; I need to leave.  But you two have a good evening, and Patrick, be safe, okay?"  To Patrick's surprise, she leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before she stood.  He felt his face go hot.  "Call us and let us know you're okay."

"I will, Miss Clark.  Thanks."  Patrick got to his feet and gave her a hug, blinking and swallowing hard so he wouldn't cry.

"Bye Patrick," she said.  Mr. Hobson took her arm and offered to walk her to the stairs.

They didn't seem to think Patrick could hear them through the door.  Out on the landing, Mr. Hobson told Miss Clark, "One quack, and you get to do the tax returns this year."

There was laughter in her voice when she said, "I do them every year, Gary.  Good night."

Patrick had been quick to bury his face in his new book when Mr. Hobson walked back into the loft.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"The ducklings liked the new island so much that they decided to live there. All day long they follow the swan boats and eat peanuts.  And when night falls they swim to their little island and go to sleep,"  Patrick finished, to sighs of appreciation.  Emily was snuggled up against his side.

Neil cocked his head.  "You read good, Mr. Quinn."  There were other nods around the circle.  Well, that at least was something he could do right.

The peace lasted about fifteen minutes.  From there, it was all downhill.  At 10:30, Mrs. Henderson returned to the room, stopping just inside the doorway.  "What in the world is going on?"

The trio of little girls who'd been skipping around the room singing "Disco Duck" skidded to a halt; Joey peeked out from the piano bench he'd been hiding under since Patrick had told him there wasn't any orange juice for snack, only apple; and Patrick himself looked up from the paint table, where he was trying to help Tommy clean up a decidedly purple mess.  "Uh...it's playtime."

"But usually that means--"

Suddenly Sean, standing near the animals' cages, started screaming.  "Snicks is gone!  He's gone!"

Mrs. Henderson's face went white.  "The snake?"

Uh-oh.  "Everybody up on a chair!" Patrick commanded.  Squealing, the children obeyed.  It was pandemonium--Monty Python meets Big Top Pee Wee.

"Mr. Quinn, What in the world are you doing?" the principal demanded.

"I don't want them to step on the snake," he explained.

Emily shrieked, "Don't kill Snicks!"  Across the room, a door slammed.

"Logan just locked himself in the closet," said Abbi.

Joey was crying again, and this time several of the children were following suit.  Patrick held out two purple hands, trying to get the situation under control.  "It's okay, kids, it's okay, really, it's just like in Hamlet, sometimes you gotta turn and face the snake!"

"There's no snake in Ham--these are kindergartners, Mr. Quinn!"  Mrs. Henderson's gaze darted around the room as she backed even closer to the door.

Patrick was trying to peer under desks and cabinets for the snake.  It was hard to do, with Tommy attached to his leg, purpling up his one pair of good slacks as he hung on for dear life.

"Mrs. Henderson, what should I do?"

"Calm these children down," she snapped.  "And get that snake back in its cage."  She turned on her heel and left the room.

Patrick sighed, then bent to pry Tommy's hands off his leg.  "Okay, kids, we're going to DefCon Five, here--"  There were sniffles from all over the room.  "Why don't you all just have a seat, sit up on tables."  Lifting Tommy, he set the boy on top of the piano and got down on his hands and knees.

"Here, Snicks...heeeeerrrrrrreee snakey, snakey, snake...."

Shay and Abbi giggled, but the others were too upset to be amused.  There was no sign of a snake anywhere, and Patrick stood.  "Hey, everybody, I don't think you have to worry--"  Just then a scream echoed from the closet.  Patrick hurried over, but found it locked.  He rattled the handle.  "Logan?  Hey, unlock the closet, dude!"

"Mr. Quinn?" a small voice asked from the other side of the door.  "I think I found Snicks."

Once Patrick got the little boy to open the door, he found the snake curled up next to a Star Wars lunch box.  Snicks was deposited in its cage, this time with a few rocks on the lid for good measure.  "Okay, uh..." Patrick consulted the schedule, and heaved a sigh of relief.  "Nap time!"

All the kids headed for the corner nearest the windows, where brightly-colored mats were stacked next to the aquarium.  In no time the room was darkened and quiet, and blankets and teddies were soothing rattled nerves.  Patrick kind of wished for something to soothe his own nerves, but his yo-yo was back at the motel.  He knew he should have been looking over plans, or memorizing the schedule, but instead he sank to the floor on a leftover mat, resting his head on his arms.

He was only peripherally aware of the tugging at first, but then it grew more insistent, accompanied by a whisper.  "Mr. Quinn?"

"Hey, Emily," he said, rubbing his forehead while round blue eyes blinked up at him.  "What is it?"

"Want a story."

"A story?"

"Yeah.  A new story."  He could hear stirrings all around the room, and in the dim half-light, he saw heads popping up from the mats.

"Right now you're supposed to be napping..."  But Patrick looked into those wide eyes, and he for the first time he understood what Mr. Hobson had meant about being the wild card here, too.

"Okay."  He brought his voice up to a stage whisper.  "But we'll have to be really quiet, so we won't wake anyone up."  A muffled giggle from halfway across the room was stifled quickly.

Emily nodded, and scooted across the floor until she was sitting next to him on the mat.

"Once upon a time," Patrick began, settling an arm around her shoulders, "in a...a magic kingdom, far away, a city of...of glass towers that touched the sky, surrounded by a moat as big as the ocean--"

"Were there ducks?" Nick asked from his mat.

"Sure, there were lots of ducks.  And in the magic city, there lived a...a..."

"A princess!" Abbi piped up, then scuttled across the room, blanket in tow, and sat at Patrick's feet.

"Okay, a princess," Patrick said with a grin.  "I can totally do a princess!  But this princess, see, she wasn't any ordinary princess.  She was..."  He stopped, thought, and then broke into a grin.  He knew where this story was going.  "She was a blind princess.  And she was the assistant, you see, to a magician.  And he wasn't just any old Houdini, either.  He was really magic; he could tell the future.  What do you think his name was?"

By this time half the class was settled around Patrick's feet, and the other half was on its way.

"He was Pokemon!"

"Harry Potter!"

"No, Dumbledore!"

"Big Bird!"

To his surprise, Patrick found himself enjoying the moment.  "No, not Big Bird..."  His glance strayed to the book, still sitting on the piano bench.  "It was Quackenwaddle!"

"Cool!" Logan breathed.  "Dr. Quackenwaddle."

Heads nodded in agreement, and Patrick allowed himself to relax, just a little.  He had them now; they were Silly Putty in his hands.

"One day, a stranger, a wanderer, came to the kingdom, and he happened to meet the princess and the magician.  Dr. Quackenwaddle--"  Patrick fought the urge to laugh out loud at the face Mr. Hobson would make if he could have heard this, "couldn't tell the stranger his secret."

"Cause if he did," filled in Jenna, who hadn't spoken a word all day, "he would lose his magic."

"Exactly!"  Patrick frowned in mock consternation.  "Do you already know this story?"

She shook her head.

"Well, then, you must be really smart--as smart as the princess."  Patrick grinned at her, and Jenna smiled shyly in return.  "Anyway, the wanderer, he offered to help the magician and the princess, and they asked him to stay--but only for a while, you see.  They knew that he had other people in the world who needed them, too.  But while he was there, they had all kinds of adventures..."

Patrick spun out a story that he would neither remember nor be able to recapture the next day, but it didn't matter.  What mattered was that no one was crying or worrying anymore; in fact, most of the children were smiling.

"I want to live in the magic kingdom," Jenna said quietly when he finished.

"Me too," about five kids said at the same time.

"Well, why don't we...why don't we *make* a magic kingdom?" Patrick asked.  All around the circle, eyes widened.

"How?"

"Who's good at drawing?  Tommy?"  The little boy nodded.  "Okay, you make us some flags, can you do that?  What should we have on them?"

"Ducks!" sixteen voices answered in chorus.

"All right!  And Nick and Jenna, I saw you with the blocks earlier, do you think you could build the magic throne room?  Who wants to figure out how many chairs we need?  Uh...Ben, Matt?" Patrick called to two boys who were already waving yardsticks at each other, "I think you should practice dueling with *paper* swords, okay?"

Shay and Emily got the rhythm instruments and started composing a national anthem.  Shy Jenna turned out to be a genius at folding hats.  In a few minutes, everyone had a job in the magic kingdom.  Some of the girls who wanted to be princesses were walking around with their eyes shut.

"But, but Mr. Quinn," Abbi asked when Patrick came to see how her group was doing with the paper crowns they were making for the hamsters, "how is it magic?"

"What, sweetie?"

"The magic kingdom.  How is it magic?"

She had Patrick there.  "Um, well, you guys tell me," he finally asked.  "What magic can you do?"

The room got quiet.  Then Ben waved his scissors in the air.  "I know, I know!"  He grabbed a piece of green paper from the table and hacked at it with the scissors, then held up the result.  "I can turn a square into a triangle!"

"But I can do that," Abbi protested.  "It's not magic."

"No, that's just it, it *can* be," Patrick told her.  "That's the secret!"

She frowned up at him with confused hazel eyes.  "The secret to knowing the future?"

"No, *our* magic secret."  Patrick winked.  "It's magic if you look at it just right; if you let it *be* magic.  He looked around the room.  "What magic can all of you do?"

Tommy waved his paintbrush.  "I can turn white into purple!"

"Tommy," Patrick told him with a rueful grin, "you can turn a
lot of other colors into purple."

Emily raised her hand.  "I can mix red and yellow and make
orange!"

"I can turn two into four!" Nick shouted from the block corner.
"Jus' add two more."

One by one, all the kids figured out what they could do that was magic.  "But Mr. Quinn," Shay asked, "what can *you* do?"

"Oh, I have very special powers," Patrick told them with a broad wink.  "I can turn children into magicians!"

Everyone cheered.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"...and I just wanted to say thanks, for helping me out, and for pushing me to do this.  You were so right, Mr. Hobson!  These kids really do need me.  Can you believe they've never heard of Sammy Sosa?  Anyway, I'm still staying at the Motel 6 here in Bend; it's just a temporary solution, but if you need to reach me, you can leave a message at the desk.  The kids loved the book!  I just had to find my own way, you know, to teach them.  I think this is gonna work out great!"

Marissa smiled as the office answering machine rewound.  "Sounds like Patrick had a good first day," she said, switching on the computer.

"Hmmm..." Gary murmured, sipping at his coffee as he paged through the paper.

"You know, it's quite a way to start a new life--living in a hotel, helping people out..."

"I get it, okay?" he growled, but for the first time in days, she was sure he was only pretending to be upset.  Allowing herself a long, deep drink of the hot coffee, Marissa settled more comfortably into her chair.

"You have a lot to do today?"

"Not much," he told her.  "Just a golfer-lightning bolt thing, and a mix-up at a pharmacy.  But I'd better get going."  She heard him push back his chair, stand, and zip up his coat.

Setting her mug on the desk in front of her, Marissa said, "You know, you did a great job with Patrick, in the end.  Mama Duck," she added with a barely-concealed smirk.

"That was all your doing, not mine."

"No, you were the one he needed to hear it from," Marissa insisted.  "He really does look up to you."

Gary gave one of the noncommittal grunts he used when he didn't know what to say.  "Well, he's left the nest now, and that's what's important."  His keys rattled.  "See ya."

"Bye, Gary."

She waited until he left the room before quacking softly under her breath.
 

FINIS

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