In Case of Emergency Read Online Free PDF Page A

bags.
    “That’s funny, you don’t look any different.”
    He pretends to have a heart attack, grabbing his chest and heaving. “How dare you,” he gasps.
    “She’s just jealous,” Ryan says. “Don’t mind her.”
    Dad shifts in his chair. “My trainer told me a funny story when I saw him. His elbow is all bandaged up, like it should be in a sling—and this is not the kind of guy to fool with first aid. He’s missing teeth and covered in tattoos of big-breasted women. So I say to him, ‘What’d you do to your elbow?’ And he gets all embarrassed. Turns out he was riding his nephew’s Razor scooter—you know those skinny metal things?—and fell right off. Hard to picture a guy like that on one of those. He’s gotten a real hard time about it.”
    Ryan picks up one of the beer steins from Dad’s collection on the coffee table. The steins make a circle around a large silver platter that looks so untouched I wouldn’t be surprised if time had glued it to the table. Ryan turns the stein over in his hands, tracing the Celtic knot on the side.
    “Those old things.” Dad sighs. “One of these days I’m going to get a smaller place, and then I’m going to get rid of all this crap. Too much stuff.”
    “Sure,” says Ryan, though we all know he’ll never move. Even though not a trace of her is visible, her absence is on every wall, in every room, a void so present it’s like a roommate.
    “Tell you what.” My father’s eyes light up. He slams his hand on the armrest and leans toward me. “I challenge you to an arm-wrestling match.”
    Not for the first time, I wonder if it ever bothers Ryan that I’m the one Dad treats more like a son, but he jumps up with a grin on his face and before I know it, the three of us are dragging Dad’s chair down the hallway and into his dining-room-turned-office.
    The dining room table is covered with stacks of paper, computer wires, a laptop, and two dusty candles that have never been lit. Dad works as a software engineer for some big company; he often brings his work home with him. I have no idea what being a software engineer means.
    Dad drops his elbow onto the table and holds out his hand. “Shall we, my dear?” Placing my elbow on the table with a soft sigh, I pretend for a moment to be more feminine than I feel, as if that will throw him off somehow. He might be stronger, but I have more endurance. If I can just hold him in place, I should be able to force his hand down once he’s gotten tired.
    My thin fingers disappear as we wrap hands. His palm feels dry and feverish. I keep my arm loose and relaxed, with just enough tension to maintain the place-hold. My dad flexes his biceps and puffs up his chest. When we’re settled and ready, we swivel our heads to look at Ryan, standing to the side and between us.
    “Go,” he says.
    It lasts only a few seconds. I slam Dad’s hand down, barely sensing his resistance, almost disappointed by how easy it is. His face registers disbelief and then warps into an unrecognizable expression. Leaning forward, almost panting, I feel the exertion only now that the match is over. My eyes widen with a daughter’s guilt; my ears are pricked and nervous. Was that the sound of his robust Irish male ego shattering? But no. He looks bewildered and—can it be?—proud.
    “Good!” he says. “Very good.”
    6
    The clock says 0238.
    After I got hired, I took Vincent’s advice and got a watch that could be set to military time. I switched the digital clock in my room to the 24-hour setting. It’s been strange these last few days, to see times like “1330” or “1645.” So it’s oddly comforting to look at a clock in the middle of the night and know exactly what time it is.
    0238. No math required.
    I lie in bed, still, staring at a dark ceiling I can’t see but know is there. It feels like I’m waiting for something. I’m not hungry or sick or anxious; I don’t have to pee; I didn’t have a bad dream. I’m just