Chuck breezed in an hour later. Gary heard him toss a crinkling bag onto the kitchen counter. The bag smelled of soy sauce, so Gary knew it was Chinese take out. It felt good not to have to ask Chuck what he had brought. He heard Marissa rummaging in the cabinets and he got up to try to help her. She handed him some plates. He then carried them in his left hand, while groping for the table with his right.

"The table's about a foot in front of you, Gar, and about six inches to your right."

Gary was grateful to Chuck for not rushing over to do it for him. As Marissa said, he wasn't totally helpless. He managed to find the table and to put down the plates. There, he could still do some things for himself.

"Don't bother setting a place for me," Chuck called to him.

"You're the one who brought the food," Gary objected. "Aren't you staying?"

"Got a big date tonight, buddy. I stopped by to see how you're doing, but now I gotta run.

"Oh. That--that's good." Gary tried to put more enthusiasm in his voice than he actually felt.

"It's Inga!" Chuck's voice fairly sang with delight. "Inga, the masseuse. I tried to tell you there was a strong mutual attraction. Well, you guys have fun tonight. See ya." Chuck flew out again, whistling to himself, and banging the door behind him.

Gary listened to the sound of Chuck's whistling as it receded down the hall. His friend's exuberance over the date had brought out a fear that must have been lurking just beneath his consciousness. A fear of what the explosion may have done to his face and eyes.

Ordinarily, Gary didn't give much thought to what he looked like. Still, he did know he had large, appealing eyes.

"Where did Gary get those big eyes, Lois?" the ladies used to ask his mom, "That one will break hearts when he's older."

As it turned out, Gary was the one to have his heart broken. He wouldn't think about Marcia and all that again. But his eyes might be badly scared, now. Maybe he even looked repulsive. Woman might startle away when they saw him.

Here he was speculating again, he scolded himself. As if he were such a big success at romancing, anyway! If he had to, he would wear dark classes, that was all.

But, at supper, Gary found he had lost his appetite. When he sat at the table with Marissa, he could only swallow a few bites.

"Gary, what's wrong?" Marissa asked him.

"Marissa, did the doc say --Did she tell you if my eyes are disfigured?"

"She didn't mention it, Gary. She was more concerned about your eyesight."

"Yeah." It made sense and Gary was most concerned about that too. Still...

Marissa had again heard what lay behind Gary's question. "You know, a lot of women tell me how cute you are," she said. "But they're only looking on the surface. I can't see the surface, so I look at people the way they are inside. You look good to me, Gary, and scars wouldn't make any difference.

"On the other hand," Marissa continued, "you're a lousy gin player. Feel like taking on a pro?"

Gary understood what Marissa was doing. It took so much concentration for him to play with the Braille cards, it left no room for speculations and "what ifs" to creep in. He didn't win any games that night, but the playing kept his mind busy.

 Part 8
 
 

The next morning, Gary woke up early and felt truly well again. The way he had suddenly felt well one morning following a sore throat or chicken pocks when he was a kid. Chuck had not yet set out clothes for him. Well, he couldn't keep depending on Chuck to dress him. He knew where the closet was. At least he had a general idea of its location. He found it and explored for a while.

Jeans were no problem. The denim had a distinctive feel, sort of thick and coarse, that allowed him to tell the jeans from the other trousers. Button-down shirts were impossible to tell apart, but none of his shirts was going to clash with jeans, anyway. He just chose the first one he touched. Then he made his way back to the dresser and opened the sock drawer. Now how the hell was he supposed to tell if the socks matched?

Gary sighed. He would just have to hope that his jeans and his ankle boots would hide them. He recalled that Marissa's clothes always did match and he ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how she did it.

Meow!

Thud!

He had never needed his eyes to tell him what *those* sounds meant. Gary opened the door. He squatted, swept his hand across the hallway floor and found the paper. Then he turned his face toward where he thought the cat might be sitting.

"I don't suppose you could read this to me," he said, with no real expectations. The cat brushed past his leg to enter the room.

Gary brought the paper to the table to be read later, when both Chuck and Marissa were present. He wanted Marissa to be there as a buffer against Chuck's temptation to use the paper to line his own pockets. She was better than Gary at sensing when Chuck was not being quite honest about giving up the financial pages.

He located the fridge and poured a bowl of milk for the cat, then a glass for himself. The milk carton was easily recognizable by its shape. He longed for his morning coffee but thought he had better wait for Chuck and Marissa before attempting it. Marissa said that when she poured hot drinks, she judged the weight of the liquid in the cup and knew when it was full. To Gary it sounded like a good way to get scalded. Still, he was starting to cope again. He could learn to do the rest if he had to.

Maybe he *was* coping. It didn't help him when it came to reading the paper. The cat, not surprisingly, was no help either. He had no idea what would happen to the paper if he couldn't see again. Today it had come. He would just have to deal with it one day at a time. But then, the paper worked that way, didn't it? He could never take it more than a day at time, even before.

"...And that about wraps up our seven o'clock news report.."

Gary turned off the radio. Chuck and Marissa should be on their way. He had a sudden idea to go and meet them down in the lobby. He thought for a moment and then poked an arm under the bed in search of his hockey stick. Turned upside down, it would serve as a makeshift cane.

Finding the elevator no longer seemed a daunting task. He had the hockey stick to keep him from banging his shins on the tables and benches in the hallway. He probed slowly along the wall and around the tables until he touched the wide sliding door of the elevator. Then he groped for the call button and pressed it.

When he heard the door open, he entered and searched for the buttons on the inside wall. As he ran his fingers over them, he noticed indentations near them. He couldn't make out all the numbers but the lobby button was clearly marked "L". At least he didn't have to worry about going to the wrong floor.

"Good to see you up and about, Mr. Hobson," Boswell greeted him when he reached the lobby, "Going out this morning?"

"No. Waiting for my friends."

"The chairs across from you are not occupied, sir." Boswell took Gary's hand and placed it on the back of a chair so that Gary could seat himself. Gary appreciated Boswell's thoughtfulness. He had not considered how he was going to find an empty chair.

Now that he had made it to the lobby, the next step would be finding his way around outdoors. He knew exactly where he wanted to go first: to his favorite bench at edge of the lake. If he sat there and felt the breeze on his face, he thought he would be able to picture the water and the buildings and the sky. The breeze would tell him how big the ripples were on the lake and weather the sky was clear or full of clouds. The clump of running shoes and the whir of wheels would let him picture the joggers and cyclists on the exercise path. He would almost believe he could really see it all. He mentally traced the route and was sure he could find it if he tried. He might need a real cane -- the hockey stick was too clumsy. Or he could try to get a guide dog like Marissa's Spike.

He didn't like to admit how much it scared him to think about crossing the street when he couldn't see. But Marissa crossed streets all the time. She could probably teach him. When Chuck and then Marissa came in at about 7:30, Gary was in a better mood than he had been in since his injury.

"What's that for?" Chuck asked in reference to the hockey stick.

"Hockey," Gary told him.

"Un oh," said Chuck as if remembering a similar response from Gary on a different occasion. "You planning on beating up somebody?"

Gary didn't bother to answer this time. The bandages prevented him from glaring. "

So, where's the paper?" Chuck changed the subject after his little joke had fallen flat. "

In the room. We'd better go up." Venturing outdoors would have to wait

They were settled at the table with their coffee mugs, and Chuck was about to read the paper aloud, when Gary had an unexpected visitor.

Part 9
 
 

 "Mr. Hobson, I'm agent John Sullivan, with the FBI. I'm investigating the car bombing in which you were injured.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Gary couldn't figure out what he was supposed to do.

"The guy wants to shake hands, Gar," Chuck whispered.

"Oh." Gary put his hand out, too late. The other man had already withdrawn his hand, and Gary was left with his sticking out. He let his arm drop again, feeling like a fool.

"We need to know if there is anything you can tell us about the bomb." Sullivan spoke too loudly. He pronounced each word slowly, as though he were not quite sure that Gary could understand him.

"Speak normally!" Marissa snapped. "Gary can hear you just fine and he's *not* stupid!"

Gary was astonished to hear anger in her voice. It was so unlike her. He remembered Marissa once saying to him, "There's lots of people in this world that think that being blind is the same as being stupid."

"Marissa, people treat *you* this way all the time," he said.

"Yeah," Chuck added as if also surprised at the outburst, "we thought you're used to it."

"Well, I'm *not* used to them doing it to Gary! It makes me angrier, somehow."

"I apologize, I'm sure," the agent said dryly, "Is there anything you can tell me, Mr. Hobson?" At least he was talking to Gary more normally now.

"Not really."

"I just had a long chat with Detective Crumb. He says you get flashes. Anything you'd like to tell me about that?"

"There's nothing to tell."

Sullivan seemed to be expecting that. "Crumb said I wouldn't get anything out of you. He told me to trust you, though. Said that stretch of sidewalk was crowded before you chased everyone away, that the casualties would have been catastrophic. But if you can tell us anything to prevent the bombers from striking again..."

"Sorry. I'm not much help." He heard the agent getting up out of his chair. Gary put his hand out first, this time, and Sullivan took it. There, that worked much better. He could feel his poise returning.

"If you think of anything give me a call," The agent said as an after thought, handing him a card. Before Gary could close his fingers on it, Sullivan pulled it away. He gave the card to Chuck instead. "Here, Mr. Fishman, help him to call this number if he remembers anything."

Gary tried not to let it spoil his mood. Because Gary couldn't see, Sullivan was treating him like a child. Like a not particularly bright child, at that. He could sense that Marissa was fuming again. "It's okay, Marissa. I--I'm getting used to it, too," he said and Marissa held her peace.

After Sullivan left, Chuck handed the card back to Gary. "You keep it. *I'm* not calling that jerk."

"Thank you."

Marissa put up a fresh pot of coffee and all three settled at the table again. The paper crinkled a bit as Chuck opened it. "Holy cow!" he blurted out.

"What?" Gary and Marissa demanded simultaneously.

"Uh, Gar, I think you're gonna be needing that card."

The bombers were going to strike again, in about an hour, not far from where they had set off the first bomb. Twenty-three people would be killed. No small children this time, but the victims included a group of five 12- to 14-year-old girls, in town on a Saturday shopping trip.

Gary stood up. "I gotta go warn them. Come on, Chuck, let's go."

"Whoa, Gar." Chuck put a restraining hand on Gary's arm. "Maybe you don't care if you get blown up again, but I do. And I, uh, care even more if *I* get blown up."

"Chuck, If you won't help me, I'll get a taxi." Gary pulled his arm free and bent to get the hockey stick from where he had left it on the floor. The stick was not quite where he remembered it to be. He fumbled a bit before he found it, picked it up and stood again.

Chuck snorted. "You'd be a sight!"

Gary turned his face toward Chuck. "All right. What's that supposed to mean?"

"A guy with thick, white bandages over his eyes, brandishing a hockey stick. How exactly are you planning to stop a bomb with that thing?"

"I'm not gonna st..." Gary broke off. He had worried about scars under the bandages. But he had never thought what he must look like, now, with them on. Chuck had a point. No one was going to take him seriously like this.

"Call Sullivan," Chuck advised him, "That's what the card's for."

"Right. I call and say, `Oh, by the way, I just happened to remember that the bombers are gonna strike again.' Gee, Chuck, after I couldn't tell him a thing ten minutes ago, that'd go over great." Gary's frustration with Chuck came out in the sarcasm.

"Gary, you've been hurt enough already." Marissa sided firmly against his going. "If you don't want to call Sullivan, why don't you call Detective Crumb? To tell you the truth, I didn't like Sullivan, either."

"We never would have guessed!" Chuck teased Marissa.

Gary still thought he should go, but Chuck refused to come with him. He'd just have to try it on his own, no matter how ridiculous he looked. He took a few steps toward the door and stopped. Memories of searing pain from the first explosion and of waking up in darkness were flooding his mind, still fresh and terrifying. Gary sighed and agreed to give Crumb a call before trying anything himself. He didn't even need Chuck to read out Crumb's phone number. He remembered it.

"Hobson! I hear you got hurt." Crumb's voice sounded as gruff as ever, but Gary could hear genuine concern.

He remembered his first encounters with the detective. Crumb thought him a pain-in-the-neck, a trouble maker, even a lunatic. But then, Gary couldn't say how he knew certain things were going to happen. So what was Crumb *supposed* to think?

In the months that followed, Gary had frequent opportunities to observe Crumb in action. Once, Crumb offered himself as a hostage To a bomber, if the bomber would let his other hostages go. Another time, he witnessed Crumb's compassion toward a troubled former colleague, Mike Killibrew. Somewhere along the way, Crumb started to take Gary's "flashes" seriously. Gary had a growing respect for him now.

Gary explained to Crumb about the bomb that was set to go off in an hour.

"Okay, we're on to it. If it's there, we'll find it," Crumb promised, "Oh, Hobson, do me a favor, huh? Stay away from bombs. Don't get yourself hurt again."

"Well, Crumb, *you* take risks like that," Gary protested.

"Of course, I take risks. It's my job," Crumb told him. "Good to hear from you, Hobson -- I can't believe I said that."

Gary smiled as he replaced the receiver. He liked the crusty old detective now. He knew Crumb would do everything in his power to stop the bomb.

A few minutes later, Chuck told them the headline changed. "There, told you, you didn't have to go. Crumb's bomb squad defuses it, no problem."

"They catch the bombers?" Gary wanted to know.

"No, but..."

"That's not good enough," Gary muttered.

Chuck rustled the newspaper. "Can we get on with this? I have other things I'd like to be doing with my weekend, you know."

"Thanks again for helping out, Chuck," Gary put in quickly. Much as he hated it, he needed Chuck's help with the paper right now.

They conferred and decided that Gary could take on two jobs by phone: a mother who would accidentally give her infant son an overdose of acetaminophen, and a ten-year-old runaway. That left a discount store holdup.

Gary had doubts about Chuck and the holdup. But Crumb was busy with the bombing. He couldn't call Crumb about this, too. "A minute ago you didn't want to go to the bomb site," he reminded his friend.

"You were gonna tag along with me to the bomb site," Chuck teased.

For the second time that morning Gary wished he were able to glare. But he was also concerned enough about his friend's safety to let Chuck's teasing pass. "You sure you can do this?" he asked.

"Come on, Gar, quit worrying. I got it all under control. Piece of cake."

"Now where have we heard *that* before?" Marissa pretended to be asking Gary, "Should I go along and `keep an eye on him?'"

But Chuck just wanted to get it over with and go on with his own plans. He was supposed to meet Inga again in the afternoon.

After Chuck ran out, Gary sat down on the bed beside the phone. He picked up the receiver and ran his fingers over the buttons to get their positions clear in his mind.

The hallway door opened suddenly, so softly that Gary could barely hear it. "Freeze!," a hoarse, throaty voice commanded. "Freeze right there, mack!"

Part 11
 
 
 

Gary froze.

Damn! Chuck was always warning him to lock and bolt his door. Why couldn't he remember, especially now? He couldn't see the assailants. It sounded like two sets of footsteps. But he couldn't even be sure how many there were.

Gary put his hands up over his head, careful not make any sudden movements. He heard the door close quietly and then slow footsteps coming toward him. A click sounded like the catch on a gun.

"Money's in the top drawer." Gary tried to keep his voice steady. The money wasn't much. Would it be enough to satisfy them? He swallowed hard. "There's -- theres's a gold wedding band in there, too. Take it."

"It's not money we want, Hobson." The voice gave a hoarse, throaty laugh. "You should have known we wouldn't leave witnesses."

"Witnesses?" Gary repeated, not understanding.

"Playing dumb won't help you, mack. You must have seen us plant the bomb this morning. We don't take kindly to informers. And your lady friend, now we're real sorry about her, but she's seen us too. We're just gonna have to take her out as well."

There was a gasp from Marissa. Then she seemed to get a grip on herself and kept silent.

"You think we saw...?" Gary understood this time. "Listen, I was injured in the bombing the other week. I *can't* see. And Marissa is ..."

"Likely story, mack."

"It was -- it was *your* other bomb that did this to me!" Gary shouted, his anger at them overcoming the need to be cautious.

"It's true," A younger man's voice piped up from the direction of the hallway door. It sounded as though the second man had not come very far into the room. Possibly he was standing guard near the door. "It's the guy we read about in the papers."

Gary hadn't known about that. It must have been in those first few days, before the paper started coming again. Otherwise Chuck would have told him. Or maybe Chuck did see it and didn't want to tell Gary that all of Chicago had been reading about his misfortune.

"It's the guy who was wounded the first time," the younger voice went on. "The one who got blinded."

I'm not really bl--. Gary bit back the words. It would be stupid to insist on that and get himself killed. He was just starting to cope again, to feel that maybe his life was *not* over, even if... It would be stupid to let himself get killed now.

The first assailant scuffled toward him. Gary could feel the other's breath on his face. The man must be peering at him, suspiciously examining the bandaged wounds. Then he backed away. Gary heard a drawer opening followed by sounds of the man rifling through it. The bomber must be searching for something. . Had he decided to steal the money, too?

Gary sensed a sudden movement, but he couldn't tell what it was. He just remained facing straight ahead.

"He didn't react to the flashlight. But the bandages could be fake."

"I'm right, boss, it's the guy we blinded. Must've been a different Hobson you heard old Crumb Face ranting on about. Let's get outta here, okay?

The older bomber grunted his consent. "But what about the young lady here? Next you're gonna try telling me *she's* blind, too."

"I'm afraid I am blind. Sorry to disappoint you." Marissa voice sounded calm on the surface, but Gary could hear tremors in it. He wished he weren't so helpless to protect her. Why hadn't he sent her out with Chuck?

"That's right, she's blind." Gary stood up, talking fast, trying to draw their attention back on him. "You came here for me, not her. She's blind and she didn't see you, so -- so why don't you just leave her alone?"

"She does have a seeing-eye dog, boss."

Gary heard more scuffling, then swearing, and guessed the older one had tried the flashlight test on Marissa, too.

"What is this, a damn rest home for the blind and infirm?"

"Let's not risk it, boss. Someone could hear the shots, silencer or not. *Them two* are never gonna identify us. That's for sure."

They stomped out, not caring who heard them this time. The door was slammed with a reverberating force. But they were gone.

  Part 12
 
 
 

Marissa burst into giggles. Gary couldn't help chuckling himself. But the hysteria died away and it hit him just how close they both had come to being killed. His knees buckled. He dropped to a sitting position on the bed and took a deep breath. Then he let his breath out slowly. "Marissa?"

"I'm still at the table, Gary."

He struggled up on shaky legs and walked toward the table, toward the sound of her voice. He reached out his hand and it met hers, reaching to find him. "

I don't know if this is your answer or not, Gary," Marissa's voice was calm and sure again, "but maybe the paper wanted you to live."

It might be true. But if it was, it seemed to Gary that the paper could have a found a better way of arranging it. "Yeah. Maybe I should've bolted the door like Chuck's always telling me," he answered.

But he knew what Marissa was trying to say. She wasn't simply saying that the paper had let him be injured in order to save his life. She was also telling him that his life was still *worth* saving. The brush with death had proven to him how much he still wanted to live. Even if he *couldn't* see.

Gary returned to the bed to make his phone calls. He began with a second call to Crumb. Marissa asked him to put her on, too, and she expertly described the two men. She didn't know their hair and eye color, of course, but she gave details of their height and build and probable ages. The bombers had underestimated her. Marissa didn't miss very much. Gary wondered if he could *ever* be that capable.

He could do more now, though, then he could a week ago. And there were other people who needed him., people from the articles that Chuck had read out earlier. This time, on the phone, he was careful not to mention that he couldn't see. It made him feel normal. Well, it made him feel as normal as possible for a guy with access to tomorrow's news. The people he called still thought he was some kind of nut case. But for Gary Hobson, *that* was about as normal as it could get.

Chuck phoned to tell him that all the headlines had changed successfully. Surprisingly, he made no mention of the bombers. That had to have been in the paper before it happened. Gary opened his mouth to tell Chuck off for failing to warn them. Thanks a lot for nothing, Chuck! You're the one who can see the paper and you didn't... But before he got the words out, he realized he wasn't being fair. Chuck had gone to prevent a dangerous robbery. If he had time to glance at the paper at all, it would have been at the article the concerned *him.* Gary forgave Chuck and listened to his friend recite the list of triumphs:

The baby would get the correct dose of medication and would not need a liver transplant; the ten-year-old girl would not be found in a ditch tonight. Then Chuck's voice became decidedly smug. He had talked the teenage gang out of their plan to burglarize the store without antagonizing them too much. "Jeez, I wish I could remember what I said, Gar. Maybe you could use it sometime."

"Maybe I could." Gary agreed and thanked him again.

"All in a day's work. Well, see ya later, buddy."

"Hey, you have a good time with Inga this afternoon," Gary said and meant it.

"Feeling better, Gary?" Marissa asked.

"Yeah." He said and was silent for a moment. "Marissa, how do you cross the street? I'll need to know, if I -- If I'm blind."

"I think you *are* feeling better," said Marissa.

"And socks -- How do I get them to match?" was Gary's answer.

  Part 13
 
 
 

A few days later, Chuck and Marissa accompanied Gary to his appointment at Dr. Halperin's office.

"Listen to this, guys," Chuck announced while glancing through the paper in the waiting room, "Sullivan and Crumb are gonna arrest a couple of suspects connected with the bombings this afternoon. It's those thugs who almost killed you."

"Good -- that's good," said Gary. Now they would not be able to hurt him or Marissa or anyone else. "Does it say why they did it?"

"`Both criminal and political motives for the attack are being investigated...,'" Chuck read, "Hah, told you they don't want us to know anything."

"Good thing Sullivan's better at tracking bombers than he is at talking to blind people," Marissa commented. "When I think of him snatching the card away from you, Gary, it just..."

Gary smiled at Marissa's indignation. That *had* been bad, but now Sullivan was about to catch the bombers. Gary was willing to forget his lack of sensitivity. "Hey, you're not gonna put salt in Sullivan's coffee or something?" he teased Marissa.

"No, I suppose not," Marissa conceded, "But I'm tempted."

"You can come in now, Mr. Hobson."

Before the nurse led Gary into Dr. Halperin's office, Chuck placed Gary's hand over his own, so that Gary could feel the crossed fingers. "I'm rooting for you, buddy."

"Good luck," Marissa called after him, just as she did when he used to go off on jobs from the paper.

Gary tapped his fingers nervously while Dr. Halperin made preparations involving clinking instruments. He gripped the sides of his chair as she unwound the bandages. Then she gently took off the inner eye pads and Gary had to squint against the light.

There was nothing but light and some dim outlines of shapes, but it looked beautiful. He had forgotten how beautiful light could be. Gary never wanted to close his eyes again.

He was disappointed when, after a series of tests, the doctor re-bandaged his eyes. But they were lighter bandages, and she explained that he would be allowed to go without them for longer periods soon. Best of all was her prognosis. "I think you'll recover a high percentage of your vision. The wounds are healing nicely."

As he kept pace with the nurse who led him back to the outer office, he had to control an urge to break away and run or jump in the air. On entering the room he heard Chuck mutter, "I'm going nuts from all this waiting." He could just picture how Chuck must have been fidgeting and looking at the clock every two minutes or so. Gary could also sense Marissa's amusement at this, although she sat calmly and didn't answer.

"So...?" Chuck asked him.

"Well, I can't see very much yet. But the doc says in a few weeks..."

"The peepers will be back in working order?"

"That's what Doc Halperin tells me," Gary answered happily, "and the scars -- they're hardly gonna show."

"Yes!" Chuck got up to take Gary's arm from the nurse and raised it in a victory sign.

"I'm glad for you, Gary." Marissa said quietly from her seat.

Gary could hear in her voice how much she meant it. Marissa had taught him to really listen when people spoke, to hear more than just the words.

"Marissa," he said, "I could never have gotten through this without -- What I'm trying to say is, thank -you."

"You're welcome, Gary."

He knew that a simple thank -you didn't cover all she had done for him, but Marissa seemed to understand. "You, too, Chuck," Gary added, "thank-you."

"What are you thanking *me* for?"

Gary wanted to explain. But he didn't quite know how to thank Chuck for just being his annoying self. For treating Gary the same as always. For not behaving toward him like Sullivan and Mrs. Clarence, as though he were stupid or an object of pity. "I'm thanking you for the paper and well, for everything," was the best he could do.

"Why don't we all go celebrate?" Marissa suggested. Gary heard her stand up to leave.

But there was something Gary wanted to do first. "Let's go over to the lake -- to that bench I like," he said. "I'll describe the view for you."

"Sounds good," Marissa agreed.

"Gar, I hate to break it to you," Chuck put in, "but your eyes are still bandaged."

Gary smiled and he felt sure that Marissa must be smiling too. He didn't expect Chuck to understand.
 

[finis]

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