Author: S. Craig Zahler
Date: 2018-01-23 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction & Literature; Science Fiction; Horror; Fantasy
Description: "S. Craig Zahler is certain to become one of the great imaginers of our time. " -- Clive Barker "[C]harm and optimism ... infuse [this] dark story. [A] delightful combination of tones ... bound to leave readers both smiling and thoughtful. ". --Kirkus Reviews "The latest novel from the author of Mean Business on North Ganson Street (2014) is a Victorianesque tale set in twentieth-century America, featuring orphaned Hug Chickenpenny, a child born with several "anomalous" features, such as one red eye, a stump for his left arm, and lumps on his head. Hug's mother dies giving birth to him, and he
Publisher: Cinestate

Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

BY S. CRAIG ZAHLER

Praise for Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

“S. Craig Zahler is certain to become one of the great imaginers of our time.”

—Clive Barker

“[A]n exceptional, original, and inherently fascinating read from beginning to end, Hug Chickenpenny is unreservedly recommended for personal reading lists, and would be an especially impressive addition to both community and academic library General Fiction/Literary Fiction collections.”

—Midwest Book Review

“[A] sharp look at family, deformity, community, and belonging. At once moving and merciless, this is a chronicle of a hapless but still altogether human life.”

—Brian Evenson

“I was intrigued (and still am) by the cover art on this new book. Detailed and beautiful, the cover is a good segue into what to expect from the story. Learn about Hug’s life by venturing into this aptly written wonder of fiction. You won’t regret it.”

—Michael Rodriguez, bookseller, Harvard Book Store (Staff Pick)

Other Books Available From S. Craig Zahler

A Congregation of Jackals

Corpus Chrome, Inc.

Mean Business on North Ganson Street

Wraiths of the Broken Land

Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child

Copyright © 2018 by S. Craig Zahler

ISBN 9781946487001 (paperback)

ISBN 9781946487018 (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017930370

Published by Cinestate

Cover & Frontispiece: Matt Brinkman

Design & Layout: Ashley Detmering

Typesetter: Kirby Gann

Copyeditors: Molly Wolchansky and Kayleigh Fassel

Distributor: Consortium Book Sales & Distribution

Editor: Will Evans

Producer & Publisher: Dallas Sonnier

Author: S. Craig Zahler

First Edition January 2018

Printed in the United States of America

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Table of Contents

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I | An Assortment of Creepers

II | George’s Cups

III | They Crawled Away from Him

IV | The End of His First Orbit

V | The Amenable Doctor (of Teratology)

VI | (The Coercion of) Soft Hands

VII | The Antagonist’s Reward

VIII | A Tour of the Hannersby Collection

IX | The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences

X | The Mushroom Hunters

XI | Two Sleepers

XII | Unwanted Again

XIII | Other Children

XIV | Cold Coffee and Old Obituaries

XV | Clandestine Crafts

XVI | The Instructor’s Lesson

XVII | Wishes Realized

XVIII | Television Tutelage

XIX | An Artistic Survey

XX | Unsupervised Nights

XXI | Brotherhood

XXII | Sidereal, Ethereal, and Corporeal

XXIII | Why?

XXIV | Drafty Hearths

XXV | Miscellaneous Junk

XXVI | The Voyager

I | An Assortment of Creepers

The sun crested a distant mountain range and shone upon suburban rooftops that had chimneys, television antennas, and lost model airplanes. Away from these pastel homes and atop a weedy hill stood an anomalous mansion, the facade of which was covered with creepers. A hot summer wind sent ripples of light across these tall walls of vegetation, and a phone rang somewhere deep within the overgrowth.

Tires skidded. A maroon sports car materialized at the edge of a long steep driveway, angled toward the mansion, and ascended. Gravel crackled beneath grinding wheels.

Again, the phone rang.

The vehicle stopped sharply. Behind the steering wheel sat Abigail Westinghouse, a slender and angular forty-year-old woman who had an upturned nose, a high forehead, and dark brown hair that was twined with silver. Her hazel eyes surveyed the overgrown mansion, and her right hand held the receiver of a car phone against the side of her head.

In her ear and within the home that she observed, the connection rang. Nobody answered.

Abigail slammed the receiver into the cradle. Fearful thoughts multiplied inside of her unclear mind.

Decided, the brunette flung the gear into park, opened the driver’s door, and exited the vehicle. Morning sunlight lanced her eyes, and she squinted.

With an elbow, Abigail slammed the door. The improperly engaged gear upon the steering column was jarred by this action from park to neutral, which she might have noticed had she not been impaired by sunlight and her morning cocktails.

Tightening the belt of her black robe, the brunette hastened toward the front door. The soles of her untied tennis shoes scuffed the pathway stones as she proceeded.

“Meredith!” cried Abigail.

The owner of the neglected mansion did not offer a response nor did anybody else.

Fears chattered inside of Abigail as she climbed the front steps.

Morning sunshine cast her shadow upon an elaborate wind chime, which was comprised of violescent and viridescent crystals that Meredith had claimed originated in outer space.

The brunette reached the front door, made a fist, and pounded thrice. This tattoo echoed within the mansion.

Nobody responded.

Unnoticed by its owner, the maroon sports car began to roll back down the driveway and toward the road.

Abigail hammered her clenched right hand against the wood until she felt pain.

The sound of her efforts echoed and vanished.

“Meredith . . . are you in there? I passed out early last night and just got your message.”

The brunette stepped back and examined the creeper-adorned facade of the mansion.

All of the windows were shut, excepting one that was located on the second floor.

Hazel eyes flickered to the lone tree that stretched out a solitary branch toward this opening, and an unsafe plan was conceived.

Suppressing a fear of heights and many other things, Abigail hastened across the yard. She arrived at the sycamore and immediately saw that the trunk was too broad and smooth for her to scale directly.

Looking up, the brunette reached her hands toward the lowest perpendicular branch. The nails of her two longest fingers scratched across the wood, but even on her tiptoes, she was unable to grab the limb. Teeth gritted, she bent her knees and jumped. Her palms impacted the branch, and she clenched her hands.

Abigail dangled from the tree. Loose shoelaces skimmed the tops of the tallest weeds as she swayed.

The brunette tightened her arms and tried to pull herself up to the branch, but instead sweated, raised her heart rate, and felt pains in her shoulders. Undertakings such as this had been far easier when she was a kid or sober. Jaw clenched, she swung her legs toward the trunk, where her tennis shoes gained a foothold on the surface.

Abigail climbed.

Her simian enterprise brought her feet to the lowermost branch and her hands to a higher limb, which was the one that stretched toward the mansion. Dappled sunlight shone in her eyes as she looked through the open window.

Beyond the rippling curtain was a library that contained mountains of books. Much of this room was hidden in darkness.

“Meredith!” shouted Abigail. “Are you in th—” Her voice cracked fearfully. “It’s Abigail. I’m outside. In the tree!”

There was no response to these solicitations.

The brunette inhaled deeply and made her decision. Hand over hand, she traversed the outstretched branch, which creaked and drooped as she proceeded. She soon reached the terminus, where a yard of emptiness hung between her and the open window.

Abigail glanced into the dark library from her closer vantage.

More books and three strange chairs were now visible as was the fact that the area was vacant.

The brunette needed to get inside and find her friend.

Tightly gripping the branch, she swung her legs back and forth, repeated this action, and stabbed her left foot at the open window. The tip of this sneaker scraped across bottom of the sill but did not hold.

Momentum carried her away from the house and the image of an orangutan that she had once seen at the zoo came to mind.

Clasping the branch with raw hands, Abigail swung herself back and forth, again and again, increasing the velocity of her pendulous endeavor. Wind tussled her hair as the building lunged and retreated from her face.

She stabbed her left foot forward, and the rubber sole of her tennis shoe landed squarely upon the windowsill.

The brunette stopped swinging. At present, her forward leg diagonally and tenuously attached her to the mansion. Perspiration beaded upon her red face and dropped fifteen feet to the weeds. Her hands ached.

Abigail shifted her weight, stuffed air into her lungs, and launched herself through the open window. Curtains rustled, and the darkness enveloped her.

A protruding nail ripped her robe, and her left shoulder whacked a pile of books, which turned into a storm of fluttering, yellowing paper.

Floorboards slammed into her left hip and outstretched palms. For a moment, the dull thud of her arrival echoed throughout the library.

Abigail was inside the Chickenpenny Mansion.

She stood. Sweat poured down her face as she discarded her robe and adjusted her maroon nightgown. Scratches glowed upon her right arm and the shin of her left leg.

Abigail kicked aside a tome that was entitled The Hidden Constellations and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim environment.

“Meredith? Are you still home?”

The words echoed throughout the room and in the dark spaces that lay beyond.

Nobody responded.

The brunette exited the library and found herself in a hallway, which was dimly illuminated by two distant windows. Floorboards creaked as she walked past an ancient family portrait, a padded chair, and a chandelier, which lay in a glittering pile upon the ground. The smells of old books and dust filled the air.

Abigail never understood why Meredith lived in this place. It was part of her inheritance, but that did not make it any less dreadful.

The brunette looked around for some clue as to where her pregnant friend might be located, but the old house told her nothing. Floorboards creaked beneath her tennis shoes as she neared the stairwell that led to the first floor.

A gust blew.

Abigail smelled something, paused, and sniffed the air.

The odors of blood and excrement blossomed within her head. Turning around, the brunette looked toward the source of these smells.

Standing at the far end of the hallway was an open door. Beyond this portal lay darkness.

“Are you in there?” inquired Abigail, whose throat was dry. “Meredith . . . ?”

This hoarse inquiry echoed and was succeeded by silence. For a few seconds, the brunette monitored the dark doorway.

There was no choice for her but to investigate the source of these terrible smells.

At present, she walked. Foul smells intruded upon her senses, and she covered her nose with her left hand. The doorway drew near.

Abigail passed through the portal and into darkness. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

This room in which she stood had floral wallpaper, a sofa, and a weird vase that contained black flowers. The next object that materialized from the darkness was the large lump that lay upon the floor.

Abigail paled.

Prostrate and still on the ground was Meredith Chickenpenny, a woman of thirty-nine years who had wavy blonde hair and very long fingernails. Blood covered the floor underneath the inert woman.

Shocked, the brunette gaped at the horrible tableau.

A reflection of Meredith’s unblinking, blue eyes stared up from the puddle of blood.

“I’m so sorry,” said Abigail. “I—”

The brunette lost the ability to speak. Tears stung her eyes as she walked toward the body.

It was then that she saw the glistening, ribbed, and pinkish-gray cord that lay upon the floor.

Abigail observed this strange rope, which led from the far door all the way to the concealed belly of the prone woman.

It was an umbilical cord.

Gagging, the brunette fell to her knees. She wiped her clammy face on her arm and tried to remember how to breathe.

It was then that she heard a faint scuffing sound.

Abigail raised her head and looked in the direction of this noise. The umbilical cord was twitching.

Tears poured down the brunette’s face. Horror and grief made her thoughts unclear. It seemed possible that this was all a dream and that she would wake up on her couch with enough food and vodka to get her through the day.

The umbilical cord jittered a fraction of an inch.

Shivering, Abigail rose to her feet and followed the twitching line through the doorway into an even darker enclosure. A stairwell that went up to the attic stood on the opposite side of this room.

Upon those steps lay the umbilical cord.

The brunette ascended, following the impossibly long lifeline. Stairs creaked noisily in the narrow space, and the smells of blood and excrement worsened. Eventually, the umbilical cord led her to a closed attic door.

Abigail raised a trembling hand and twisted the brass knob. A latch clicked. Hinges creaked as she opened the door.

Nauseated by the smells, the brunette held her breath and entered the attic.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and located the twitching line, which she then followed to the far side of the room.

Upon seeing what lay at the end of the umbilical cord, Abigail lost consciousness and collapsed.

Outside the overgrown mansion, the maroon sports car rolled into the road. An oncoming van skidded, but could not avoid the empty vehicle.

A thunderous boom resounded.

Frightened by this sound, the motherless infant that lay within the attic shrieked. This cry was the most horrible sound that had ever been produced by a human being.

II | George’s Cups

Cheerful sunlight illuminated the polka-dotted curtains of a very neat kitchenette. Upon white tiles of linoleum stood a round table that was covered by a mint-green cloth, which was itself protected by plastic. Seated here was a seventy-eight-year-old woman, Gladys Dodgett.

Turning from the stove was George Dodgett, a chubby forty-two-year-old man who had a neat red beard, bright green eyes, a blue shirt, matching slacks, and an emerald tie. Four plates were balanced upon his thick arms as he approached the table.

“Good morning, Mom.”

The sight of the caretaker and the meal that his limbs supported brightened Gladys. “Good morning, Georgie.”

“Two-and-a-half eggs.”

George set a plate upon a wicker placemat. This was done as gently as possible, so that the noise would not startle Gladys.

The septuagenarian looked down at the dish, where lay two sunny-side-up eggs. Beside this symmetrical duo sat a hardboiled half that had been dusted with paprika.

“Two English muffins—one buttered and one swirled.”

Gently, George set down a plate with the described English muffins. One glistened with butter, and a spiral of orange and red jams colored the other.

“Apricot and raspberry.”

“My favorites,” remarked Gladys, who had no small amount of favorites.

The caretaker set down the third plate. “Three bowties.”

Upon this dish were three strips of bacon that had each been tied into a neat and perfect bowtie.

“And of course,” George said, “your special grapefruit.”

“I was hoping that you’d made it . . .”

The caretaker set down the final dish. Upon it was a pink grapefruit that had been peeled, sectioned, and reshaped into a budding flower. Mint leaves, confectioner’s sugar, and drizzled honey decorated this floral creation.

“It’s so pretty,” remarked Gladys.

“I’m glad you like it.”

George did not make his living as an artist, but he believed that every person on Earth had some artistic potential.

The septuagenarian closed her eyes, inhaled aromas, and nodded in approval. She smiled at her son and looked ten years younger.

“Aren’t you going to have something?” asked Gladys.

George shook his head. “I have to get to work early today.”

“You’re welcome to have some of mine if you’d like—though not too much of the special grapefruit.”

The caretaker gestured with his chubby hands. “It’s all for you, Mom. Every last bit of it.”

“You spoil me, Georgie. Just like your father always did.”

With a bittersweet grin, George walked over to Gladys and kissed her on a fuzzy cheek. “I’ll visit during my lunch break. Stay out of trouble.”

The septuagenarian righted her posture and lifted her chin. “I’m staying faithful to your father—don’t you worry.”

“I’m sure he appreciates your loyalty.”

“Besides . . . the boys stopped pestering me long ago.” Gladys giggled.

George chuckled. His laugh was warm and friendly.

———

Sitting behind the wheel of a tiny green hatchback, the chubby caretaker looked to the left and to the right, repeated this sequence two more times, and thrice checked each mirror.

Things looked safe.

George pressed the gas pedal. His home shrank as he drove down the driveway, turned onto the street, and proceeded east. The suburban road that he traveled was lined with strong trees and pastel-colored houses.

At the first stop sign, the caretaker braked, reached into his glove compartment, and extracted a bright green tape cassette, which he then slotted into the console. He thumbed the rewind button. Gears whirred for a few seconds and clicked. A chubby finger pressed the play arrow.

Religious folk music enlivened the car speakers. Atop the canvas of mandolins, tambourines, and acoustic guitars was a children’s choir.

“His gentle hands . . .” the group sang, “His gentle hands hold us. His gentle hands . . . His gentle hands carry away our sins.”

This familiar hymn brought George comfort as he dialed the steering wheel and accelerated onto a new road. Fifteen miles below the legal speed limit, the green hatchback passed a factory. This imposing red brick edifice had thirty-seven cylindrical smokestacks of varying height and width.

The caretaker sang aloud during the second verse.

“His gentle hands shield us from wickedness . . . His gentle hands help us ascend . . .”

George knew that he could not sing very well, but that did not stop him from so doing when nobody else was around.

Fifteen minutes later, he dialed the steering wheel clockwise and drove into the parking lot of a big concrete building. The narrow windows and utilitarian design of this edifice resembled those of a prison.

The caretaker shifted gears, shut off the engine, and fingered the eject button, which violently launched the cassette from the console. A chubby hand snatched the recording from the air and replaced it in the glove compartment. Pocketing his keys, he exited the little green hatchback and strode to the paved walkway.

In front of him stood a sign that read: Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted.

Thinking of the most anomalous orphan, George neared the entrance, straightened his emerald tie, and flung wide the door. Ahead of him was the reception area, an antiseptic off-white space that was adorned with children’s drawings, many of which depicted nonexistent beasts, castles, and parents.

Clanking, the entryway closed. The caretaker continued forward.

Sitting behind the front counter was Jennifer Kimberly, a twenty-four-year-old bleached blonde who had a sullen expression on her heavily made-up face. The receptionist averted her gaze in order to avoid making any eye contact with the caretaker.

Thinking of far pleasanter people, George maintained his cheerful attitude. “Good morning, Miss Jennifer Kimberly.”

No response came from the receptionist.

“As always,” the caretaker resumed, “I’ll interpret your silence as a friendly reciprocation of my own greeting.”

Unresponsive, Jennifer Kimberly stared at her desk. It seemed as if a red ballpoint pen, a stapler, and some liquid eraser had suddenly become objects of great interest.

“Thanks for rationing oxygen,” George said as he passed the desk and continued toward the hallway that stood on the far side of the room.

One quietly muttered word escaped the array of bleached-blond hair:

“Weirdo.”

The caretaker did not remark upon this remark, even though he knew that he was not weird.

His footfalls echoed as he walked down the front hallway. A dozen strides brought him to the Employees’ Lounge, wherein sat Carol, a thirty-one-year-old woman who had freckles, glasses, and very short hair, and Thomas, a black fellow of a similar vintage who had a two-inch Afro and a pair of impressive sideburns that looked like peninsulas.

“I’ll finish telling you later,” Carol said to Thomas.

George had noticed that his co-workers often ended their conversations when he entered the Employees’ Lounge, and he was not sure if this was evidence of politeness or a conspiracy. In either case, his cheerful disposition was undiminished.

Teal chairs squeaked as the seated duo turned and looked toward the caretaker.

“Good morning to both of you,” said George, who was smiling.

Empty cheer was forced to the faces of Carol and Thomas. “Good morning.”

“G’mornin’.”

The caretaker walked over to the water cooler, and from the cylindrical dispenser gently tugged a waxen paper cup that had a smiley face on its side. This receptacle he held very close to the spigot, which would minimize wasteful splatter in the very near future. His chubby thumb pressed a button, and water drained into the cup.

Carol, Thomas, and George monitored this not very remarkable act.

At present, the caretaker released the button, brought the beverage to his mouth, and drank two inches.

“How are the little ones today?” asked George.

Thomas scratched a hirsute peninsula. “Sleeping.”

“Good—that’s a very important part of the infant itinerary. Have all their diapers been changed?”

The seated duo exchanged furtive glances.

“Mostly,” replied the black fellow, who then raised a brown mug of coffee to his lips.

George arched an eyebrow at the slightly oblique response that his inquiry had just received.

Rather than offer any clarifications, Thomas slurped a hot hunk of coffee.

“Mostly . . . ?” prompted George. “We’re not short on diapers again are we?”

“Nah. Not that. But Hug started to make such a racket . . . I just couldn’t stay in there to do it.”

Carol nodded in agreement. “I could hear it screaming all the way from outside the building.”

The black fellow sighed. “I meant to go back and try again.”

George eyed the steam that rose from the brown mug.

“After my coffee,” defended Thomas, who then looked toward a teal wall that did not contain anything at which to look.

The caretaker finished his water, carried the empty cup over to the counter, opened a drawer, withdrew a thick black marker, and popped off the cap. Applying the thick felt tip to the waxen surface, he wrote a G and an E and an O and an R and a G and an E and an ’ and an S and a C and a U and a P.

The seated duo silently watched this endeavor.

At present, George set George’s cup on the counter, snapped the cap upon the marker, and eyed his peers. “I’ll go change his diapers.”

Relief shone upon the faces of Thomas and Carol.

“And Carol,” the caretaker said, “would you please not refer to Hug Chickenpenny as an ‘it’? I find that offensive.”

“Sorry, George. His screaming is just so loud . . . and . . . and so fierce . . .”

“His screaming is loud and fierce, and he has a hard life ahead of him because of being an orphan and how he looks. So now is the time to fill his heart with kindness and hope and love so that he won’t ever, ever run out of it . . . That’s why I named him Hug.”

Guiltily, Carol fingered a plastic orange paperclip and nodded her head. “It was a good name to give him.”

“I think so too.”

George smiled and turned away.

III | They Crawled Away from Him

Eighteen sets of buzzing fluorescent lights illuminated the long, gray passageway through which George Dodgett walked while humming the hymn that he had listened to on his way to work. In his right hand he held a steel ring from which depended keys that jingled like the holiday season.

The caretaker reached the far door, which he unlocked and swung wide. Keys clanked as he passed into a small white cubicle that resembled an airlock. The door opposite the one that he had just used was adorned with a sign that read: No Children. Below this proclamation was an illustration of a crawling boy who had received a giant red X.

George inserted a long key that had seven teeth into the next lock and turned his hand. A bolt snapped. The door retreated two inches, opening, and the automated one that was behind him swung shut.

From the area that lay beyond came the sounds of children talking, laughing, and yelling.

The caretaker withdrew his key and walked into the inner hallway that he himself had painted green. Orphan noises emanated from behind the many closed doors that were connected to this passage. These familiar sounds filled him with warmth.

George locked the entryway, sat down on the carpet, and took off his loafers, revealing white socks, which had green, segmented toes and matching stripes. The sounds of children percolated as he rose to his feet and walked toward the Nursery, which was at the far end of the inner hallway.

A terrible, piercing shriek eclipsed all other sounds. This horrendous cry was followed by utter silence.

Dismayed, George shook his head and continued forward. “Poor Hug.”

Frightened infants began to cry. Several traumatized toddlers wailed. A second otherworldly shriek sounded.

The complainers quieted, and silence returned to the inner hallway. George continued toward the Nursery.

A door thudded against the wall and slammed shut. The caretaker watched the far end of the passage.

There, a tiny Spanish woman of fifty years who wore a teal skirt and matching blouse backed away from the room that she had just exited. Her shaking hands were pressed against her ears so forcefully that the pressure threatened the integrity of her skull.

“Leticia,” George called down the hallway, “there’s no need t—”

“¡Mis oidos! ¡El muenstro es horrible! ¡El es un diablito del infierno!”

During these exclamations, the caretaker traversed the hallway and reached the frightened nursemaid, who was still covering her ears.

George reached out and gently took Leticia’s hands from her head. “Is the diaper cart still inside?” inquired the caretaker.

“Si—it is. Inside . . . In there . . .”

Fearfully, the nursemaid glanced back at the room from which she had just emerged.

“That’s great,” remarked George. “Why don’t you go check up on the toddlers while I handle Hug?”

Relieved, Leticia nodded. “Gracias. Thank you, Mr. Dodgett. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

George proceeded toward the closed room in which lay the loudest resident of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted. Soft, chubby feet in toe socks carried the caretaker past six unmarked doors, four Sleeping Quarters, as well as The Playroom, Arts & Crafts, The Junior Academy, The Senior Academy, Infirmary, and the penultimate room, which was labeled: Interrogations & Discipline. Beyond that dreaded place and on the opposite side of the green passage was the last room. A chubby shadow landed on this final door, which was labeled: The Nursery.

The inner hallway was eerily silent.

George felt uneasy, despite himself and the various gentle reprimands that he had given his peers regarding their treatment of the baby, Hug.

At present, the caretaker shut his eyes, muttered a few words, thought of his Lord, inhaled deeply, exhaled, and looked directly ahead. A key that did not tremble overmuch proceeded toward the lock and slid into the opening.

George twisted his hand, and the bolt clicked.

A terrible shriek resounded beyond the door. This noise was a dense mixture of wails, bleats, and squeals that seemed far beyond the production capabilities of any human being, much less one undersized infant. Although the anomalous baby had been at the orphanage for more than two months, nobody had grown accustomed to his hideous cries.

The shriek stopped.

Cautiously, George pushed the door forward.

Two frightened, wide-eyed infants crawled through the opening. The first fugitive had lush golden curls upon his pale head, and his successor was a doughy, dark-haired Asian.

“Hamilton. Egg Roll.”

Guilty babies looked up.

George leaned over and scooped the infants from the ground with his soft, but very capable hands.

“Come on, you two.”

The caretaker carried the fugitives into the Nursery, an air-conditioned, sky-blue room that had matching shag carpets and off-white ceilings. Fifteen toy mobiles dangled over the exact same number of cribs.

George turned to the right and set Hamilton inside a vacant baby bed.

The pristine little blonde looked up. His bright blue eyes bespoke innocence.

With a broad index finger, George tapped Hamilton on the nose. “I don’t know how you got out, but don’t do it again. You might hurt yourself.”

The caretaker took two steps and set the Asian fugitive in the adjacent crib. “Same goes for you, Egg Roll.”

George brushed raven black hair from Egg Roll’s eyes. The baby cooed, eliciting a grin from the caretaker.

A terrible shriek startled George.

Three seconds later, the hideous cry ended.

The caretaker turned around and faced the tented, emerald-green crib that stood in the farthest corner of the room. Abandoned there was the nursemaid’s cart, a tiered apparatus that contained three milk bottles, a box of cloth towelettes, a plump roll of paper wipes, several neatly folded diapers, and a cup that was filled with safety pins.

George inhaled, exhaled, and walked directly toward the crib in which lay Hug. A black infant whom the caretaker passed was pulling at the bars of her crib as if she might try to escape.

“Cocoa. Don’t let Hamilton and Egg Roll give you any funny ideas. You stay put.”

Admonished, Cocoa tossed her rump upon crinkly bedding.

George continued toward the tented crib. The smell of baby waste struck him, and he waved his right hand in front of his face in order to clear the air.

“No wonder you’ve been cryi—”

A shriek pierced ears. Wincing, the caretaker continued across the room until he stood beside the tented crib.

Obscured by diaphanous muslin was the anomalous baby, whose respirations were loud, thick, and wet.

George drew the fabric aside and looked upon Hug Chickenpenny.

The baby’s pink torso was shaped like a lima bean and discolored by rough patches of white skin. From his diapered waist sprouted two undersized legs; the right one was straight, albeit small, and other one was curved. A limp, rarely-used appendage dangled from his left shoulder, and a healthy arm that had four fingers (but no thumb) depended from the other.

His bald, venous, and asymmetrical head was swollen at the top and had no small amount of lumps. Thin lips and wide nostril slits sat below his eyes, which were large and mismatched; the left one was brown and the right one was red.

Inscrutably, Hug stared up at George. “Smells like you need some new diapers.”

The anomalous baby scratched his left ear, which was purplish-red with irritation.

“Don’t do that,” said the caretaker. “You’ll just make it worse.” Little fingers continued to scratch the inflamed region.

George gently took Hug’s wrist and halted the activity.

“Well, Hug . . . it looks like I’ll have to once again cover up your hand with that padded bootie.”

The anomalous baby eyed at the caretaker and shrieked.

IV | The End of His First Orbit

George Dodgett entered the lobby, carrying good cheer and a stomach that had gained five pounds since the previous summer. Behind the front desk sat Jennifer Kimberly, an array of mascara and teased, bleached hair who avoided making any eye contact with the new arrival.

“Good morning, Miss Jennifer Kimberly. How’re you today?”

The blond receptionist stared at the teal telephone that sat upon her desk.

“Are you waiting for a call? Or maybe trying to figure out how to communicate through the telephone, without actually touching the telephone? That would certainly save the orphanage some money on—”

George stopped his teasing at the exact moment that he saw the extraordinary thing.

Sitting amidst the magazines, romance novels, and pens that covered the front desk was a box covered with maroon wrapping paper and glorious golden ribbons.

This item strongly resembled a birthday present.

Hopeful, the caretaker walked forward. “Could it be . . . ?”

The blond receptionist rolled her chair to the farthest corner of her desk.

“Who’s this for?” inquired George, who was pointing at the giftwrapped box.

Unable to deny a direct inquiry from a fellow employee, Jennifer Kimberly offered a shrug.

The caretaker leaned forward and inspected the giftwrapped box more closely.

Tucked under the golden ribbon was a small, white envelope, which was approximately the size of a business card.

“How did this get here?” inquired George.

Again, Jennifer Kimberly shrugged.

The caretaker plucked the tiny envelope from beneath the golden ribbon.

Written on the parcel in fine calligraphy were the words, For Meredith Chickenpenny’s Baby.

Warm feelings filled George, and his eyes sparkled. Delicately, he broke the tiny wax seal that adhered the flap of the little envelope. The card that he extracted was white and edged with golden filigree.

Upon this miniature missive was written, Happy Birthday!

George tucked the anonymous card back into the envelope and slid the latter underneath the golden ribbon. Cheerfully, he claimed the package and strode across the lobby.

The caretaker passed through the front hallway, the two doors, and the inner passage. Quietly, he entered the Nursery, where he proceeded directly to the tented, emerald-green crib. Upon the ground nearby, he set down the birthday present.

George stood up, leaned over, and raised Hug out of the crib. The anomalous baby had gained four and a half pounds since his arrival. None of this weight had helped to standardize his shape, though nine tufts of white hair now sprouted from his lumpy and venous scalp.

“Hug Chickenpenny,” the caretaker said, “allow me congratulate you on your first successful orbit of the sun.”

With mismatched eyes, Hug blankly regarded George.

“Today you’ve achieved the status of a child who has lived one full year. And that achievement must be celebrated!”

Accidentally, Hug opened his mouth. The glistening and bumpy insides of this cavity were purple.

“Happy birthday!” exclaimed George.

Mismatched eyes stared.

The caretaker smiled and hugged the anomalous baby to his chest.

For the duration of three heartbeats, the orphan hung limply yet comfortably against a chubby male bosom.

George set the little diapered rump of Hug upon the blue shag carpet and aimed a mismatched set of eyes toward the giftwrapped box.

The anomalous baby fell on his face. Shag carpet tickled his nose slits, and he chittered.

George erected Hug in front of the birthday present.

The anomalous baby wobbled in slow circles, and the caretaker was reminded of a bowling pin that refused to fall.

With a soft palm, George steadied Hug.

A brown eye blinked, followed by a red one. This autonomic function had not yet been synchronized.

The caretaker sat down and withdrew the fancy little envelope from beneath the golden ribbon.

“It says, ‘For Meredith Chickenpenny’s baby.’” George looked at Hug. “That’s you.”

Mismatched eyes stared.

The caretaker opened the flap, withdrew the miniature card, and displayed the inscription. “It says, ‘Happy Birthday!’”

The anomalous baby collapsed. Shag carpet went into his nose slits, and he chittered.

George reached over, resurrected Hug, and playfully poked his chin.

“Let’s open your birthday present together, okay?”

The caretaker set down the envelope, placed the golden ribbon in the hand of the anomalous baby, and rolled four little fingers into a fist.

George released Hug, who maintained his hold upon the brilliant fabric.

“You’re doing great!”

A brown eye blinked, followed by a red one.

“Now hold it tight and pull.”

Confused, Hug stared at George.

“Pull it. Like this—” The caretaker pantomimed the action. “Pull.”

The anomalous baby sneezed and accidentally yanked the ribbon. Golden bows collapsed and fell away from the gift.

“That was incredible!”

Hug stared at the carpet.

George tore the maroon wrapping paper from the box, fully aware that his excitement far exceeded that of the gift’s rightful recipient. Not often did people think to send presents to the inhabitants of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, and thus far, nobody outside of the orphanage had ever even acknowledged the existence of this particular child.

At present, the caretaker pulled the remaining wrapping paper from the box, the color of which matched that of the ribbons. Miniature reflections of the golden present shone in a pair of mismatched eyes.

“It’s pretty, right?”

Hug extended his right hand but could not quite reach the box.

George slid the present closer.

The anomalous baby pressed four pudgy digits to the golden surface.

“Let’s open it.”

Hug did not object.

George removed the lid and discarded several layers of maroon tissue paper. Inside the box lay a stuffed toy gorilla that had golden fur, bright white teeth, and sparkling eyes.

The caretaker withdrew this lovely plush simian, which looked like a very expensive gift for a baby.

Hug extended his right hand toward the furry object and waggled his limp arm. A weird hiss issued from the purple insides of his mouth. This was the most excitement that he had ever displayed.

George gave the golden gorilla to Hug.

The anomalous baby clutched the stuffed animal by the neck, hissed, and mashed its furry face into the carpet.

Concerned, the caretaker shook his head. “No, Hug. No.”

Hug paused, bit the gorilla’s left arm, and hurled the toy a distance of four feet.

“What’d you do that for?” asked George, who was perplexed by these atypical displays of aggression.

The anomalous baby looked at the gorilla, which lay facedown upon the carpet, and returned his gaze to the caretaker. A brown eye blinked twice.

“Just the capriciousness of youth, I suppose.”

A red eye blinked.

“You want to play nicely?” inquired the caretaker.

Hug faced the golden gorilla, prostrated himself, and grabbed the rug with his right hand. Ridged vertebrae clicked as he pulled himself toward the toy. At present, he released the carpet, reached out as far as he could, and again dragged himself forward. His crenulated spine crackled as he slithered.

George did not approve of this locomotive style, which seemed a bit abrasive. “I’ll help you.”

The caretaker leaned forward, scooped up the anomalous baby, and set him directly beside the stuffed animal.

Hug pounced on the golden gorilla like a wrestler and embraced the toy with all of his functional limbs.

“That’s right, Hug. Love the gorilla.”

George gently patted Hug’s ridged spine.

“Happy birthday.”

V | The Amenable Doctor (of Teratology)

The twelve specular lights that were embedded in the ceiling harshly illuminated the off-white Infirmary and threw multiple worried shadows from the body of George Dodgett, who was pacing in circles upon the linoleum. He had not slept well the previous night, and that morning, his plaid slacks, white dress shirt, and his green tie had been wrinkled by his continual fretting. At present, the caretaker surveyed the translucent plastic crib wherein lay the anomalous baby, who had gained a full head of white hair and an additional pound and a half during the last six months.

Footfalls sounded within the inner hallway, and all of the fears that had been building within George filled his throat. The door opened and in stepped Thomas, whose Afro was somewhat compressed by a baseball cap.

“He’s here,” remarked the black fellow.

The caretaker swallowed uncomfortably. “What’s he like?”

“Evil.”

George paled. His mouth opened, and all of the fears that were stuck in his throat threatened to explode in a welter of nonsense.

Thomas grinned and shook his head. “Nah, man, I’m joshing—just joshing. He seems real nice . . . though to be honest, I couldn’t understand half of what he said.”

The caretaker was puzzled by this remark. “His accent?”

“Nah, man. His vocabulary. It’s really elaborate.”

Uncomfortable with the thought of possibly looking stupid, George grimaced.

“Don’t worry so much, man—the guy’s a doctor. An expert.”

“Okay.”

The black fellow said, “I’ll send him in,” to the caretaker, glanced at the anomalous baby, and departed.

George resumed his fearful pacing and speculations. In an effort to calm himself, he recalled the teachings of his Lord.

“And He said unto His followers that every challenge is but a—”

A knock on the door interrupted this recitation and raised the pulse of the reciter.

George looked at the crib wherein lay Hug. “Be brave.” A wet snore emanated from the sleeper.

The caretaker faced the entrance, suppressed his apprehensions, and cleared his throat. “Please enter.”

The door opened and into the bright Infirmary walked Doctor Hannersby, a diminutive man of sixty-four years who had a snug, pinstriped, navy-blue suit, bulbous eyes, and a nose that resembled a pelican’s beak.

His long silver hair was slicked back on his head like a helmet, and his mouth was fixed in an eerie smile.

Uneasily, George cleared his throat. “You must be Doctor Hannersby . . . ?”

“Such a supposition would not prove erroneous.”

“What was that?”

Doctor Hannersby shut the door, looked at the ceiling, and squinted. “Is it common for the medicos in this establishment to over-stimulate ocular processes before investigating insalubrious conditions?”

“What was that?” asked George, who now doubted that he and this visitor spoke the same brand of English.

Frowning, the diminutive fellow looked away from the lights and toward the caretaker. “I see that my sesquipedalian elocution has overwhelmed you—which is understandable when considering the monosyllabic (and often quasi-syllabic) lexicon that is available to the inchoate entities with whom you so regularly converse.”

A chubby face gaped.

“What I’m asking is just this—” continued Doctor Hannersby. “Is it possible for you to turn down the volume of these hellish lights?”

“Oh. Yes it is.”

The caretaker proceeded to the wall panel and turned the dial from its current twelve o’clock position to that of six o’clock.

Lights dimmed.

“Is that better?”

“My eyeballs think so.”

George glanced the translucent crib wherein lay Hug and returned his gaze to Doctor Hannersby. “Do you want to see the baby?”

“Avidly would I like to examine this anomaly.”

The caretaker gestured. “He’s over here. His name is Hug Chickenpenny.”

Doctor Hannersby ran a small, childlike hand along his slick gray hair, walked to the crib wherein lay Hug, and made a survey.

George felt his heart rate climb.

At present, the diminutive fellow nodded his head. “He is unique. Splendidly. Perhaps even outrageously.”

“Have you ever seen anybody like him before?”

“Of course I have not. Ergo my usage of the word ‘unique.’”

This response both disappointed and irritated the caretaker. “Okay.”

Doctor Hannersby reached into his jacket and withdrew a slender wooden rod that was one foot in length. From his right pocket, he extracted a tiny, beautifully sculpted ivory fist that was no more than an inch in diameter. This latter object was screwed onto the terminus of the former.

“What’s that for?” inquired George, whose unsteady voice did not sound especially masculine.

“The examination.”

Gripping the bottom of the wooden rod, Doctor Hannersby aimed the tiny ivory fist at the exposed, pink belly of Hug.

The caretaker felt his pulse quicken. “What kind of examination is this?”

“Percussive. May I proceed?”

George stared at the shadow of the tiny ivory fist that currently darkened Hug’s stomach. “Are you going to hurt him?”

Miffed, Doctor Hannersby snorted. “Is it standard for the machinations of medicos in this facility to elicit insalubrious conditions?”

“Was that a question?”

“Rhetorical, I should hope!”

George considered a reply.

Uninterested in any further delay, Doctor Hannersby aimed and thrust the tiny ivory fist, which gently punched Hug in the stomach.

Throttled, the sleeper awakened. Confused and mismatched eyes looked at the diminutive fellow and the ivory fist.

Again, Doctor Hannersby gently pummeled Hug.

“Don’t make him scream,” warned George. “It hurts.”

The diminutive fellow reached a childlike hand into a pocket and extracted two puffs of cotton. These were then plugged into the openings of his large ears. “I’m not concerned!”

Hug shrieked.

George winced. Babies and toddlers in rooms throughout the orphanage began to cry.

“What a stentorian esophageal klaxon!”

Hug quieted, and Doctor Hannersby relaunched the fist.

Gently pummeled, the baby shrieked.

“Splendid!”

The intensity of this horrible utterance caused the caretaker to cover his ears with his hands. Five seconds later, the cry ended.

George had been informed by his superiors that Doctor Hannersby was a highly-respected medical expert who should be assisted in all ways, but at this point in the examination, the caretaker had some doubts regarding the diminutive fellow.

“What kind of doctor are you?” inquired George.

Doctor Hannersby gleefully plucked the cotton from his ears. “I apologize—my aural canals were occluded by cotton when you launched your inquiry. What was it that you were after?”

The caretaker massaged the belly of the anomalous baby. “I asked you what kind of doctor you were.”

“Was this not conveyed to you by your superiors? Hmph! I am a teratologist.”

Concerned, George sought composure and then his voice. “A terrortologist? What k-kind of—”

“No. A ter-a-tologist. A doctor of the teratological sciences.”

The caretaker was unfamiliar with this field of medicine, but did not want to look ignorant nor badly represent Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted by asking for a definition. Moreover, any definition that emerged from the mouth of the diminutive fellow would probably not clarify much of anything.

“Oh, I see,” replied George, who intended to look up the word ‘teratologist’ as soon as he was alone with a dictionary.

Doctor Hannersby unscrewed the fist from the wooden rod and replaced both items inside of his snug, pinstriped jacket. At present, he slid his childlike hands beneath the anomalous baby, whom he then raised aloft and visually surveyed. Limbs dangled and mismatched eyes blinked, one after the other.

“His arms are quite incongruous,” remarked the teratologist. “Has the left one always been so dilapidated?”

“It was better when he was smaller.” Something occurred to George for the first time. “Or maybe it was the same, but it just didn’t get bigger with the rest of him.”

Doctor Hannersby shook Hug and monitored the limp left arm, which continued swinging long after the disturbance had concluded. “How pendulous!” exclaimed the teratologist. “His future as a grandfather clock seems promising.”

George did not find the joke amusing. “He’s got a lot of potential.”

Doctor Hannersby surveyed Hug’s dangling legs. The right one was small but functional, and the left one was curved and weak.

Turning, the teratologist eyed the caretaker. “Would you hold him?”

“Sure.”

George took Hug from the cold, little hands of Doctor Hannersby. “Where should I—”

“Please maintain the specimen’s current altitude and attitude.”

“Okay.”

The teratologist withdrew the wooden rod from his jacket, and the caretaker grew uncomfortable.

“Are you going to punch him again?” inquired George.

“Have you never before been involved with a medical examination?”

“Not of this variety.”

“Hmph!” exclaimed Doctor Hannersby, who then snorted indignantly for emphasis. “Please maintain his position.”

George continued to hold Hug aloft.

From a jacket pocket, the teratologist withdrew a violescent, viridescent, and opalescent feather that looked as if it had been plucked from the grandest peacock in existence. This he attached to the end of the wooden rod.

Doctor Hannersby applied this feather to the bottom of Hug’s right foot. His hand jiggled the rod.

Tickled, the subject squeaked, hissed, and lifted his molested extremity.

Pleased by this reaction, the teratologist applied the feather to the anomalous baby’s left foot.

This activity went wholly unnoticed by the subject.

“Splendid,” Doctor Hannersby opined while disassembling his tickler. “I shall now observe his locomotive capabilities.”

“Okay. But let me put down a towel first—this floor is kind of hard.”

“So is existence.”

The teratologist reclaimed the anomalous baby, who he then placed atop the off-white linoleum. “Catalyze him, if you would.”

“Okay.”

George walked five feet away from Hug and kneeled. “Crawl to Georgie, Hug. Come on and crawl to Georgie . . .”

The anomalous baby rolled onto his stomach, lifted his lumpy head, and focused his mismatched eyes on the caretaker.

“Crawl to Georgie . . .”

Hug extended his right hand, slapped the tiles, and pulled himself forward. His stomach squeaked and his backbone clicked as he slithered.

Studying the subject, Doctor Hannersby pursed his thin lips. “Has that spinal tattoo always been audible during displays of motility?”

“Yes. Since the very first time.”

Lugubriously, the anomalous baby slithered across the tiles. His spine clicked, and his belly squeaked.

“Does he not remind one of an expiring infantryman attempting to cross a battlefield?” observed the teratologist.

“Well . . . this is how he gets around. May I put him back in his crib? I don’t want his tummy to get raw.”

“Not presently.”

Doctor Hannersby kneeled and pressed his right hand upon Hug’s back. Flattened against the floor, the anomalous baby wriggled.

“Wait,” said George. “You’re hurti—”

“Behold!”

The teratologist poked his index finger into the lumbar section of the ridged spine.

Hug’s limp left arm retracted into his torso. George gasped. “You broke him!”

“Nonsense. Survey the extruding extremity . . .”

Doubtful, the caretaker walked over and looked more closely.

A hand jutted from the anomalous baby’s left shoulder. The fingers of this extremity opened and closed with vigor.

“And he may be restored,” Doctor Hannersby added, “by this simple procedure—”

The teratologist poked the lumbar region, grabbed the chambered hand, and pulled. Things crackled as the arm was drawn out to its former length.

Perspiring, George swallowed a small amount of bile. Hug chittered.

Doctor Hannersby discarded the limp limb.

“This examination has arrived at its conclusion,” stated the teratologist. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Okay.”

Relieved that the ordeal had finally ended, George reclaimed Hug from the linoleum and carried him toward the translucent crib. The caretaker intended to tell his bosses about everything that had happened in the Infirmary that morning.

“After careful study and short deliberation, I have finally made my decision,” stated Doctor Hannersby. “I shall adopt this specimen!”

VI | (The Coercion of) Soft Hands

Standing beneath the orange overhang of Peggy’s Diner and full of concerns was George Dodgett, who wore a new white shirt, a tie, a plaid wool blazer, and tan slacks. The meeting that he had arranged to take place that morning was against the policies of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, but he had to follow his conscience and do whatever he could for the anomalous baby.

For the fifth time in five minutes, the caretaker surveyed the avenue and looked at the face of his watch. The person whom he was supposed to meet was now half an hour late.

At present, George tried to think of an appropriate prayer.

“Praised be the Lord—”

Tires screeched, and a dented maroon sports car veered into the parking lot and seized a space. Taillights darkened, and a rumbling engine quieted.

The caretaker shielded his eyes from the rising sun and appraised the new arrival.

From the sports car climbed a woman who was thinner and far prettier than the one whom he had expected to meet, though she was in her forties rather than her thirties, which would not help his agendum. The brunette wore blue jeans, a black shirt, and matching boots, and seemed to been in a hurry, though perhaps she had been born in one of those big cities where everybody was always rushing everywhere all of the time for some reason.

“Are you Miss Abigail Westinghouse?” inquired George.

“Yes,” said the brunette, who then shut her door. “Sorry I’m late. You must be George Dodgett.”

“I’m him.”

Miss Westinghouse strode underneath the overhang and extended her hand to George, who gently shook the proffered appendage.

“Your hand is very, very soft,” remarked the brunette.

The caretaker cleared his throat. “So’s the other one. I use lavender oils.”

An unspoken question wrinkled the mouth of Miss Westinghouse.

“For the babies,” explained George “They’re very tender. Especially the infants.”

“That makes sense. Shall we go in . . . ?”

George opened the door, gestured inside, and a thought occurred to him about modern women. “You won’t get offended if I hold the door, will you?”

“Not at all. I appreciate politeness.”

“Then after you, Miss Westinghouse.”

“Call me Abigail.”

“Okay. I go by George, though senior citizens and children call me Georgie.”

Abigail smirked. “Thanks, George.”

The caretaker followed the brunette into the bright, orange diner, gained the lead, and escorted her to his favorite booth, which was near an old jukebox that still played records. Trotting over to the table was Peggy, the wrinkled and perky little owner of the establishment.

“Good morning, Peggy.”

“Morning, Georgie,” Peggy replied while placing two enormous menus upon the table. “How’s your mother been?”

“Unstoppable.”

“Good to hear. I’ll be back for your orders.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The proprietress retreated to the kitchen while the caretaker and the brunette picked up and unfolded the two massive menus.

“What do you recommend?” inquired Abigail, who seemed a bit overwhelmed by the number of culinary choices that she faced.

“The chocolate chip pancakes are good—they’re number eighty-four—and so are the waffles, which have been dipped in chocolate—number two hundred and twelve. Sometimes I get the deep-fried cinnamon roll, but I have to order an extra side of fudge sauce to go with that one.”

“Do you ever have anything . . . less sweet?”

“The Peg’s Eggs special is good if you want something regular. It comes with a free malted milkshake, but I could drink that for you if you don’t want it.”

“Terrific.”

Abigail and George collapsed and set down their menus.

The caretaker grinned. “So how close were you with Meredith Chickenpenny?”

“Very. We went to all the same schools—from junior high through post-graduate—and after that we went into business together too. We opened up an art gallery downtown that I still run now.”

“Sounds like she was a really good friend.”

“Yeah . . . she was.” Abigail ruminated for a moment and lowered her gaze. “When my husband got cancer, she was there every time I needed her. Every single instance. And it was a very long battle.”

“Did he recover?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” George shook his head. “You were the one who found Meredith . . . that day?”

“Yeah.” Abigail put air in her lungs and gathered herself. “She’d called me the night before—when she started to feel contractions—but I was asleep and very, very drunk. She wasn’t conscious long enough to make a second call—to the hospital or anybody else.”

“Do you have a drinking problem?”

“Not anymore. Not since that day.”

George wanted to believe this statement. “Well . . .
if you want to be a good friend to Meredith now, there’s a—”

“Please don’t try to make me feel guilty about what happened.”

“That isn’t my intention—I promise.” The caretaker sat forward and folded his soft hands. “What I want to talk about is something that might make you feel a whole lot better about what happened that day.”

Abigail stared at George.

This gaze was not friendly.

A song about butterscotch candies emerged from the jukebox as Peggy materialized, plucking a red pen from behind an ear. “What’s my cute little husband gonna cook up for you two?” inquired the proprietress.

Distracted, Abigail said nothing.

George eyed Peggy. “I’d like the chocolate-dipped waffles, with a side of candied bananas and a large hot chocolate.”

The proprietress looked at the brunette. “Ma’am?”

“I’ll have the Peg’s Eggs special.”

“Good choice,” Peggy said while writing on her orange notepad. “A malted milkshake comes with that.”

Abigail shook her head. “No milkshake.”

“It’s free . . . if you don’t want it, maybe Georgie here—”

“Don’t bring it out.”

“All right, ma’am.”

“However,” the brunette said, “I’d like a Crimson Cathy, double vodka.”

The proprietress raised an eyebrow that was ninety percent makeup, wrote down the order, and departed.

Abigail righted her posture and glared at George. “On the phone you said you were going to tell me about the baby. That’s why I’m here, and the only reason that I’m here. How is he?”

“Somebody wants to adopt him.”

Surprised, the brunette brightened. “Really?” That’s terrific.”

George stared at Abigail, unhappily, and shook his head. “The potential parent is a doctor of teratology. Do you know what a teratologist is?”

“A ‘teratologist’? No . . . I don’t think I do.”

“Well neither did I—so I looked it up.” The caretaker reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded-up rectangle of paper. “I tore this right out of a dictionary. Usually, I’m more considerate, but I wanted you to see it in print exactly as it’s written.”

George handed Abigail the purloined page.

With painted black fingernails, the brunette unfolded the paper.

“I highlighted the entry in yellow,” added the caretaker.

“I can see that.”

Abigail read the highlighted passage. Her breath caught, and tears sparkled in the corners of her eyes.

“I stared at that thing for so long that I wound up memorizing it,” said George. “‘Teratologist. Noun. A doctor who investigates congenitally misshapen and malformed organisms, especially animals and humans.’”

Sniffling, the brunette raised her gaze to meet that of the caretaker. “A teratologist wants to . . . adopt . . . Meredith’s baby?”

“One does. Unless another interested parent gets involved right now, this doctor of teratology will adopt Meredith’s baby. The process has already begun.”

Abigail wiped the tears from her eyes. “That’s—that’s horrible.”

“It is. I would try to adopt the baby myself, but my job prohibits doing that—and I’m already taking care of twenty-eight other children during the day and my mother at night.”

The pair sat without speaking while the song about butterscotch candies crossfaded into one about a fancy car that was filled with swimsuited girls who really wanted to get to the beach.

“Any idea who the father is?” inquired George.

Abigail shook her head.

The caretaker had expected this response.

From the jukebox came a guitar solo.

George righted his posture and looked at Abigail. “You brought that baby to the hospital because you care about him. You sent him a lovely birthday gift because you care. You came here today to hear about him because you care . . . You are the only person other than me who has any affection for this poor child. Won’t you at least come to Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted and meet him?”

“I—I don’t know if I could handle it. That morning . . . when I found him at Meredith’s . . . he was . . .
he was so . . .”

The brunette did not know how to politely complete this sentence.

“Yes . . . I know,” said the caretaker. “And I won’t lie to you—the boy looks strange. But his heart is kind and strong, and he is precocious in a way that shows he’s already very intelligent. Was Meredith an intellectual?”

“She was—and a big reader too.” Abigail ruminated for a moment. “That woman studied a menagerie of peculiar things.”

“I’m not at all surprised to hear that. So will you come by and visit him? Please?

“Just once . . .

“His name is Hug Chickenpenny.”

The caretaker politely waited as the brunette sorted through her feelings. Upon the jukebox, a new song replaced the old one.

Abigail looked away from George and shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“But will you please—”

“No. I can’t.”

The brunette rose from the booth and walked away. Her footfalls echoed throughout the diner.

Confused, Peggy carried a loaded platter to the table and threw a glance at the closing door. “What happened?”

“Nothing important,” replied George. “But I’ll take all of that food to go. I’m not hungry anymore.”

———

Twelve miles away, Hug Chickenpenny gazed up at the mobile that hung directly over his emerald-green crib. A rocket ship, three stars, two astronauts, nine colorful planets, the moon, and an asteroid cluster were spun in small circles by a gust that came from the vent of an air conditioner.

The anomalous baby extended his functional, four-fingered right hand, but was unable to reach the little cosmos. His brown eye blinked, and he hissed.

VII | The Antagonist’s Reward

An ejected green cassette shot from the tape player and bounced out of the hands of the chubby caretaker, who was exceedingly distracted that morning. It had been three weeks since George Dodgett’s failed breakfast meeting with Abigail Westinghouse, and since that time, he had found no other prospective parents for Hug Chickenpenny.

The caretaker had prayed to his Lord to no avail.

All of the outstanding paperwork had been completed and filed, and today, the anomalous baby would leave Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted with his adoptive father, the teratologist.

“It isn’t fair,” George muttered to the empty car.

Situations such as this made him question his faith.

The caretaker slammed the door of his green hatchback and entered the orphanage.

For the first time in the history of time, Jennifer Kimberly looked up from her desk and smiled at George.

“Good morning, Mr. Dodgett.”

Perplexed, the caretaker scrutinized the blond receptionist. It occurred to him that this outbreak of friendliness might be attributable to some new advancement in the field of psychotropics.

“Good morning, Miss Kimberly,” George remarked while walking past the desk.

“Have a great day.”

Silently questioning this unprecedented display of amicability, the caretaker waved. “And to you.”

George entered the front hallway, oblivious of the unpleasant grin that twisted the face of Jennifer Kimberly.

Keys jingled, bolts clicked, and shoes were discarded. The caretaker entered the Nursery and strode to the corner in which stood the emerald-green crib that contained the child who had been his responsibility for fourteen months.

George reached the railing of the tiny bed and looked down.

His heart stopped, and his face reddened with anger.

A terrible thing lay next to Hug.

“No.”

The caretaker seized the terrible thing, said to the anomalous baby, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and stormed from the room.

Too angry to put on shoes, George sped toward the lobby in his toe socks. Shag carpet trembled in his wake.

A flung door slammed into the wall.

Startled, Jennifer Kimberly yelped.

The furious caretaker crossed the lobby and set the terrible thing in the middle of the reception desk.

“Why?”

George pointed at the cause of his outrage.

Opposite his trembling finger lay the golden gorilla. The stuffing had been removed from the animal’s left arm, which was now limp, and a hammer had pounded its head into a lumpy shape. One sparkling eye had been torn off and replaced with a red X, and scissors had amputated part of a leg. Spattered liquid eraser discolored much of its lush fur.

The mutilated golden gorilla now resembled Hug Chickenpenny.

“Why!?!” demanded the caretaker, who was shaking with anger.

Jennifer Kimberly looked up at George. A small amount of contempt shone through her heavy makeup.

“Tell me!” shouted the caretaker. “Why did you do this? Why would anybody ever want to do something like this?”

“It’s just a going-away present for the little monster.”

George grabbed the teal telephone and raised it over his head. “Don’t ever call him that!” His entire body shook with anger, and some very ugly thoughts filled his brainpan.

Jennifer Kimberly rolled away from her desk. “Throw that phone at me and you’ll be out of a job. And I’ll sue.”

The caretaker slammed the telephone on the desk and tried to calm himself. There was no point in interacting any further with this nasty, heartless receptionist.

George reclaimed the mutilated gorilla and turned to the front hallway, where stood Carol and Thomas. Both of them looked nervous.

Jennifer Kimberly rolled back to her desk. “I finally figured out why you’re so fond of that little monster . . .”

Attempting to ignore the blond receptionist, the caretaker walked toward his peers.

“You empathize with him,” stated Jennifer Kimberly. “He killed his mother at birth, and you killed your father in a car wreck.”

George lunged at Jennifer Kimberly.

Carol and Thomas ran forward. “Wait!”

Frightened, the receptionist spilled out of her chair. Her bony buttocks thudded upon the linoleum.

George reached for the throat of Jennifer Kimberly, but was restrained by Thomas.

“Cool it, man, cool it! You’ll lose your job.”

Carol interposed herself. “Think of Cocoa and Egg Roll!”

Pondering cute babies, George turned away from Jennifer Kimberly (who was rubbing her angular rump) and calmed himself.

No more provocations were uttered by the blond receptionist.

The caretaker retreated to the Arts & Crafts room, where he began his repairs on the mutilated gorilla. This surgery was a time-consuming enterprise that did not yield perfect results, but would probably satisfy the ape owner.

It was ten o’clock in the morning when George finally returned to the Nursery. Once again, he stood at the railing of the emerald green crib.

“May the Lord watch after you always, Hug Chickenpenny.”

The caretaker set the repaired golden gorilla beside the anomalous baby. Unconsciously, the sleeper reached out and clutched the stuffed animal.

George leaned into the crib and kissed Hug on the cheek.

“I love you,” whispered the caretaker, whose voice was hoarse.

The anomalous baby slept until he was taken away.

VIII | A Tour of the Hannersby Collection

A coffin-shaped car pulled into the driveway of a four-story house that had an overabundance of gabled windows. Within the gated yard that lay to the right of this building, variegated dogs ran in perfect figure-eight circuits.

Doctor Hannersby plucked the key from the ignition of his odd vehicle and buttoned the jacket of his snug, navy-blue suit. With a childlike hand, he unlocked and opened the glove compartment. The cloth-wrapped bundle that lay within this nook appeared to be intact.

“I trust that the insulated style of automotive conveyance is to your satisfaction?”

The mummified anomaly wriggled, and the skull of a blind lizard fell to the floor. For three months, the teratologist had searched his Skullatorium for this exact fossil.

“Splendid!”

Doctor Hannersby pocketed the skull, removed Hug Hannersby from the glove compartment, and looked at the baby’s exposed face.

Nose slits whistled, and unsynchronized eyes blinked.

“Anon, I shall give you a tour—in the classic ambulatory style—of your new habitat. Does that sound pleasing?”

The anomalous baby hissed.

“I’m glad you agree!”

Doctor Hannersby neatened his snug suit, left the coffin-shaped car, stretched his limbs, walked toward the house, remembered Hug, returned to the vehicle, and claimed his adopted specimen, whom he then carried to the wire gate that circumscribed The Canine Corral. Dogs barked from within this area, and elsewhere, miscellaneous noises emanated from other animals.

With childlike fingers, the teratologist unwrapped the lumpy, white-haired head of the anomalous baby.

Hug hissed and wriggled.

For the first time, Doctor Hannersby wondered at the wisdom of becoming a sixty-four-year-old single parent.

Squirming, the anomalous baby turned his head from the sun.

The teratologist hung the bundle upon the fence, reached into his left pocket, and withdrew a pair of laboratory goggles. These he affixed to the lumpy head of the adopted specimen, who then hissed, squirmed, wriggled, mewled, and grew calm.

Doctor Hannersby reclaimed Hug from the fence.

Protected, the anomalous baby tilted his head back. The sun shone brightly upon his thick black goggles.

“That hellish orb of conflagration is called the sun,” stated the teratologist. “It provides light and heat for the various inhabitants of planet Earth—animals and animalcules; plants and fungi; regular people and those of teratological interest.”

Hug slid his right arm through the wrapping. His four fingers trembled as he strained to touch the sun.

A dog barked, startling the anomalous baby, who then hissed.

“Focus your disparate eyes on these unique beasts!”

Doctor Hannersby repositioned Hug to face The Canine Corral.

Running up to the fence were two of the teratologist’s favorite dogs.

One possessed five legs, and the other had a bald, venous, and grossly swollen cranium.

“Fivepaw and Genius, I’d like to introduce Hug Hannersby, the newest specimen in The Hannersby Collection. Please make him feel welcome.”

Genius barked thrice.

Fivepaw stood mute and still.

A moment of silence passed.

Embarrassed, Genius growled at Fivepaw.

The admonished dog barked a friendly salutation to the anomalous baby.

Through oversized goggles, Hug stared at the canines.

Doctor Hannersby descried and pointed to a dog that was currently loping toward the gathering. “Licker is en route.”

The third animal neared the gate. Wagging in the dog’s left eye socket was a dripping tongue.

Two welcoming barks were sounded.

The teratologist carried his adopted specimen to the opposite side of the house, where stood the entrance of an enormous barn. Hinged creaked as he opened the door.

Doctor Hannersby walked through the entryway and removed the goggles from Hug, whose pupils then dilated at different rates.

“That ocular discrepancy of yours is quite splendid.”

The teratologist carried the anomalous baby onto the dirt path that lay between the stalls. Somewhere in the dark vastness, a cow mooed.

Doctor Hannersby swiveled Hug and gestured grandly. “Contained within the Barnatorium are many of the finest specimens in The Hannersby Collection.”

The teratologist took one step forward, which officially commenced the tour. This important stride was followed by a bit of walking.

Doctor Hannersby stopped, repositioned Hug, and gestured. “Look thither—”

In the first stall stood a full-grown sheep that was no larger than a house cat.

“This specimen is a pygmy sheep.”

Shifting in the bundle, Hug appraised the little woolly creature.

“Other than its stature, it is normal.”

This was not uttered complimentarily. Doctor Hannersby had never been impressed by the anomalousness of the pygmy sheep.

At present, the teratologist carried his adopted specimen past an empty stall to one that contained a two-headed pig.

“This is self-explanatory.”

The anomalous baby looked at the porcine specimen.

Four pink eyes momentarily lifted from a pile of slop.

Doctor Hannersby carried Hug five strides forward and stopped outside of a double-sized compartment. “The specimen herein is worthy of discussion.”

Inside the stall and gazing at a window stood a small llama that had brindled silver fur.

“This quadruped is a Sentinel Llama. It can see across vast distances, much farther than can any bird or modern day spyglass.”

Oblivious of the visitors, the creature stared dolorously at a vast and distant mountain range that was visible through a wire-mesh window.

“Years ago, during spring, the Sentinel Llama had stared at one spot in those far-off mountains for a continuous period of three days. It was later discovered that a hiker had dropped a sandwich at the exact location upon which the llama had been focused!”

Happily, the teratologist recalled this irrefutable confirmation of the Sentinel Llama’s preternatural eyesight.

The anomalous baby surveyed the silver animal.

“It is currently unknown whether its eyes or its cerebral processes are responsible for its highly superior vision, but should I outlive this specimen, an eye transplant of the interspecies variety shall provide me with an answer!”

Contemplating illegal surgery, Doctor Hannersby continued forward, stopped, and aimed Hug at the next compartment.

Inside this sparse, metal-reinforced cell stood a jet-black goat that had a red whorl on its chest and white, blind eyes.

Hug shrank within his bundle. “The Devil Goat of Nagathraxis. As a newborn, the Devil Goat killed and consumed its mother, its father, and all nine of its siblings. Its original owner then sold it—cheaply—to a circus in the Far East that promptly placed it in a sideshow. Somehow, the Devil Goat burned down the sideshow, and following that incident, the barns of its two subsequent owners.”

Doctor Hannersby shook an admonishing finger at the Devil Goat. “Bad boy!”

Inscrutably, the black creature stared at the teratologist with its white, blind eyes.

“I am unable to explain how the Devil Goat of Nagathraxis can manufacture a conflagration, but whether this is accomplished by frictional activity or by some flammable chemical that its body produces or by unholy means, this specimen’s pyromaniacal activities are now over.”

Pleased with himself, Doctor Hannersby grinned.

“Since my acquisition of the Devil Goat, I have detected the odors of charred hay, singed wood, and burnt fur upon my entering the Barnatorium, but on none of these occasions was there any fire, thanks to my installation of these!—”

Doctor Hannersby tilted Hug back so that he might better survey the ceiling.

From the wooden support beams sprouted eight iron sprinkler heads.

Hug blinked, sequentially, and tilted his head down so that he could look at the Devil Goat.

White, blind eyes gazed back at the anomalous baby.

Hug hissed.

Doctor Hannersby gestured importantly. “This is a very expensive specimen, since it is of both teratological and demonological interest.”

Blindly, the Devil Goat of Nagathraxis observed the humans.

Doctor Hannersby sniffed the air, smelled no smoke, and carried Hug along the path to another stall.

This very large compartment was occupied by a plump old moose, which was currently staring into a dark corner.

The teratologist sighed.

“This specimen has proven to be a tremendous disappointment to me thus far. An effervescent woman of advanced years who had lived alone in the woods for five decades told me in great detail of this animal’s elocutionary abilities—albeit in monosyllabic words.”

Another sigh issued from the frowning mouth of Doctor Hannersby as he recalled the money, effort, and time that he had wasted on this specimen.

“In short, the observer reported that this moose’s lexicon included such words as ‘yes,’ ‘food,’ and ‘friend,’ but I’ve not once ever heard anything intelligible emerge from its mouth. Blast!”

Startled, the moose faced the teratologist.

Hope blossomed within the compact chest of Doctor Hannersby. At present, he tucked the bundled baby under his left arm and walked up to the railing.

“Friend . . . ?” the teratologist suggested to the moose.

The animal took a step forward and opened its mouth.

“Friend . . . ?” repeated Doctor Hannersby, whose pulse was quickening.

The moose sneezed. Lugubriously, the animal turned away and resumed its itinerary of staring into the dark corner.

Hope died within the teratologist, who had learned from this debacle to doubt the testimony of crones who lived alone in the woods.

The tour resumed in a separate room that contained sixteen chicken coops. A hanging bulb that mimicked blue daylight illuminated these cages, which were empty, excepting one that was covered by a thick black cloth.

“My Poultrytorium—which should never be confused with an aviary!—is inchoate at present, though its first occupant is one of my finest teratological specimens.”

Hug gurgled.

Doctor Hannersby seized and yanked the chain that was attached to the blue light bulb. Darkness spread throughout the room.

“Allow a moment for dilation.”

A brown eye, two bulbous blue eyes, and a red eye gradually adjusted to the dark. The teratologist walked to the covered cage, withdrew the fabric, and held the anomalous baby at a favorable angle.

Hanging from the top of the coop by its clenched talons was a black, plump, and upside-down chicken. The creature was currently asleep.

“The West Caribbean Bat-Chicken,” Doctor Hannersby whispered to Hug. “There are seven others in existence, though this one is by far the least intelligent.”

Undisturbed and inverted, the portly Bat-Chicken slept.

The teratologist wondered if the bird were dreaming of the islands.

Watching the slumbering specimen, the anomalous baby yawned.

The inside of his mouth appeared to be a very interesting shade of purple.

“Splendid.”

Doctor Hannersby recovered the coop and carried Hug to an isolated stall that was in the southernmost portion of the Barnatorium.

Most of this huge compartment was filled by a bull that had twenty-seven horns.

The anomalous baby shrank into his bundle.

“This specimen was acquired by me for its pecuniary value. Extra horns are quite common anomalies and not of much teratological interest, though this fellow certainly has an uncommon number of pokers. Three different arenas in Spain are already interested in purchasing Spearblossom for their bullfights.”

Spearblossom snorted.

Hug hissed.

Agitated, the bull swished its massive tail and groaned.

The anomalous baby mewled.

Spearblossom stamped its hooves.

Concerned, Doctor Hannersby considered the situation. “An abridged tour of the estate should provide ample stimuli for—”

Hug shrieked.

Spearblossom roared. Twenty-seven horns were lowered in anticipation of a very elaborate goring.

Frightened, the teratologist wrapped the baby’s screaming head, held him close to his compact chest, and fled.

“To be resumed at a later date!”

———

Safely evacuated from the Barnatorium, Doctor Hannersby elbowed shut the front door of his home and carried Hug deeper into the foyer, which was decorated with portraits of anomalous circus persons. The teratologist paused in front of a sepia-toned photograph of a tented wagon that bore a sign for The Highly Odd Hannersby Roadshow.

“My grandparents.”

Hug blinked his red eye and yawned.

“Presently, I shall escort you to your stall.”

Doctor Hannersby carried Hug down hallways, through the Skullatorium, up three creaky flights of stairs, along a narrow passage, and into a room, which was dusty and covered with peeling, brown-and-green wallpaper. Books, discarded medical apparatuses, a bucket of draconian bone saws, and scores of opaque jars were scattered throughout the enclosure. Upon a wooden cot that lacked a mattress stood a chicken coop.

The teratologist carried the anomalous baby toward this cage.

“I apprehend that this bedding is a bit substandard, but once I sell Spearblossom, I’ll purchase for you a proper upgrade . . .”

Leaning over, Doctor Hannersby set Hug upon the crumpled newspapers that covered the bottom of the chicken coop.

Headlines crinkled as the anomalous baby stretched out his four-fingered hand and kicked his strong leg.

The teratologist patted his adopted specimen on the head, turned off a standing lamp, and exited the room.

“Sleep well.”

Gently, Doctor Hannersby shut the door.

———

Hinges squeaked, and a latch clicked. Darkness filled the room, excepting only the few rays of moonlight that sneaked through the filthy window. No mobiles of outer space hung over the chicken coop in which lay Hug Hannersby.

Mismatched eyes dilated, blinked, and sparkled.

“Georgie . . . ?”

IX | The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences

Seated upon mismatched leather chairs in the center of the luxuriously carpeted parlor was the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. This grand trio was comprised of a rotund, red-faced, seventy-one-year-old who was named Sidney; Phalanges, a tall, skinny, and bald octogenarian with uncommonly long (and dirty) fingers; and the founder, Doctor Hannersby. All three men held pipes and wore dubious formal attire.

Smoke rose while the oldsters ruminated.

Thinking importantly, Sidney leaned forward in his chair and surveyed a bowl, which contained nothing but a very small amount of viridescent liquid. “I propose that the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences acquires another can of boiled peanuts.”

Phalanges nodded his skeletal head. “Sounds good to me.”

“I shall requisition another can,” stated Doctor Hannersby, who then pulled upon the cord that hung beside the arm of his chair, pulled again, and pulled a third time. “The acolyte shall arrive presently.”

Sidney licked his lips. “I hope he’s not delayed.”

Doctor Hannersby eyed Phalanges. “How are your mycological studies coming along?”

“Very well. Since our last meeting, I boarded up all the windows in my house.”

The teratologist did not at all understand the meaning of this response, and the red face of the portliest oldster displayed the same lack of comprehension.

“And why was that, Phalanges?” inquired Sidney. “Why did you decide to board it up?”

“I ran out of space in my work shed and the garage and over in the guest shack and needed to bring the collection inside. I couldn’t risk too much direct sunlight falling upon my little babies, now could I?”

“Definitely not,” affirmed Doctor Hannersby, who was impressed by how thoughtfully Phalanges had cared for his mushrooms. “And how did Mrs. Phalanges react to relocation of so many mycological specimens to the domestic area?”

“She filed for divorce.”

“Did she?” inquired the teratologist.

“Yes. Though fortunately, she didn’t want any of the mushrooms.”

“That’s the important thing,” remarked Sidney, who was visibly relieved.

Squeaks emanated from behind a closed door and turned the heads of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences.

There was a gentle knock.

“You may enter,” Doctor Hannersby called out with no small amount of importance.

The door opened.

Into the room walked Hug Hannersby, who wore a tailored red tuxedo, a white shirt, and a bowtie (all of which came from a ventriloquist dummy) and shiny loafers that were two different sizes. Atop the lumpy head of the four-year-old was a neatly combed mass of white hair. His curved leg was supported by a metal brace, and his limp left arm was missing.

“The acolyte is here,” remarked Sidney.

Doctor Hannersby was impressed by how professional Hug looked that evening. The dummy’s red tuxedo fit him very well.

Across the carpet strode the anomalous boy. His lopsided gait was awkward, but did not retard his rate of progress overmuch.

In the middle of the room, Hug stopped, caught his breath, and faced Doctor Hannersby. “You jingled?”

“I did. The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences is in need of additional brined legumes.”

“Is that all?”

“For the moment.”

The brace on the anomalous boy’s left leg squeaked as he turned from the oldsters and ambled from the room.

Sidney and Phalanges nodded in approbation, and Doctor Hannersby swelled with pride.

“He’s a very well-trained acolyte,” remarked the portly phrenologist. “The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences appreciates his work.”

“You’ve done real well with that specimen,” added the mycologist, whose long, dirty fingers were elaborately tented. “He has the best attributes of both dog and parrot.”

“Thank you.”

“Might I put some calipers to his head in the future?” inquired Sidney. “The phrenological value of such a skull cannot be denied.”

Doctor Hannersby wrinkled his mouth. “You injured the specimen during your previous examination.”

“There were no lacerations.”

“No . . . but in addition to being a valuable specimen, Hug is my adopted son.” The teratologist sucked on his pipe and was eerily illuminated from below by the burning tobacco. “There are parental responsibilities . . . and so forth.”

“Understood.”

“I had a question about the boy,” stated Phalanges.

Doctor Hannersby expelled milky smoke. “Yes . . . ?”

The lank mycologist remained silent for a ponderous moment. “It seems . . . that I’ve now forgotten what it was.”

“I told you to write things down!” barked Sidney, who was not the most patient member of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. “That’s why I gave you that notepad on your birthday!”

“What notepad?”

“Bah!”

Doctor Hannersby reclined in his creaky leather chair and eyed Phalanges. “What type of question was it that you forgot?”

Ruminating, the lank mycologist sucked air through his pipe, which had become unlit at some point.

“Philosophical?” suggested the teratologist. “Psychological? Ontological? Cosmological? Cosmogeneological?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Phalanges. “I remember. What happened to the acolyte’s left arm? He had one the last time I was here, didn’t he?”

“I noticed that as well,” remarked Sidney. “What is the fate of that retractable arm of his?”

In a dramatic fashion, Doctor Hannersby inhaled and exhaled smoke. “The disembodied limb is currently in the basement, wholly submersed in formaldehyde, and contained within a pickle jar.”

A gentle knock sounded.

“You may enter,” said the teratologist.

The door opened.

Sweating and carrying a ceramic bowl, Hug entered the room. “Where shall I put these?”

Sidney patted the small table that stood directly by his chair. “Over here would be—”

“Thither—”

Doctor Hannersby pointed to the center of the room, where Hug soon ambled.

The oldsters watched the awkward progress of the anomalous boy, whose leg brace squeaked with each stride.

“And just how did he lose that arm?” inquired Phalanges.

“Yes,” Sidney added, “detail the event for us.”

The bottom of the bowl clinked upon a wood table. Boiled nuts slowly turned within the viridescent brine.

“Hug,” Doctor Hannersby said, “please describe your dislodgement to the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences.”

The anomalous boy withdrew a handkerchief, collected sweat from his forehead, and refolded the damp fabric. “It fell off when I was sleeping.”

“Remarkable,” said Sidney.

Phalanges cackled.

Doctor Hannersby motioned grandly. “Hug, please remove your jacket.”

“Okay.”

The anomalous boy unbuttoned and removed his red tuxedo jacket. Protruding from the shorn left sleeve of his shirt was a five-inch triangular stump that resembled the tip of a chicken wing.

Phalanges gasped. “He’s growing a new one!”

“Fascinating,” stated Sidney.

Full of pride, Doctor Hannersby beamed.

Hug reclaimed his jacket from the divan.

“Specime—errr . . . son. Before you don that very smart apparel, I have one more assignment for you.”

The anomalous boy waited.

“For the benefit of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, I’d like you to exercise that nubbin.”

Hug waggled his nubbin.

“You may go,” stated the teratologist.

———

Hug Hannersby replaced his tuxedo jacket, strode from the parlor, and gently shut the door. His leg brace squeaked as he ambled along a narrow, red brick passageway that had been built into the walls of the house for servants who no longer existed.

From the closed room that he had just departed came the sound of applause.

“Hannersby,” said the portly one, “that youth is a wonder, an ever-evolving teratological wonder!”

“I never would’ve guessed that parenthood could be intellectually gratifying,” added the lank one. “Never!”

Fatigued and hot, Hug continued up the brick passageway and stopped near a small, cracked sink. There he turned a faucet handle, moistened his handkerchief, and applied the cloth to his forehead. A cool tingling sensation spread across his face and proceeded down his spine.

The anomalous boy squeezed the excess water from the fabric, refolded the cloth, and continued along the brick passageway until he reached the servant’s stairwell. This was his least favorite place in the entire house.

Hug filled his mismatched lungs with air, gripped the railing with his four-fingered right hand, and began his ascension. Old steps groaned, and his leg brace squeaked as he climbed the first flight.

Continually, his anomalous heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped inside of his chest. This three-part pulsation had greatly impressed a cardiologist with whom the teratologist was friendly.

Hug ascended the second flight and proceeded up the third until he stood before a place where two steps were missing.

A chill wind blew from the depths of this dark hole.

The anomalous boy gripped the rail, tensed, and lunged. His handkerchief came loose as he thudded on the far side of the gap.

Swiveling his head all the way around, he watched the fluttering cloth sink into the abyss.

“Darn it.”

The hinge of the leg brace squeaked as Hug labored upward. Sweat covered his face, and he soon reached the fourth floor, where he paused to breathe. His little lung burned, and the big one ached.

Replenished, the anomalous boy ambled across mismatched throw rugs until he reached the end of the hallway, where he opened a door and entered his room. Brown-and-green paper still hung in pieces from the wall, but the books, medical apparatuses, and opaque jars were now clean and neatly arranged on shelves. The tedious organization of this space had taken the anomalous boy no small amount of time, but at least the undertaking had been educational.

Exhausted, Hug shut the door, hobbled over to his bed, and sat down upon the inflatable mattress that had replaced the bird coop two years earlier. He exhaled wearily and glanced at the room’s lone window, which he had also cleaned. This cracked pane admitted a view of the distant downtown factory, a red brick structure from which extruded thirty-seven cylindrical smokestacks of various heights and widths.

The anomalous boy stretched his limbs and focused his thoughts.

It was time for him to work on his plans.

From the nightstand, Hug claimed his spiral notebook, which he then opened.

The first page was an illustration of a multipurpose weapon that could function as a ray gun, a bug sucker, and a hairdryer. This drawing had been rendered in crayon and lacked detail but was acceptable.

Upon the second page was an illustration of a rocket ship that was adorned with numerous wings, fins, spikes, satellite dishes, racing stripes, lightning bolts, lasers cannons, and ballistas. The anomalous boy had presented this picture to the teratologist, who had spoken at length about something called drag, which would decrease the speed of this vehicle during liftoff.

This scientific information had dramatically impacted the designer’s aesthetic.

Hug turned the page, which revealed another rocket ship. In the nosecone of this streamlined vehicle and gripping the steering wheel was a boy whose brown eye and red eye were visible through his helmet visor.

This young and anomalous astronaut stared forward bravely as he soared alone into outer space.

“Someday . . .”

Hug turned to a blank page and claimed his mechanical pencil.

A bell tinkled, tinkled again, and tinkled a third time.

The anomalous boy looked up.

Again, the tarnished bell that hung above his bed jingled thrice.

“Darn it.”

X | The Mushroom Hunters

Doctor Hannersby, Sidney, and Phalanges walked along a trail that wound through a dim and remote part of the forest. Depending from the bent left arm of each member of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences was a large wicker basket.

Behind this trio ambled the five-year-old Hug Hannersby, who wore navy blue shorts and a matching shirt. His metal brace squeaked, repeatedly and shrilly, as he attempted to match the not especially quick pace of the oldsters.

“That noise is an assault,” said Sidney, who was gritting his teeth.

“It is malefic,” Doctor Hannersby agreed, looking over his shoulder at Hug. “Nigh the edge of intolerability.”

“Sorry,” said the anomalous boy, who then covered up the knee gear with his hand in an attempt to muffle the sound.

Again, the leg brace squeaked.

“Holy Mexico!” exclaimed the portly phrenologist. “That noise threatens sanity!”

The teratologist nodded. “Action must be taken against this strident audiological offense.”

“What’re you talking about?” inquired Phalanges. “It’s quiet out here.”

Perplexed, Doctor Hannersby wrinkled his mouth. “Do you not hear the damnable squeaks of my speci—my son’s ambulatory apparatus?”

The lank mycologist turned a large, flappy ear toward the anomalous boy. Shrilly, the leg brace squeaked.

“What noise?” inquired Phalanges.

Doctor Hannersby was incredulous.

“Phalanges is selectively deaf,” stated Sidney. “He doesn’t hear high-pitched frequencies.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed,” replied the portly phrenologist. “Years ago, he and I went to the opera, and every time a woman sang, he leaned over and asked, ‘Why isn’t she saying anything?’”

Doctor Hannersby nodded. “I suddenly understand how his marriage lasted for so many years!”

Again, the leg brace squeaked.

The teratologist stopped walking as did his peers.

Hug halted and looked at the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, which loomed before him like a three-headed creature. His brown eye blinked, followed by the red one, and his nubbin waggled.

“Hug.”

“Yes Doctor?”

“Come hither.”

The anomalous boy observed the frowning mouths of the oldsters. “Is something amiss?”

“Have no fear. We just need to do some surgery on that girl leg of yours.”

“An impromptu medical operation,” Sidney added, “nothing more.” These conciliatory words assuaged no fears.

“I’ll be quiet,” Hug promised while nodding his head. “I can just drag it along without bending it so that the gear doesn’t squeak.”

“Come hither.”

“Okay.”

Dragging the weak leg like a log, Hug proceeded forward. No noises emerged from the brace that supported the unbent limb.

“Do you see?” asked the anomalous boy. “I’ve—”

“Bah!” decried Doctor Hannersby. “That is no way for my adopted specimen to perambulate.”

Hug soon reached the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. “If you want, I could just wait here until—”

“Bah!” The teratologist eyed the portly phrenologist. “I’d like to borrow that sprayer of yours.”

“A fine remedy,” said Sidney, who then yielded a small metal cylinder to Doctor Hannersby.

The teratologist kneeled before the anomalous boy, raised the sprayer, and aimed the nozzle at the leg brace. “Close your eyes.”

Hug obeyed.

Twilit woods and wrinkled oldsters were replaced by darkness.

“What should I—”

“Remain still.”

The nozzle hissed, hissed a second time, and hissed again. A minty smell filled in the air.

The anomalous boy felt cold fluid upon his left knee and a stinging sensation on that leg where he had two scabs. “May I open my—”

The nozzle hissed.

Peppermint filled his mouth, and he coughed twice. His tongue burned for a moment, but otherwise, the sensation was not unpleasant.

Hug opened his eyes and saw Doctor Hannersby, who was gesticulating circularly.

“Ramble about,” said the teratologist.

The anomalous boy walked in a circle. His leg brace was silent.

Doctor Hannersby returned the sprayer to Sidney and deferentially bowed his head. “It appears as if your multi-purpose sprayer is effective for both lubrication and breath freshening.”

Upon the portly phrenologist’s face was an unbelievable smugness. “Indeed.”

Phalanges cleared his throat in a very hideous fashion. “It’s getting late. And we’re supposed to be hunting for mushrooms, not spraying the acolyte!”

Ashamed, Doctor Hannersby and Sidney lowered their gazes.

Hug licked the tingling insides of his mouth, which still tasted like peppermint.

“Let’s continue the hunt,” said the lank mycologist.

At present, the oldsters and the anomalous boy continued along the forest trail. Leaves crunched, and twigs snapped.

Hug struggled to match the unhurried pace that was set by the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. Every hill presented him with two challenges—one ascending and the other descending—but inexorably, he followed.

Time passed.

Chirping birds turned into buzzing cicadas. The overgrown path grew more tortuous and obscure.

Hobbling, Hug surveyed the environs.

The spaces between the leaves were darkening, and the sun had vanished, though there was still some light in the western sky. Never before had the anomalous boy been this far into the forest, and rarely was he out so late in the day.

At present, the group ascended a steep hill and reached a plateau.

Hug replenished his aching lungs and looked at Doctor Hannersby, who was out of breath, Phalanges, whose face was the color of questionable milk, and Sidney, who was red and covered with sweat. It seemed like the oldsters were also getting tired.

The teratologist sucked in a big breath. “We must return . . . soon . . . as I still need to fix . . . the sprinkler system . . . in the Barnatorium.”

“I could . . . continue . . . indefinitely,” said the wheezing phrenologist, “but if you need . . . to rest
. . . I won’t think . . . any . . . less of you!” A large volume of air was sucked into the portly fellow at this time.

“Are those . . . what I think they are?” inquired Phalanges, who was staring down a decline from his vantage at the far edge of the plateau. “After all these years . . . have I finally found them . . . ?”

Sidney, Doctor Hannersby, and Hug proceeded to the precipice.

“Success!” cried the lank mycologist, whose right eye was affixed to a spyglass. “Great success!”

“What’re you going on about?” groused the portly phrenologist.

Gleefully, Phalanges collapsed his spyglass, wriggled his dirty hands, and pointed an uncommonly long index finger.

A brown eye, a red eye, and two sets of matching eyes looked in the indicated direction.

Seventy feet below and in the bottom of the decline lay a fallen oak tree that was covered with moss.

“Is that tree dead?” asked Hug.

“Beautifully,” said Phalanges. “And look at the base of it—in those roots—”

The anomalous boy and the remainder of the Society for the Advancement of the Great Eccentric Sciences redirected their gazes.

Amidst the latticework of rotting roots were the bulbous, olive-green caps of a dozen large mushrooms that had wispy, white beards.

“We’ll dine well tonight!” exclaimed the lank mycologist.

“These mushrooms are safe to consume?” inquired the portly phrenologist, who seemed skeptical.

“Certainly. They are Bearded Rot-Bonnets.”

Sidney and Doctor Hannersby entertained doubts while Phalanges delightedly wriggled his long, dirty fingers. Hug did not think that the name of these mushrooms made them sound very appetizing.

Importantly, the teratologist cleared his throat and eyed the lank mycologist. “And what are the attributes of these fungal specimens?”

“The natives who lived around here claimed that Bearded Rot-Bonnets lengthened the lifespans of everybody who ate them—and quite a few of the tribesmen lived to be over a hundred years old. There was also a study that showed Bearded Rot-Bonnets enhanced virility.”

Doctor Hannersby gave his wicker basket to Hug. “Fetch those mushrooms.”

“Okay.”

“But don’t eat any of them,” stated Sidney.

“Okay.”

Hug slung the basket handle over the nubbin that protruded from his short left sleeve and walked to the steep precipice.

“Be extremely careful—” Doctor Hannersby sneezed, “—with those mushrooms!”

The anomalous boy dropped to his knees and crawled onto the declining slope. His hand dislodged a round rock, which rolled for twenty feet and smacked against a tree trunk. Bushes snagged his white hair, clothing, and limbs as he descended. His knees and hand dirtied, and on his nubbin, the wicker basket swung like a pendulum.

Hug filled his lungs with air and shot ticklish leaves from his nose slits. The distance between the crawler and his destination soon diminished to a few yards.

Winded and dirty, the anomalous boy reached the rotting oak, which smelled like wet shoes and the kind of perfume that was worn by old women. He stopped crawling, turned, and looked up the slope that he had just descended.

Atop the hill loomed the three-headed silhouette of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences.

“I’m here!” shouted Hug.

“Collect them all!” replied Doctor Hannersby. “Without exception!”

“Okay!”

Hug sat up, slid his hand between the exposed roots of the dead oak tree, and plucked from the dirt a white-bearded, olive-green mushroom.

This capped fungus he gently set upon the moist towel that lay inside of his wicker basket.

“When you’re through,” Phalanges shouted, “cover them with their natal soil!”

Instructions echoed.

“Okay!”

Hug delicately unearthed Bearded Rot-Bonnets and laid them inside of the basket. The eleventh and final mushroom was soon deposited, at which point, the anomalous boy poured local dirt over the entire collection.

“Hurry back!” shouted Sidney. “We aren’t getting any younger!”

“Yet,” added Doctor Hannersby.

Phalanges cackled.

Hug replaced the basket handle over his nubbin and dropped to his knees. Brambles swatted his face and loose stones rolled in his wake as he crawled up toward the plateau. His heart beat heavy triplets, and his little lung ached.

At the two-thirds mark, the anomalous boy looked up.

Licking their lips at the top of the hill were the three oldsters.

Twilight twinkled eerily in their watchful eyes.

Hug crawled onward and soon reached the plateau, where Doctor Hannersby leaned over, claimed the basket, and patted his lumpy head.

“Very well done.”

“You’re not supposed to eat more than two in a day,” advised Phalanges.

“It would be good for both of you to heed that advice,” Sidney remarked while patting his fat belly, “but since my mass exceeds that of the average person by at least one third, it follows that—”

“Don’t be avaricious,” interjected Doctor Hannersby. “Two, and not one more!”

Phalanges nodded. “Agreed. Only two per person.”

“Hmph.”

Hug picked the dirt out of his leg brace while each member of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences greedily seized and devoured his small allotment of mushrooms.

“They didn’t taste rejuvenating,” remarked Sidney, who then smacked his gums distastefully. “Not in the least.”

Doctor Hannersby shook his head. “I cannot say that I don’t agree.”

“They’re not instant coffee,” defended Phalanges. “Give them some time to get digested.”

The portly phrenologist snorted in disbelief. “I’ll withhold judgment for seven more minutes.”

The teratologist looked around and noticed something. “Where did all this dusk come from?”

Hug eyed the environs.

Very little light remained in the sky.

“Are we going home?” asked the anomalous boy, who tried to sound manly when he spoke, even though he was worried.

“Hastily, we are,” replied Doctor Hannersby.

The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and proceeded along the overgrown trail, followed by the acolyte, whose stomach was gurgling with hunger.

Hug considered asking if he could eat one of the special mushrooms, but decided against so doing, since they smelled bad and seemed to be valuable.

The dim golden sky blued as the group continued along the tortuous and obscure path.

Without much effort, the anomalous boy maintained the pace that was set by the oldsters, all of whom looked fatigued.

“Doctor, do you need to rest?” asked Hug.

“No,” wheezed the teratologist. “Proceed apace.”

At present, the group ascended a hill. The dim, violescent light of the western horizon shone upon the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, whose faces were pale and covered with sweat. Despite the warmth of the night, Doctor Hannersby and Phalanges were shivering.

Hug suddenly knew for certain that something was wrong. “Doctor, are you—”

“Proceed apace.”

The group continued along the trail at an even slower rate. Crackling branches and a heavy thud garnered the attention of the anomalous boy, who then turned his head.

Beside the path and in the brush lay Sidney. His hands massaged his swollen belly, and he groaned.

Hug looked toward Phalanges and Doctor Hannersby.

Oblivious of the fallen phrenologist, the pair of oldsters continued along the trail. The lank mycologist rubbed his stomach as if he were working dough, and the little teratologist shivered while continually wiping moisture from his eyes.

“Doctor,” said Hug. “I think—”

“Phalanges!” barked Doctor Hannersby.

The lank mycologist groaned.

“When will the beneficial . . . effects of these . . . m-m-mushrooms manifest . . . ?” asked the teratologist.

“S-s-soon . . .”

Fearful, Hug hastened from the capsized body of Sidney toward Doctor Hannersby. “Doctor?”

“Y-y-y-yes . . . ?”

“Sidney fell over.”

“Did he?”

Teeth chattering, the teratologist turned and looked at the fallen phrenologist.

“Are you sick?” Hug asked Doctor Hannersby.

“I am as hale as—”

The teratologist groaned and fell to his knees. “I cannot feign that—” he grunted, “—that I am not . . .
exhibiting . . . symptoms.” He wiped his red eyes. “It appears . . . that I am no longer . . . the z-z-zenith . . . of salubriousness.”

“You’re sick?”

Doctor Hannersby nodded an affirmation.

Hug felt tingles upon his nape.

“If I d-do not survive,” the teratologist wheezed, “know that . . . you were always . . . of great interest.”

The anomalous boy felt a stinging sensation in his eyes. “What can I do to help?”

Something thudded upon the ground.

Hug and Doctor Hannersby looked toward the noise.

Prostrated in the middle of the overgrown path was Phalanges.

The teratologist looked at his adopted specimen.

“Hug . . . the Society for . . . the Advancement . . .
of the Greater . . . Eccentric Sciences . . . must now depend . . . on you. Return to our . . . place of residence . . . and g-go into the basement. Inside the ninth drawer of the—”

Doctor Hannersby grunted. “Inside the middle drawer . . . of the one hundred and thirty-seventh file cabinet . . . there is—”

The teratologist convulsed. “There is a long brass key . . . with six teeth. Take it to the eleventh . . . the eleventh—”

Unconscious, Doctor Hannersby spilled forward.

Hug interposed himself.

The anomalous boy caught the teratologist, whom he then lowered to the ground. It was clear from this brief contact that the diminutive fellow had a very high fever.

Hug surveyed the three fallen members of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences who lay in the darkening forest. Frightened, he waggled his nubbin and eyed the trail ahead.

Something gurgled.

Startled, Hug turned his head.

A puddle of olive-green vomit lay in front of Sidney, whose swollen eyelids were now open. “Hasten back . . . and call . . . for an ambulance . . . or we’ll die . . .”

“Okay.”

Sidney convulsed and again lost consciousness.

Hug nodded to himself and lopsidedly hastened forward.

The spaces between the trees darkened, and soon, the anomalous boy was ambling through a grayish-black forest. Brambles caught at his legs and low branches scratched his arms as he attempted to follow the overgrown trail. Foremost in his mind at every moment were the bodies of the three sick oldsters who lay upon the ground.

“Let me get there in time,” muttered Hug. “Please just—”

His bad leg plunged into a hole, and he spilled forward. Earth slammed against his chest.

“Darn it!”

He rose to his feet, filled his lungs, and continued through the dark forest. His chest and left knee hurt from the fall, but did not slow his progress.

“I’ve got to be more careful—I’m their only chance . . .”

A silver light flickered through the woods that lay ahead, and the anomalous boy quickened his pace around the bend. In front of him was a small clearing in which stood a big gnarled tree. Moonlight illuminated the branches and surrounding foliage.

Hug caught his breath and made a survey.

On the opposite side of the clearing were three separate trails that led back into the forest. None of these routes looked familiar.

“Which one?”

No divine answer came, and thus, he proceeded toward the middle path, which seemed like a safer choice than either of the outliers.

Again in semidarkness, the anomalous boy followed a winding trail.

His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped, continually and forcefully, and his little lung burned.

Something cried out, startling Hug, who then glanced up toward the noise.

A black cruciform that was a raven or a crow drifted between the canopy of branches and the lambent sky.

Ambling, the anomalous boy lowered his gaze.

A tree branch smacked his face and threw him backward. His little rump thudded upon the earth.

“Darn it!”

Hug rubbed his stinging forehead, rose to his feet, and continued along the path. His skull hurt, and his little lung burned, but he tried to ignore these pains. The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences was in need of help, and he was the acolyte.

Every second was valuable.

The anomalous boy navigated a left turn and one to the right, climbed a hill, descended the far side, and continued along a twisting stretch for a long time. Suddenly, he saw something.

One hundred feet down the trail loomed a wall of darkness.

Concerned, Hug ambled toward this barrier.

Ahead of him lay a thicket of vegetation that was a dead end.

“Double darn!”

It would take more than thirty minutes for him to retrace his steps, and even then, there were two paths from which to choose.

The anomalous boy blinked his brown eye, waggled his nubbin, and made his decision.

Teeth gritted, he plunged into the thick foliage.

Branches snapped and twigs cracked as Hug forced his way through the pathless forest. With myriad fingers, the woods clawed the young trailblazer.

A thick black pillar emerged from the charcoal night, and the anomalous boy circumvented this tree and the others that got in his way. Low branches slapped his face, and one carried a bug into his mouth, which he then expelled with a snort through his left nose slit.

Eventually, Hug arrived at a very dense copse that was surrounded on either side by thorn bushes. Every second counted, and he could not allow this obstacle nor any other to get in his way.

A nubbin waggled while the anomalous boy surveyed the wooded barbican. Soon he located a sliver of charcoal gray that separated two black trees.

Into this space, Hug inserted himself. Rough bark scraped his right arm and face as he bypassed rows of trees and came to another bushy area.

Something grabbed his left leg.

The anomalous boy yelped and looked back.

His metal brace was caught in a prickly thicket. Leaning against a nearby tree, he jerked his left leg, tried again, and pulled a third time, but the supportive apparatus would not come loose.

Hug reached into the thicket, and a dozen thorns stabbed his hand.

“Ouch.”

Forcefully, he jerked his left leg.

Something creaked and snapped.

The anomalous boy tumbled forward and landed in some bushes. His curved left leg was free from the metal brace, which had been ruined by his efforts.

“Darn it!”

He tried to stand. His weak limb buckled at the knee, and he stumbled into a tree.

“Double darn!”

Hug hopped forward on his good leg, passed through some brush, and entered a small moonlit clearing. There he found a Y-shaped stick, which he seized, tucked under his nubbin, and used as a crutch.

“Okay.”

On the opposite side of the clearing was a path that looked somewhat familiar.

“I think that’s it.”

Mismatched eyes blinked one after the other as the anomalous boy followed the trail, which turned each way a few times and led him to a larger clearing. Lying on the moonlit ground of this area were the crusts of the cheese sandwiches that the oldsters had eaten for lunch earlier that day.

“Getting closer!”

Aided by the crutch, Hug crossed the picnic area and hastened along a familiar trail. His throat dried, and his eyes watered as he hobbled through the night. The duration of his wild beeline was unclear, but all of his limbs felt like they were on fire. This forest seemed to be limitless.

A dark bird shrieked.

Fatigued and clumsy, the anomalous boy stumbled. His crutch barely saved him from capsizing.

Hug gasped and raised his head.

On the far side of the adversarial forest was a flickering red light.

Hopeful, the anomalous boy left the path and plowed through some underbrush toward the distant glow. A few thorn bushes got in his way, and he circumvented these obstacles with little difficulty.

“Almost . . . there . . .”

Hug passed through a last thicket, emerged from the forest, and found himself in the field that was the westernmost portion of the Hannersby Estate. Squinting, he looked at the flickering red light.

A quarter of a mile away was a huge fire. In the direct center of this blaze stood the barn.

Stunned, the anomalous boy gaped at the infernal tableau.

The smoking carcasses of the pygmy sheep, the two-headed pig, and the “talking” moose lay beside the burning edifice. With bright incisors, wild wolves pulled strips of meat from the deceased specimens.

Scared, Hug looked away from the barn and eyed the gabled, four-story house.

This separate building was currently unaffected by the fire.

Employing the crutch, the anomalous boy hastened to the place that had been his home for more than three and a half years. Flames threw his unique shadow across the grass and breathed hotly upon the left side of his body as he crossed the open field. Never before had the Hannersby Estate seemed quite so immense.

Hug reached the front of the house, retrieved the hidden key from the brainpan of a buried opossum skull, climbed the landing, unlocked the entrance, flung the door, and ambled inside. His crutch smacked floorboards and echoed loudly as he hurried past the framed photographs of odd circus folks.

Inside the living room, he hopped onto the upholstered chair that was next to the wall telephone, hung the receiver upon his nubbin, inserted one of his four fingers into the 9 of the rotary dial, drew a clockwise circle, and repeated this lattermost action twice with the number 1. The plastic circle spun and stopped.

The anomalous boy inflated his lungs and set the telephone receiver against his right ear.

Something boomed, and Hug looked at the window.

Outside, the barn was collapsing. Smoke and debris billowed as the roof sank into the fiery interior.

“Is this a police, fire, or medical emergency?” inquired a woman.

“There’s a fire, but I need an ambulance too—with three stretchers—for Doctor Hannersby and two other grown-ups. They ate some mushrooms and got sick.”

“What is the address?”

“The forest.”

“What forest?”

“The one behind the Hannersby Estate. That’s where they are.”

“I’ll dispatch an ambulance to the estate.”

“Okay. And a fire engine also. Maybe two.”

“Your name is?”

“Hug Hannersby.”

“They’ll be right over.”

A click sounded on the line.

The anomalous boy hung up the phone, looked at the window, and felt a weird tingling sensation climb up his spine.

Standing in front of the conflagration and staring at Hug with blind, white eyes was the Devil Goat of Nagathraxis.

XI | Two Sleepers

One unwashed, anomalous boy and six formally dressed oldsters were gathered around the open, antique coffin within which lay the still and diminutive body of the teratologist. On either side of Hug Hannersby stood Sidney and Phalanges, who were covered with olive-green rashes from which grew little white beards. The two remaining members of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences had brought the adopted specimen and former acolyte to the funeral.

All of the mourners stared at Doctor Hannersby.

“Look at Hannersby’s hands,” Sidney whispered to Phalanges.

The lank mycologist and the anomalous boy looked at the teratologist’s small, youthful hands.

“Did you ever see his feet?” inquired the portly phrenologist. “Like his hands, they too stopped aging when he was twelve.”

It did not seem like Phalanges was very interested in these observations.

Hug returned his gaze to Doctor Hannersby, who had been lying still for a very long time. “Is he going to wake up soon?”

The lank mycologist shook his head, but did not remove his gaze from the coffin. “He’s dead.”

“But when will he wake up?”

Phalanges glared at Hug. “Why did you fetch those mushrooms?”

The anomalous boy was confused by the question. “Um . . . Doctor Hannersby told me to get them.”

“Well you got the wrong ones. The beards were supposed to be—”

“Don’t blame the boy,” interrupted Sidney.

“Well this certainly isn’t my fault,” rasped Phalanges. “It was dark—I couldn’t see what he’d picked. He got the wrong ones.”

“There’s no point in blaming anybody.”

The lank mycologist huffed, and the portly phrenologist sniffled twice, scratched his olive-green rash, and wiped his eyes.

“Did I do something wrong . . . ?” inquired Hug.

Nobody answered his inquiry.

———

Later that day, the cemetery was visited by Abigail Westinghouse, who had black clothing, a colorful bouquet, and a bit more silver in her hair than when she had breakfasted with George Dodgett. Her shadow fell upon the inscription of an isolated headstone, which read: In Loving Memory of Meredith Jubilee Chickenpenny.

Abigail kneeled and set the flowers upon the grave.

“I’m sorry.”

XII | Unwanted Again

Dressed in an oversized blue suit that had once belonged to Doctor Hannersby, Hug Hannersby sat upon a bare mattress in the corner of a long room that contained twenty-six bunk beds. The anomalous boy looked through an unclear window at an oval of green grass that was circumscribed by a tall concrete wall. Mirthful toddlers and older children tumbled about this yard like crazy insects.

Heavy footfalls resounded in the inner hallway of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, and Hug turned his head to face the approaching visitor.

A golden object flew across the sleeping quarters and slammed into his stomach.

Gasping, the anomalous boy doubled over. His heart beat a few uneven triplets, but soon, he refilled his lungs and sat upright.

Lying on the floor between his dangling loafers was the mutilated and repaired golden gorilla of his infancy.

Heavy footfalls echoed, and he raised his head.

Standing across from Hug and wearing thick boots, a dark brown skirt, and a matching blouse was a plump, bleached blonde woman who had two long, deep facial scars.

“Hello,” said the anomalous boy, who vaguely recalled the person whom he had just greeted.

“That stuffed gorilla is yours. It was in the basement.”

Although confused by the ungentle manner in which the toy had been returned, Hug nodded his head in appreciation. “Thank you.”

Silently and coldly, the scarred woman stared.

The anomalous boy leaned over and reached for the golden gorilla.

His hand soon gripped a furry limb.

“You only have one arm.”

“Correct.” Hug sat up and set the golden gorilla on his lap. “But it works just fine.”

The scarred woman said nothing.

At present, the anomalous boy stroked the tacky fur of the stuffed animal. Warm memories surfaced of a chubby, redheaded caretaker who had a neat beard and soft hands.

“You probably don’t remember me from when you were here the first time,” said the scarred woman. “I worked at the front desk as the receptionist.”

“I remember a little bit.”

“Well now I’m the Mistress of the orphanage—Mistress Jennifer Kimberly, and I’m in charge of everything. You do what I say, or you’ll get in trouble.”

“I’ll behave.”

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly openly appraised Hug for a ponderous moment.

Uncomfortable, the anomalous boy swallowed spit and forced a smile to his face. “Is Georgie still here . . . ?”

The instructor stopped breathing. Fists clenched on either side of her wide hips, and her eyebrows drew together.

A cold feeling filled Hug. His red eye blinked, and he waggled his nubbin.

A rigid index finger pointed to the two deep scars that ran from Mistress Jennifer Kimberly’s right temple all the way down to her chin.

“‘Georgie’ did this to me.”

Frightened, Hug lowered his gaze.

“Don’t you dare look away from me when I’m talking to you, Hug Hannersby!”

The anomalous boy looked up at the instructor.

“I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“‘Georgie’ no longer works here. An impartial jury of ‘Georgie’s’ peers put him in jail for the next five years because he assaulted me.

“Your beloved ‘Georgie’ is a very, very bad man.”

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly stared at Hug. It seemed like she was expecting him to contradict her in some way, but he said nothing.

His nubbin waggled twice.

Mollified, the instructor nodded her head. “The other orphans will return in two hours.”

“Okay.”

“Try not to scare them.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly appraised Hug, grimaced, and turned away. Hard boot heels smacked the concrete as she walked past bunk beds and into the hallway, where she then paused and glanced over her shoulder.

“Welcome back, monster.”

The door slammed, and a bolt snapped.

Diminishing footfalls thudded down the inner hallway.

Alone in the corner of the sleeping quarters and sitting on a bare mattress, Hug stared at the toy ape.

“Darn it.”

XIII | Other Children

Waiting in the sleeping quarters of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, Hug Hannersby watched the shadows that were cast by the sun grow longer and change directions. The question of whether or not he was responsible for Doctor Hannersby’s death was in his mind as were some dim, fond recollections of Georgie. Four small, pink fingers played absently with the golden gorilla for the duration of these midday ruminations.

Something rumbled in the hallway and garnered the attention of the anomalous boy. Accompanying this sound were whispers, squeaks, and giggles.

Heavy footfalls echoed.

Hug righted his sitting posture.

The door opened.

Silhouetted in the entryway was Mistress Jennifer Kimberly. “Hug Hannersby?”

“Yes?”

“Walk over to the middle of the sleeping quarters and stand there.”

“Okay.”

The anomalous boy ambled to the exact center of the room, and the instructor returned her attention to the hallway, where the sounds of children percolated.

“Everybody stand in a single-file line,” announced Mistress Jennifer Kimberly.

A rumbling sound came from the passage.

“Take the hand of whoever is in front of you,” ordered the instructor.

A few orphans whispered and giggled.

“This is serious,” stated Mistress Jennifer Kimberly, who then lowered her gaze to a nearby child. “I’ll take your hand, Hamilton, since you’re the leader. Now everyone, close your eyes.”

Hug imagined many sets of scrunched eyelids.

“Good,” remarked the instructor, who then leaned over and took the small pale hand of the child who stood at the front of the line. “I’ll lead all of you inside.”

Excited squeaks and whispers sounded in the passage.

Into the sleeping quarters, Mistress Jennifer Kimberly led a procession of twelve linked orphans whose eyes were tightly closed.

“Do not look until I give you permission to do so. Peeking is an infraction and punishable.”

The instructor led the children toward the anomalous boy who currently stood like a statue in the exact middle of the room.

Anxious, Hug waggled his nubbin.

“Halt,” ordered Mistress Jennifer Kimberly.

The twelve orphans stopped walking. Some of them looked as if they were excited, while others appeared to be fearful.

The anomalous boy looked at the instructor. “What do I do?”

A girl shrieked.

“What was that?” inquired a boy who had dark skin.

“Everybody stand still and be quiet,” ordered Mistress Jennifer Kimberly.

Hug silently mouthed the word, “Understood.”

“All right everyone . . . open your eyes.”

Twenty-four eyes looked at the anomalous boy.

Gasps, yelps, and screams echoed throughout the sleeping quarters. Two children fainted. Three boys ran to the farthest bed and climbed up to the top bunk, while a couple of others hid underneath small blankets. A freckled girl ran for the window and pounded on the glass with her closed fists. The wary remainder backed slowly away.

“Children,” Mistress Jennifer Kimberly said, “come back here at once.”

Frightened orphans remained at the perimeters of the room.

Hug knew that he was anomalous (and of great teratological interest), but he did not understand why the other children had run away from him. “I’m not scary.”

A hidden boy yipped.

“Dessert will be cancelled for an entire week unless you behave yourselves,” said the instructor. “Come back here right now and look at the new resident.”

Wary orphans who favored desserts approached Hug. Their steps were not hasty.

The anomalous boy surveyed the other children. Although each one was different in some way—some were tall and some were dark and some were girls—every single one of them had a round head, a protuberant nose, and matching sets of eyes, arms, and legs.

“Now that you’ve seen him,” Mistress Jennifer Kimberly stated, “you may go to your bunks for naptime.”

Relieved, the orphans dispersed. Bed springs squeaked as these symmetrical children climbed into their bunks.

At the age of five, Hug finally realized what it really meant to be anomalous. His nubbin waggled minutely.

“What’s wrong with me?”

XIV | Cold Coffee and Old Obituaries

Alone in a black-and-white kitchenette and sitting at a clear table was Abigail Westinghouse, who wore a maroon bathrobe and a matching slip. Her elbows, five Chinese food containers, and several art magazines crowded the large glass surface that took up half of the room.

At present, she scanned the obituary page of a local newspaper that had been lying around for no less than three weeks. Abigail and Meredith had occasionally read the more interesting death notices to each during their years as college roommates, regardless of the fact that this hobby was perceived by some to be morbid.

An obese cat thudded on the table. Three chopsticks arced into the air and clattered on the floor.

Irked, the brunette eyed the feline. “Oboe! You’ve made quite a mess.”

Oboe surveyed the disorganized apartment and looked at Abigail.

There was some sarcasm in this gaze.

“Don’t get sassy—I’ve intentions to clean up. Serious intentions.”

The cat had doubts.

“Now—with your permission—I’m going to continue reading about dead people.”

The obese feline did not object.

At present, the brunette returned her attention to the obituary page.

Papers rustled. Circumventing a pile of takeout containers, Oboe stepped on a packet of hot sauce.

Red fluid squirted onto Abigail’s left hand and the newspaper. “Crap.”

The cat fled, and the brunette got up, washed the condiment from her person, and returned to the dinner table. Hot sauce had highlighted one of the obituaries.

The reddened entry read: “Doctor Chauncey Hartfordshire Hannersby, 68, died yesterday after eating two mushrooms that were later determined to be toxic. The doctor of teratology is survived by his adoptive son, Hug Hannersby, 5, who will be returned to Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted immediately following the funeral service this Saturday.

“Doctor Hannersby’s estate was willed to the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences, of which he was the founding member.”

The intervening years had lessened the feelings of guilt that arose whenever Abigail thought of Meredith’s child, but even now, those emotions had not fully faded. Perhaps some lingering misgivings regarding the orphan would haunt her always.

The brunette turned the page and claimed a chipped coffee mug from the edge of the table. Avoiding the cracked part of the rim, she drank.

Cold fluid that might have been liquefied dirt trespassed her anatomy.

“That was better two days ago.”

XV | Clandestine Crafts

Fluorescent lights illuminated the Arts & Crafts room, where long benches stood on either side of a main table that had paste jars, stacks of construction paper, and fat crayon boxes. Seated here were Hamilton, who still had blond curls upon his pristine head, Egg Roll, who was now a bit plump, Cocoa, who wore pig-tails and denim overalls, the freckled girl (who was named Cinnamon), and eight other children who drew somewhat recognizable pictures of houses, cars, and horses.

Alone in the far corner of the room and hunched in an orange plastic chair at a table of the same color was the six-and-a-half-year-old anomaly, Hug Hannersby. His nubbin had grown three inches during the previous eighteen months, and a mane of untamed white hair sprouted from his lumpy head.

At present, the anomalous boy stooped protectively over his newest work, which was possibly the greatest of his many secret projects.

“Hug!” Hamilton shouted across the room. “All week you’ve been hiding what you’re working on from us.”

The anomalous boy did not respond to this solicitation. Clandestinely, four fingers and nubbin shaped hidden materials.

“You drawing a blueprint for another rocket ship?” inquired the blond antagonist. “So you can go back to wherever you came from?”

“He can’t help how weird he is,” defended Cocoa.

“He’s Hugly!” shouted Egg Roll. “Very Hugly!”

“Stop pesterin’ him like that,” said Cinnamon, who talked funny because she was from the South, but was nicer than all of the other children for possibly the same reason.

“He shouldn’t hide things from us,” remarked an older girl. “This’s a democracy.”

In the corner, Hug huddled over his secret project and silently continued his work.

Hamilton pounded his right fist against the main table. Toppled crayon boxes spilled lines of color.

“Uh-oh,” said Cocoa, who then shook her pigtails.

The blond antagonist rose to his feet. “Hug! Show us what you’re working on.”

“No,” replied the anomalous boy. “It’s private.”

Hamilton walked around the central table and over to Hug. “Show us right now.”

The anomalous boy hunched over his secret project and turned his head. His brown eye blinked, followed by the red one, which had gotten a little milky since his arrival at the orphanage. Three fangs protruded from his lower gums.

Disgusted, Hamilton stepped away from Hug.

“Please leave me alone,” requested the anomalous boy, who then hid his secret project inside of his desk.

The blond antagonist stepped forward.

“Show me, or I’ll take it.”

“It’s private.”

Hamilton grabbed Hug, who then flung himself bodily from his seat.

The ground slammed into the entangled orphans, and the orange plastic chair skipped across the linoleum. A pair of pale hands squeezed the mottled neck of the anomalous boy. Mismatched knees were flung.

Hoots and cheers emerged from the watching children.

Hug coughed and wriggled, twisting to the left and to the right, but Hamilton would not release his neck. Fluorescent lights glared in the eyes of the anomalous boy, who was suddenly gasping for air.

“Be nice,” rasped Hug. “Be…nice!”

Frantically, his nubbin waggled.

Heavy footfalls sounded, and a shadow covered the combatants.

“Stop fighting at once!” barked Mistress Jennifer Kimberly.

Hamilton released Hug and stepped away.

Wheezing and seeing nonexistent lights, the anomalous boy stood.

The instructor put her hands on her hips and eyed the combatants.

“What happened here?”

“Hug attacked me,” said Hamilton. “He stole the—the—the thing I was working on and put it in his desk. He won’t give it back to me.”

“That’s a fib!” cried Hug. “An outrageous fib! It’s my—”

“Let me see what you’re hiding in that desk,” interjected Mistress Jennifer Kimberly.

“But it’s private. I don’t want to show anyone until it’s ready.”

The instructor glared at the anomalous boy. “Show it to me right now or there’ll be no desserts for anyone all week.”

“Show her!” shouted Egg Roll, the older girl, and five other children.

“Can I show you outside, in private?” asked Hug.

“Speak correctly. Say, ‘May I show you outside, in private?’”

“Okay—I’m sorry. May I show you outside, in private?”

“Absolutely not,” stated Mistress Jennifer Kimberly. “Show me right now in front of everybody.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The anomalous boy hobbled toward his desk. His curved leg was able to support his weight at this time, but his hitching gait was very lopsided.

A look of distaste played upon the instructor’s face as she watched him move.

Hug arrived at his desk, reached inside, and withdrew his secret project. Brought into the public eye and made out of papier mâché and wire was a sixteen-inch cylinder that was one fourth as big in diameter and bent in the middle. One end of this object was hollow, and the other end was a prehensile sculpture that had five curled digits.

Into the opening, the anomalous boy slid his nubbin.

Hug looked around the room and waggled the fake arm. “See? It’s just like a real one.”

“Why were you hiding this from everybody?” asked Mistress Jennifer Kimberly.

“I wanted to put it on at night . . . so that everyone would think it grew there by itself.”

Several boys laughed.

Pleased by this reaction, Hug waggled the papier mâché prosthesis.

A couple of other children giggled.

“It isn’t yet complete,” stated the anomalous boy. “I need to color the skin so that it’ll appear more lifelike.”

Cinnamon clapped. “It looks real good.”

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly leaned over and jerked the faux arm off of Hug.

“Ouch.”

The anomalous boy looked at his nubbin, which had been scratched by the brusque removal of the fake arm.

“You can’t have this,” proclaimed the instructor.

“Why? I made it.”

“It’s too dangerous. You’ve already hurt yourself.”

“You did that. You pulled it off incorrectly.”

“Don’t contradict me.”

The anomalous boy swallowed the complaints that were in his mouth.

“You might use it to hurt someone else,” added Mistress Jennifer Kimberly. “I can’t allow you to have it.”

Hug shook his head. “I won’t hurt anybody—I promise that I won’t. Please . . . I worked on it for two weeks.”

Coolly, the instructor dropped the prosthesis on the ground and raised her right leg.

The anomalous boy felt his stomach knot. “Don’t.”

A thick boot heel stomped curled, papier mâché fingers.

Hug felt sick.

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly raised her right boot from the flattened hand. A second brutal stomp crushed the elbow and forearm.

Stunned, the anomalous boy stared at his destroyed creation.

“All right children,” Mistress Jennifer Kimberly said, “return to your assigned seats and resume your activities.”

Orphans dispersed and arranged their rumps upon the benches of the main table.

Mismatched eyes blinked and stung. A shadow fell, and Hug raised his watery gaze.

There stood Mistress Jennifer Kimberly. “You should draw pictures of houses like the other children.”

“Okay,” replied the anomalous boy, who had very little interest in houses.

“No more fake arms and spaceships.”

Hug was unable to verbalize the expected response. Instead, he simply nodded an affirmation.

“Even though you’re deformed, you should try to act properly.”

“Okay.”

The anomalous boy wiped his eyes and walked toward his private table. Something clanged inside of the metal garbage can, but he did not look back to verify whether or not this something had been his trampled creation.

Greenish-blue moonbeams slid through the window of the sleeping quarters. It was three minutes after eleven o’clock and all but one of the orphans that occupied this room were unconscious. This unsleeping individual lay upon a top bunk and wore a girl’s nightgown, which fit his anomalous shape better than did any of the boy’s pajamas.

From beneath a lumpy pillow, Hug Hannersby withdrew a stack of construction paper.

A brown eye blinked, and a red one dilated. Quietly, the anomalous boy sorted through these colored pages and laid them out upon his bed. The end result was a rectangle that had four horizontal rows and five vertical columns.

Scanning eyes blinked asynchronously.

Thus arranged, the twenty sheets formed a very detailed blueprint for a rocket ship that was covered with lightning bolts, racing stripes, fins, portholes, satellite dishes, and laser cannons.

Hug put a pencil in his mouth, nibbled the wood with his fangs, and scrutinized the plan. Things looked pretty good, though the outboard gear might create too much drag during liftoff and whenever else the vehicle was stuck inside of the Earth’s atmosphere.

The anomalous boy erased the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth satellite dishes.

“Antennas will decrease resistance,” he said to himself.

Hug drew these wires as gently as possible so that the scratching sounds of his pencil would not awaken any of the other orphans. The antennae were soon in place.

At present, the anomalous boy leaned back and appraised the grand design.

Things looked good.

His eyes fixed upon the thrusters.

“A greater power supply might be needed,” Hug said to himself.

Gently, he drew lightning bolts upon the rocket boosters.

“That should get it off of Earth.”

XVI | The Instructor’s Lesson

A summer wind tickled the green leaves of the trees that surrounded Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted.

Panting and uneven footfalls echoed in the inner hallway of this facility as Hug Hannersby carried his plastic orange chair and matching desk toward the door of The Junior Academy. Sweat dripped down his lumpy brow, stained the armpits of his inherited suit, and stung his mismatched eyes. The brown one blinked twice as quickly as did the red one, which had grown slightly cloudier during the previous
six months.

Into the classroom, the anomalous boy carried his cumbersome plastic burden.

“Once Hug Hannersby has settled,” Mistress Jennifer Kimberly said from behind her desk, “I will begin today’s lesson.”

The faces of fifteen students eyed the tardy arrival, who was late that day because he had been told to wash his special furniture.

Hug ambled past the orphans and reached the far corner of the room, where he stopped and arranged his orange plastic chair and table.

“Hug Hannersby?”

Wheezing, the anomalous boy sat down. “P-p-present.”

“Some of the children said that you have been staying up late and doing things.”

Perplexed, Hug filled his little lung and then the big one. “W-w-what?”

“Speak courteously. If you do not understand something that I’ve said, please say, ‘Pardon me, Mistress, will you please repeat yourself?’”

“S-s-sorry. Pardon me—” the anomalous boy gasped. “Mistress . . . will you p-please—” He sucked oxygen. “—please repeat y-yourself?”

“You heard me. What were you doing late last night when you should have been asleep?”

“I-I was trying to fall asleep.”

“You are a liar, Hug Hannersby. A deceiver.”

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly opened the top drawer of her desk and extracted a stack of construction paper that was twenty sheets thick.

Instantly, Hug recognized the rocket-ship blueprint that he had been working on since the summer. His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped as he recalled the fate of his previous secret project.

The instructor grabbed the stack of paper with two fists.

Hug opened his mouth and shook his head. “Be nice. Please . . .”

A nubbin waggled.

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly ripped the papers in half. “You are a deceiver, Hug Hannersby, and you are a thing—a gross, deformed thing. Look at you. Look at you!”

A door slammed against the wall.

The instructor and all of the orphans looked toward the entryway, where stood an unknown woman who had a black business suit, sharp high-heels, and short brunette hair that was twined with silver.

“If you say one more mean thing to that boy,” the stranger hissed, “I’ll grab that stapler from your desk and close your mouth permanently.”

Outraged, Mistress Jennifer Kimberly rose from her chair. “I don’t know who you think you are, but in this place—”

“I’m Abigail Westinghouse, and I filed adoption papers for Hug Hannersby last month. Now sit down and be silent.”

The instructor opened her mouth, but said nothing.

Confused, Hug looked at the stranger who was named Abigail Westinghouse. Very few orphans were ever adopted from Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, and it seemed unlikely that a deformed one would be chosen over those who were regular.

The instructor bristled and cleared her throat. “This is my classroom, Miss Westinghouse, and if—”

“Shut up. No need for this to get any uglier than it already has.”

Cowed, the instructor said nothing.

———

Abigail Westinghouse turned away from Mistress Jennifer Kimberly and looked at Hug for the second time in her entire life.

Despite herself, she felt a pang of revulsion when she saw her deceased friend’s offspring, whose lumpy head, mismatched eyes, protruding fangs, mottled skin, and uneven limbs were more pronounced in person than they had been in the blurry photographs that she had been given by the orphanage.

Effortfully, the brunette stuffed down her discomfort and smiled at the anomalous boy. “Hello, Hug.”

Hug gaped at Abigail. It seemed like he was awestruck.

“I’m Abigail.”

Mismatched eyes blinked a complicated pattern. “Hi.”

“Would you like to leave the orphanage and come live with me?”

Unsure, Hug looked towards Mistress Jennifer Kimberly, who sat silently at her desk. Her eyes were focused on some red pens.

“May I be excused, Mistress?” asked the anomalous boy.

Abigail shook her head. “You don’t have to listen to her anymore.”

The instructor remained silent, as did the other fifteen orphans. Cautiously, Hug stood up from his seat.

“Let’s get out of this place,” said the brunette.

The anomalous boy pointed his stump at a chair and desk that were made out of orange plastic. “Should I bring my special furniture?”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s too small. And it hurts my back.”

Abigail glared at Mistress Jennifer Kimberly, who did not raise her gaze from the pair of red pens.

The brunette walked to the far corner and opened the window. “Throw that junk outside.”

Hug heaved his chair and desk through the window. Small plastic furniture bounced upon the lawn and settled. Orange legs pointed up at the gray sky like the limbs of slain animals.

The anomalous boy rubbed his lower back, chittered, and ambled to the instructor’s desk. From the surface he claimed some torn sheets of construction paper.

Hug turned and looked up at Abigail. There was a cataract in his red eye.

“Can we leave now?” asked the anomalous boy.

“Yes.”

Hug brought his limbs forward and hugged Abigail.

Eyes stinging, the brunette patted the curved back of the anomalous boy and pulled him closer.

Mistress Jennifer Kimberly looked at Abigail and cleared her throat. “I’m . . . I’m really sorry about the way I treated him.”

“Apologize again, and I’ll slap your face off.”

Silence spread throughout the room.

The brunette picked up the anomalous boy, cradled him against her chest, and carried him from The Junior Academy.

A smile that contained both joy and fangs shone upon the face of the adopted child.

———

Leaning over, Abigail Westinghouse pulled a maroon seatbelt across Hug’s chest and slotted the buckle, which snapped.

Fastened, the anomalous boy adjusted his baggy old man’s suit. His eyes blinked and dilated, independently, and his curved left leg bent in a way that looked painful, though the smile on his face said otherwise.

“Are you comfortable?” inquired the brunette.

“I am. Are we going to your home?”

“Yes, we are. And it’ll be our home—you get to live there with me.”

“Does my last name turn into Westinghouse now?”

“Actually, I thought that we should change it back to Chickenpenny, which was the name that belonged to your birth mother. She and I were very good friends.”

“Okay. Can you drive fast?”

“I only go fast.”

“Splendid.”

Abigail ignited the engine, flung the gear, and accelerated.

Tires screeched, and Hug waved goodbye to Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, which had twice been his home. The anomalous boy did not look sad when the gray edifice finally disappeared from view.

XVII | Wishes Realized

Holding a small, four-fingered right hand, Abigail Westinghouse led Hug into the living room of her apartment. The art magazines were now organized, and the takeout food containers, cigarette cartons, and pizza boxes had been discarded. All of the black and white surfaces were lustrous.

The brunette shut and locked the door while the anomalous boy looked around.

“It’s nice,” remarked Hug. “Far more stylish than the orphanage.”

Startled by the visitor, the obese feline leaped from the kitchenette counter, thudded on the floor, and scrambled into the bathroom.

“That’s Oboe—my cat. You’ll get to meet him later.”

“I like cats. I once saw one that was deformed like me.”

The brunette did not like hearing the anomalous boy describe himself as “deformed,” but decided against correcting his vocabulary at this time. “You must be hungry . . . ?”

“Stupendously.”

Abigail walked Hug to the kitchenette and placed him upon a padded chair. Only the top half of his head rose above the glass surface.

Wrinkling her nose, the brunette ruminated. The anomalous boy was a lot smaller than she had expected him to be.

“I’m not tall enough,” a mouth with purple interiors said from below the glass.

Abigail raised Hug, grabbed a pile of bundled magazines, and set the stack upon the chair. “This should help.”

The brunette reseated the anomalous boy, who then wiggled his rump atop the periodicals until he was settled.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll buy a proper chair for you soon.”

“Okay.” Hug gestured with his stump. “I’ve never eaten off of a glass table before—though it seems quite stylish.” He looked through the translucent surface. “I see a cigarette down there.”

This fugitive butt the brunette snatched from the floor and tossed into the trash. Three weeks earlier, she had stopped smoking because she did not think that the habit was an appropriate one for a mother to have.

“Are we going to eat soon?”

Abigail circumvented the table and faced Hug. “Do you know what day it is today?”

“Thursday.”

“That’s right. And do you know today’s date?”

“August thirty-first.”

“Yes. Does that date mean anything special to you?”

Hug raised his hand and stump in triumph. “It’s the day my new mommy saved me from the mean people at the orphanage!”

Bittersweet feelings filled Abigail. “That’s right.”

“Yay!” exulted the anomalous boy, who then shook his upraised limbs. Odd crackling noises that sounded like maracas came from his spine.

The brunette grew concerned. “Does your back usually do that?”

“All the time. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

In the very near future, Abigail intended to have a very respected physician examine Hug.

“Something else important happens today on August thirty-first,” stated the brunette. “Do you know what it is?”

“Is it a meteor shower? Or a harvest moon? Could it be a solar eclipse? That would be the most notable.”

“Something even better than those.”

Blinking asynchronous polyrhythms, Hug ruminated. “What is it?”

Abigail grinned, turned away, and walked to a tall, stainless steel refrigerator, which she then opened. Cool air and bluish white light poured into the kitchenette.

Something clicked and clacked behind the brunette, who then spun around to see what was happening.

Hug was looking over his own back. His head was turned all the way around.

Abigail shuddered.

“What’s in the refrigerator?” asked the anomalous boy.

“Does it hurt you . . . to do that?” inquired the brunette. “To twist your head all the way back?”

“Nope. Owls can do it too.”

“I bet they can. Well . . . now I’m going to ask you to face the table again and close your eyes.”

“Should I count to five thousand?”

Perplexed, Abigail wrinkled her mouth. “Five thousand? Why?”

“Whenever it was recess, Mistress Jennifer Kimberly told me to shut my eyes and count to five thousand before going to the playground.”

Abigail snorted angrily and shook her head. “You won’t do that here—that’s a stupid game.”

“I thought so, too—I could never finish in time.”

“I want you to turn around and shut your eyes so that I can give you a surprise. You only need to count to ten.”

“That’s simple.”

“No peeking.”

Vertebrae clicked and clacked as the anomalous boy swiveled his head forward and shut his eyes.

Abigail reached her hands into the chill air of the refrigerator and withdrew a long, narrow box.

“One . . .” Hug counted, “two . . .”

Holding the package, the brunette elbowed shut the refrigerator door and crossed the kitchenette.

“Three . . . four . . .”

Abigail set the box upon the glass table and raised the lid, which revealed a twelve-layer cake that looked like a rocket ship. Seven gold candles extruded from the silver hull of the vehicle.

“Five . . . six . . .”

From the countertop, the brunette snatched a gold lighter, which was engraved, For Abigail W. with love, Meredith C.

“Seven . . . eight . . .”

Time was running out. Abigail thumbed the gear, which snapped.

Sparks flickered, but the flame did not catch. “Nine . . . t—”

“Wait. Start over from one.”

“Okay,” said Hug. “One . . . two . . .”

Again, the brunette thumbed the lighter. This time a flame was conjured and successively installed upon the tips of seven candles.

“Three . . . four . . .”

Abigail spun around, opened a drawer, and withdrew two polka-dotted party hats. The first one she donned herself and the second one she set atop a lumpy scalp that had a thicket of white hair.

“Five . . . six . . . seven . . .”

The brunette pulled the elastic band under her chin and one that was anomalous.

“Eight . . . nine . . . ten!”

Hug opened his eyes and looked at the cake that lay before him on the glass table. Candle flames sparkled brightly within his mismatched eyes.

“Happy birthday, Hug!”

The anomalous boy blinked. “It’s my birthday today?”

“It is.”

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Am I seven?”

“Count the candles.”

In succession, Hug pointed his stump at each flame. “Seven. I’m seven. That’s the best! I’m a real man now.”

“Almost. Now make a wish before you blow out the candles.”

“Can I say more than one?”

“You’re not supposed to say your wish out loud.”

Mismatched eyes blinked, and a stump waggled. “Who’s going to hear my wishes if I don’t say them out loud?”

“Um . . . God?”

“Doctor Hannersby told me that there’s no such thing. That God was invented by people who weren’t smart enough to understand science.”

Abigail was spiritual, but not a member of any specific organized religion, and she did not want to discuss theology with Hug at this time. “Well . . . you can make your wish—or wishes—out loud if you want to. It’s your birthday.”

“That’s sensible.” Candle flames flickered as the anomalous boy ruminated. “Are there any wars going on right now?”

“Yes, but far away from here.”

“Are there any starving people?”

“There are.”

“I wish for all of the wars to stop and for cake to feed all of the starving people.”

“Those are very nice wishes.”

“And for a rocket ship.”

Hug sucked air into his lungs and exhaled a whistling, but powerful, breath.

Seven flames turned into luminous wicks that trailed smoke.

“You got them all!” said Abigail, who made a mental note to bring Hug to a good pulmonologist as well as a respected physician.

Nodding, the anomalous boy eyed the cake. “I’d like a big piece, please. I’ve never had a birthday cake before.”

“How about the nose cone?”

“Splendid.”

A purplish tongue slithered across three fangs as the brunette decapitated the rocket.

XVIII | Television Tutelage

Shades were drawn over the windows in a place that was dimly illuminated by a lime green Tyrannosaurus Rex who wore a sombrero and was a nightlight. The bedroom door opened, admitting Oboe. Whiskers and eyes flickered with purpose.

The obese feline crept across the room and jumped up to a desk by using a shoe and a chair as its steppingstones. This ascension could not be described as graceful.

Oboe trod upon comic books and action figures and leaped from the desk onto a soft bed, where lay Hug Chickenpenny, who wore astral-themed pajamas that had been tailored to fit his unique form.

The obese feline walked across the lumpy face of the anomalous boy, who then chittered.

Hug bared his five fangs in a friendly smile. “Good morning.”

Oboe snorted.

Sitting up, the anomalous boy scratched his neck, where three weeks earlier, two purple pustules had appeared. These growths were always itchy in the morning.

Footfalls sounded in the hallway.

“It’s time to get up,” Abigail said while entering the room.

“I’m up—Oboe walked on my face.”

The mother wrinkled her mouth, said, “Hm,” and looked at the obese feline.

“He didn’t hurt me,” defended Hug.

“Nonetheless, faces shouldn’t be walked upon.”

Abigail raised the shade.

White flecks of snow fell between the window and the bluish-gray sky.

“It’s snowing!” The anomalous boy motioned to a thick notebook that lay upon his desk. “I have diagrams for a few igloos in there. And a preliminary sketch for an ice pyramid.”

“You’ve got something else on your itinerary for today.”

“That’s right! The new tutor.”

“She’ll be here in half an hour.”

“I hope she’s better than the last one.” A memory of the previous tutor yelling, Don’t get too close to me! came to Hug. “He wasn’t nice.”

“That’s why I fired him.”

———

Silver cocktail napkins covered the genitals of several paintings that hung upon the walls of the den, a room with three black leather sofas, a glass coffee table, and a big television. Upon the central couch sat Hug Chickenpenny, bathed and wearing blue, and Abigail, who had recently donned a burgundy skirt suit.

At present, the mother and son watched a game show.

A tan man who had luminous teeth, a slender necktie, and hair that looked like a wood carving faced a hysterical guest. “Lizette,” the host shouted, “you’ve won five consecutive Bonko Rounds, but will you risk everything—nine hundred dollars!—for a chance at thirty-six hundred dollars!?!”

“Yes!” shrieked the contestant.

Applause exploded from the television.

“Why do people get so excited about winning money?” inquired Hug. “Is everybody broke?”

“People tend to want more than they have.”

A doorbell rang.

Abigail raised the remote control, which she thumbed. The button clicked, and the crowd of money worshippers turned into a blank, gray screen.

“Is it her?” asked the anomalous boy.

“Should be. Wait right here.”

Abigail set down her chipped mug of coffee and departed.

Hug reclaimed the clicker and snapped buttons.

The television displayed a black-and-white image of a rocket ship, The Spacecutter, which currently flew on roaring thrusters toward some far-off destination. Although the anomalous viewer knew that sound could not be heard in the vacuum of outer space, he enjoyed watching the vehicle soar further and further from the gravity well of planet Earth.

In another room, a door closed, and a bolt snapped.

“Right this way, Mrs. Picktree,” said Abigail.

Upon roaring thrusters, the rocket sped toward the moon. It was unclear if this lunar object was made out of cheese, and if so, which variety.

Adult footfalls sounded upon the floorboards.

The anomalous boy fingered the volume to a lower setting and looked toward the doorway.

Standing next to Abigail was a hunched oldster who wore a yellow dress and a matching bonnet. Held in her rugose hands and decorated with pearls was an ancient purse.

“Hug. This is Mrs. Picktree.”

“Please call me Esther. My friends and family call me Esther—though that was a while ago, since most of them have passed away. Except for my husband . . . he’s still around.”

The old tutor sighed.

Hug waved his hand and waggled his nubbin. “Hello.”

Esther squinted her wrinkly eyes. “Good morning, Hug.”

The old tutor started toward the couch, where sat the anomalous boy.

She rubbed her squinting eyes as she proceeded and wrinkled her brow.

“I’m your new tutor.”

“Splendid. First thing I want to learn is how to build a rocket.”

Esther reached the sofa, sat down, and fanned herself with her right hand. “You need to have a strong academic background to be a rocket scientist. You must study very, very hard—science and math especially.”

“I’ll do whatever’s required—I need to build a rocket.”

“Why’s that?”

“So I can get off of this godforsaken planet, pronto!”

Puzzled, Esther looked at Abigail.

“He likes science fiction shows and comics,” explained the mother.

The old tutor replaced her attention on the anomalous boy. Again, she rubbed her wrinkly eyes.

Hug pointed his nubbin at the television. “That’s what Douglas Starchaser says right before he blasts off. ‘Let’s get off of this godforsaken planet, pronto!’ and then whoosh, he’s off to someplace better.”

“Oh . . . I see. Well then. Ahem. Let me get my glasses . . .” Rugose fingers unsnapped the ancient purse.

For some reason, Abigail looked very worried. “Hug. Please turn off the television.”

“Okay.”

Hug picked up the clicker and pressed the power button, which snapped. The speeding rocket turned into a blank, gray square.

Things crinkled, rattled, and jingled as Esther rummaged through her purse. Pill bottles, cough drops, hard candies, keys, baubles, receipts, and half of a tuna fish sandwich were turned over by her wriggling fingers. From this jumble, she extricated a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“Those’re neat!” exclaimed Hug.

Abigail clenched her hands and hid them behind her back.

Esther set the glasses upon her face. Magnified eyes looked through corrective lenses at the anomalous boy.

There was a moment of silence.

“My goodness,” said the old tutor.

Hug smiled.

Startled, Esther shrank back in her seat. “My goodness.”

The anomalous boy scratched the purple pustules that grew upon his neck.

Abigail cleared her throat. “Those sores aren’t in any way contagious. The doctor said they’re just some kind of rash.”

“My goodness.”

Perspiration beaded upon Esther’s face, and her eyes sparkled. It seemed like she had malfunctioned.

Smiling, Hug waggled his nubbin.

“My goodness.”

Trembling, the old tutor closed her purse, wiped her face, and rose from the sofa. She took one backwards step and teetered.

Abigail reached out to help Esther.

“Ahh!”

Backing away from the mother and the anomalous boy, the old tutor shook her head. “You said that he was . . . I know that you told me . . . I didn’t really think . . . I’d like to help, but . . .”

“I understand,” said Abigail.

Hug nodded his head. “I apologize if I scared you—it wasn’t intentional.”

Esther tried to say something, but seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

The mother quietly escorted the old tutor from the den.

Alone, the anomalous boy grabbed the clicker and fingered the power button.

Upon the screen, military men who wore rubber gloves and fishbowl helmets ran toward a rocket ship. Pursuing them was a horde of tentacular aliens.

A door shut in the living room. There was a sigh, followed by footfalls.

Vertebrae crackled as Hug swiveled his head around to looked at the entryway, where stood Abigail.

“I’m sorry,” said the anomalous boy.

“Don’t apologize—you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s Mrs. Picktree’s fault.”

“Okay.”

Hug unwound his neck and watched the lunar exodus while Abigail crossed the room and sat upon the couch.

“I have to reopen the gallery today,” said the mother. “I just can’t put it off any longer. Do you want to see where your mommy works?”

Hug nodded, but did not look away from the television. “As soon as he kills these aliens.”

On the moon, Douglas Starchaser posed, laughed, and pointed his ray gun at a cowering alien.

A cartoon laser shot across the screen.

Pained tentacles writhed, and the anomalous boy cheered.

XIX | An Artistic Survey

The snow had stopped. A seatbelt tautened across Hug Chickenpenny as Abigail dialed the steering wheel clockwise. The maroon sports car cornered, and late morning sunshine shot through the windshield. Pupils constricted upon a brown iris and one that was milky and red.

The anomalous boy squinted. “Go faster.”

“Twenty miles over the speed limit seems fast enough.”

“Not for a proper liftoff.”

Eyes adjusted, the anomalous boy looked through the passenger window.

Standing in the middle of a vast lot of weeds and dirt was the town factory. Dark green smoke rose into the sky from the thirty-seven smokestacks that jutted from this red brick structure.

Memories of a fourth-floor view came to Hug. “I used to be able to see that place from my room when I lived with Doctor Hannersby.”

“It’s as old as the town itself. Maybe older.”

“He told me that they handle hazardous waste.”

“They do.” Abigail passed a car and glanced at the factory. “I think they make sausages, too.”

“Mistress Jennifer Kimberly told me that they hire deformed people there, but I told her that I wanted to be an astronaut.”

“Don’t use that word.”

“‘Astronaut’?”

“No, ‘deformed.’ You’re different, not ‘deformed.’ ‘Deformed’ is a bad way to describe a person—any person.”

“Why?”

“Because that word implies that there’s only one correct way for people to look and that any deviation from that one form is incorrect, a mistake. Every single person is unique—even identical twins—and although some people are more different than others, nobody should think that he or she is a mistake.”

Ruminating, Hug blinked his mismatched eyes. Although his mother was not a scientist, it seemed like she was pretty smart.

“Do you understand?” asked Abigail.

“I won’t say the word ‘deformed’ any more.”

“Good…though the important thing is that you don’t think of yourself in that way.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Good.”

The smell of rotting offal came into the car, and Hug looked at the distant factory.

A pale shape appeared behind one of the windows.

———

Looking through the far side of that dingy pane of glass was an emaciated man who had an overlong right arm and a distended, asymmetrical head. His rubber apron was smeared with gore, and held in his left hand was a rusty hacksaw. The anomalous fellow eyed the distant maroon car, spat tobacco juice on a cockroach, and turned back to the bloodstained abattoir, which was filled with decapitated pigs.

The factory disappeared, and Hug Chickenpenny inhaled air that did not smell like the things that were not good enough to go into a sausage.

Abigail flung the sports car around a series of winding corners.

A dense group of buildings appeared in the windshield, and the mother slowed the vehicle to the fastest permissible speed.

“Do you want to read out the names like when we went to the zoo?”

“That’s a good idea.”

The anomalous boy focused his eyes on the passing buildings.

Everything was blurry.

“I’d better slow down,” remarked Abigail, who then applied the brakes.

The shapes became crisp.

“Old and Used Books,” Hug read, “The Turntable, Fine Liquor Store, Guns for Sale, Peggy’s Diner, Gentlemen’s Club, Coin Collector, Fantasy Florist.”

“You read very, very well.”

“Doctor Hannersby taught me how. A substitute said I was advanced, but Mistress Jennifer Kimberly said I wasn’t.”

“I hope Jennifer Kimberly gets struck by lightning.”

“The chances of that happening aren’t high.”

“Then I’ll root for a plane crash where everybody else survives.”

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to her,” said Hug. “I just hope that she becomes a nice person.”

Abigail looked at Hug and patted his chest through the thick blue fabric of his parka. “You have a very forgiving heart.”

“Is that because it beats in triplets? That seems scientifically plausible.”

“I think it’s because you are a very kind young man.”

The anomalous boy felt a surge of pride whenever his mother called him a “young man.” Seven and a half years was an age of notable maturation.

Abigail braked, dialed the wheel clockwise, and sidled up to a black façade that was splattered with silver, gold, and red paint. “This’s Mommy’s business.”

“The Inner Canvas.”

“Right.”

Abigail undid Hug’s seatbelt (which had a little button that was hard for him to press with his nubbin), walked outside, shut her door, helped him to the sidewalk, closed the passenger’s side, took his gloved right hand, and proceeded toward the gallery. The air was cold, but a parka, wool pants, and the thick socks under his sneakers kept the anomalous boy warm.

At the entrance, the mother undid two locks, which snapped loudly in the space beyond. Then she flung a steel door.

Hug looked inside.

Daylight illuminated the foremost portion of the vast gallery, which had raw wood floors, cinderblock walls, and exposed steel pipes.

“Isn’t it finished yet?”

“It’s finished. It’s supposed to look like this—like it’s still under construction.”

This did not make sense to the anomalous boy, who simply waggled his nubbin in reply. Adults believed in a lot of nonsense.

Abigail led Hug inside. The clicking of hard-soled boots and the shuffle of an uneven gait echoed throughout the dark gallery.

Reaching out, the mother flipped a switch, which cracked like a gunshot.

Sixteen floodlights glared on the high ceiling, and scores of specialty fixtures illuminated works of art that hung upon the walls and sat atop pedestals.

Surveying the space, the anomalous boy scratched the purple pustules that grew upon his neck. His mother gently stopped his hand.

“Doctor Sheila said not to do that,” said Abigail.

“They itch.”

“I know, but you need to leave them alone. The doctor thinks they’ll go away faster if you don’t scratch them.”

“Okay.”

Hug tried to ignore the itchy pustules.

“Are you too warm in that parka?” the mother asked as she hung her coat upon a hook.

“Want me to help you take it off?”

“No, thank you. I feel quite toasty.”

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will.”

“So . . .” Abigail gestured expansively at the gallery “Let me show you some of the neat stuff that I sell.”

The anomalous boy clasped his mother’s hand and followed her to a large painting.

Upon this canvas was a bright blue swirl.

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“This is called an abstract painting. The artist wants you to look at the image and decide what it is for yourself. Maybe you see something that you recognize, or maybe you don’t see anything recognizable at all, and the painting just makes you feel a certain way.”

“It looks like the water in a toilet right before it goes down the drain.” Hug spun in a circle. “Whoosh!”

Abigail smirked.

“Did I get it right?” asked the anomalous boy. “Is that the answer?”

“There is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to see an abstract painting—whatever you see is valid.”

Skeptical, Hug pursed his lips and appraised the artwork. “I just see toilet water going down the drain.”

“Let me show you something else.”

The mother took the anomalous boy by the hand and led him to the opposite wall.

There hung a painting that had a pale, somewhat recognizable something afloat in a colorful haze that looked like a big mistake.

Hug pointed to the recognizable shape. “I see a cow right there. A white cow.”

“So do I. Do you like it?”

The anomalous boy wondered if he was supposed to like everything that his mother liked, and moreover, he did not want to hurt her feelings.

“You can tell me the truth,” said Abigail. “You’re allowed to like or dislike everything that’s in this gallery. Everybody has different taste, and I won’t be offended.”

“Well . . . it’s . . . sort of . . . kind of . . . okay.”

A big laugh came out of the mother, and the anomalous boy grinned with relief. It seemed as if he really did not have to like this stuff.

Abigail escorted Hug past more sloppy nonsense and around a corner. “The piece I’m taking you to is pretty different from those others. It’s a sculpture.”

“Okay,” said the anomalous boy, who did not have very high expectations.

The duo stopped.

Ahead of them and atop a pedestal was a large metal sculpture of a horse that was rearing up on its hind legs. Car tires were nailed into its sides; headlights filled its bleeding eye sockets, and a steering wheel protruded from its lacerated neck. The agonized mare was shrieking in pain through a silver grille.

Disturbed, Hug took a backwards step. “I don’t like this one.” His eyes started to sting, and his heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

“I can tell. Let’s go look at something else.”

The anomalous boy wiped his face and looked up at his mother. “Do you like it?”

“Not as much as I used to, though I appreciate the craftsmanship.”

“But it’s mean—he’s in pain. The horse. He’s just suffering.”

“Yes, but sometimes art is supposed to upset you.”

“Why?”

“It might help you work through some of your own bad feelings or change how you look at yourself or something you’re experiencing or somebody you know or once knew. And often, there’re hidden messages in this kind of art that you don’t see right away—so it can make you think, which is never a bad thing.”

The mother gestured at the horse sculpture. “For instance, this piece says something about how industrialization harms nature.”

“It’s mean, and I don’t like it.”

“That’s fine to have that reaction. Let’s go look at something else.”

“Not any others like this one.”

“There aren’t any others like this one.”

Hug wiped his eyes, turned away from the sculpture, and grabbed Abigail by the hand. Hard soles and shuffling sounds echoed as the duo left the pained horse.

The mother did not tell her son that the name of the artist who had created this equine sculpture was Meredith Chickenpenny.

“I think you’ll like these,” said Abigail, while guiding Hug into an alcove that was set apart from the main area.

Ensconced, the duo stopped.

The anomalous boy looked up.

On the wall in front of him were three portraits of the brunette and two rural landscapes that were also inhabited by her.

“It’s you!” exclaimed Hug. “Your hair’s so long and dark, and you look so pretty.”

“Thank you.”

The anomalous boy heard a quiet sniffle and looked up at his mother. “Mommy? Are you sad?”

“A little bit, but I’m also very, very happy to be here right now with you.”

“Who painted these?”

“My husband did, about twenty years ago. Not long after we were married.”

“Where did he go?”

Abigail pressed her lips together, patted Hug on the back of his head, and cleared her throat. “I’ll tell you about that another time. What do you think of that one in the middle?”

The anomalous boy inspected the indicated canvas.

In this painting, the subject sat upon the rail of a wooden bridge. Her long brunette hair was drawn into impossibly elaborate curls by the wind, and her contemplative face was turned down toward a sea of rippling water, where floated little white triangles that were distant sailboats.

“Don’t fall off!” exclaimed Hug, who was dizzied by the exaggerated perspective of the image.

“Do you like this one?”

“Yes. Your hair’s so pretty in it, and so real. It’s like you could touch it.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Long, tender fingers tussled thick white hair, and the anomalous boy chittered.

At present, Abigail led Hug from the alcove and passed by some more abstracts without stopping.

“What do you think of this one?”

The anomalous boy looked up at his mother and then to her extended index finger and then toward the object that was indicated by the aimed digit.

Covering an entire wall and illuminated by four spotlights was an immense and strange vista. The red terrain in this painting was rocky, pocked with craters, and split in half by an enormous canyon, inside of which grew lush, lime-green plants and giant melons of the same color. Above this weird topography loomed a purple sky where shone yellow suns and matching comets.

Hug wanted to dive bodily into this amazing, otherworldly landscape. “Is it Mars?”

“It’s wherever you want it to be. Do you like it?”

“It’s the best painting that I’ve ever seen!” The anomalous boy nodded his head, walked closer to the canvas, and scrutinized. “Definitely.”

“How about that one?”

Abigail pointed to the adjacent wall, and Hug swiveled his head.

Upon this surface hung another huge, weird vista. A magenta sky glowed above orange desert dunes, which were thrice split by long crevasses. Inside each of these openings grew innumerable towers of sharp blue ice.

“That’s the second best painting that I’ve ever seen!”

“That fella’s got some particularly good taste,” said a stranger who had a Southern accent that reminded the anomalous boy of the pleasantest orphan, Cinnamon.

Abigail and Hug turned to face the person who had just interjected.

Standing a couple of yards away and wearing blue jeans and brown leather was a tall, very handsome man in his mid-forties who had a thick mustache, bright blue eyes, and lush blond hair that resembled the mane of a lion. More striking than any of the aforementioned attributes was his big, friendly grin.

“Those two landscapes are the choicest cuts in this entire gallery,” said the stranger. “And—if I am not mistaken—they were both painted by the proprietress.”

The anomalous boy looked up at his mother, who was frowning. “Mommy, did you paint these?”

“I did,” replied Abigail, who then directed an unfriendly gaze at the handsome man. “We’ll be open for business tomorrow.”

The stranger maintained his noteworthy grin.

Annoyed, the mother cleared her throat. “We’re closed.”

“Does that mean you’re available to grab some chow?”

Hug looked at Abigail, who was currently too surprised for words. The handsome man smiled, revealing his teeth, which were even, white, and spectacular.

Watching the tableau, the anomalous boy waited for somebody to do something.

Abigail cleared her throat. “Who are you?”

“Sandy Huntsman.”

The handsome man extended a big hand, which was reluctantly clasped and shaken by the discomfited mother.

“Abigail Westinghouse.”

“I know.”

Sandy looked down at Hug. “And who’s this smart young fella who’s got such a good eye for artwork?”

“His name’s Hug.”

“I’m Hug.”

“Well now, that’s most certainly a name. A great one.”

The handsome man kneeled upon the wood and extended his right hand, which the anomalous boy clasped with four fingers and shook thrice.

Two bright blue eyes fixed upon a rapidly waggling nubbin.

Sandy gestured. “You ever use that stump you’ve got to put the whammo on some bad guys?”

Hug chittered.

The handsome man chuckled, stood upright, and eyed the mother. “What kind of chow do you like? Barbecue? Spaghetti? Chili? Raw fish? Did I mention barbecue?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” protested Abigail. “I haven’t agreed to anything—I don’t even know you at all.”

Sandy smiled. This was a look of triumph. “Well then,” he said, “allow me to tell you a little somethin’ about myself . . .

“I brush my teeth six times a day.

“I’ve got a five hundred acre ranch.

“I like square dancing.

“But somethin’ about me that’s a bit more interestin’—and relevant— is my memory, which is photographic, particularly, and most especially, when it comes to peoples’ faces.

“Show me an actor’s face, and I can tell you every single movie I ever saw him in. When I see a crowd at a ballgame, I’ll recognize all the ones that were there the last time. Years back, I identified a burglar from a line- up of forty-three similar lookin’ fellas, and I did that in half of a quarter second.

“That’s an eighth.”

Pausing, Sandy gestured at his surroundings.

“Eleven years ago,” he resumed, “I was here—in this gallery. You ran it with some other lady back then, who had wavy blonde hair and wore strange jewelry—like a witch or something . . . ?”

“Yes. She was my business partner.”

Hug glanced at Abigail, who still seemed a little wary of Sandy. “When I saw you talking to some customers,” the handsome man continued, “I thought to myself, ‘That’s her.’ I made a footnote in my memory banks. If my wife and I ever split up, I’ll come back here and talk to that lady. That one’s gonna be worth all the hassles.”

Abigail reddened.

Sandy displayed an array of brilliant teeth.

“So . . . you’re divorced?” asked the mother.

“Finalized last month, though we split about a year prior.”

“How did you know that I’d be here today?”

“I paid the pawnbroker across the way fifty bucks to give me a call whenever you reopened. I thought it would’ve been . . . overly familiar to contact you at your home.”

Skeptically, Abigail ruminated.

Hug looked over at Sandy, who seemed like the hero of a movie that had horses and daring rescues.

“If you’d like,” the handsome man resumed, “you can leave Hug at my place—I’ve got a babysitter that can look after him and my boy while we’re out.”

“You seem remarkably comfortable with . . .”

The mother chose not to finish this statement.

“Yeah.” The bright cheer left Sandy’s face for the first time. “Well . . . my sister is slow—so I’m accustomed to people who’re different. I find it’s best to acknowledge their differences and not just pretend that they’re like everybody else—’cause they aren’t. Accept, recognize, and even poke fun at what’s different and it’s no longer somethin’ to be ashamed of, you know? But that’s just the way I look at things.”

Abigail cleared her throat. “I like barbecue.”

XX | Unsupervised Nights

In the passenger seat of the parked car, Hug Chickenpenny watched Abigail, who was checking her recently applied lipstick and eyeliner in the rearview mirror. All of a sudden, the brunette looked like a movie star.

The anomalous boy motioned to the spaghetti straps that upheld the top of his mother’s small, scarlet dress. “Are those strong enough to keep it from falling down?”

“Let’s hope.”

Hug looked away from Abigail and surveyed the environs, which were vast, green, and surrounded by a tall fence. Cattle dotted a far horizon, and horses languidly walked in a corral that adjoined a sizable two-story house. This was undoubtedly a very impressive property.

“Are you going to marry him?” inquired the anomalous boy.

“I’m going to have dinner with him. He seems very nice, right?”

“He does seem nice—very nice—but . . .”

Worriedly, Hug looked at the house. Almost nothing was known about Rex, Sandy’s son, the child with whom he would spend the evening.

“Are you worried about something?”

“What if Rex is mean like the boys at the orphanage? Or what if the babysitter is mean?”

Abigail screwed the cap onto her lipstick, which she then placed into her clutch. “That’s why we’re here early. If you don’t feel comfortable with Rex or the babysitter, we’ll go home.”

Mismatched eyes blinked in an erratic pattern. “Okay.”

The mother and the anomalous boy departed from the car and proceeded up the walkway to the mahogany front door.

There, Abigail wedged her black clutch in her armpit, fixed her dangling earrings, and pulled some renegade strands of silver hair from her eyelashes. A painted index fingernail pressed the mother-of-pearl doorbell.

Within the house, two dings were followed by one dong.

Hug felt quick triplets in his chest.

Something popped, whistled through the air, and cracked into the wooden door. A small divot sat at the point of impact.

Concerned, the anomalous boy looked over his shoulder.

A gleaming steel cylinder that looked like the barrel of a rifle disappeared behind a hedgerow.

Hug felt a chill. “Mommy . . .”

Abigail looked away from the compact mirror that she held in her left palm. “What is it?”

“There’s a sniper.”

The shadow behind the foliage disappeared at the exact moment that Hug pointed his nubbin. “He was over there.”

“Who was?”

A bolt snapped, and the front door opened.

Abigail turned around, and Hug diverted his attention from the hedgerow.

Standing inside the house in blue jeans, brown boots, and a matching sweater was Sandy. The handsome man grinned while appraising the stylish attire that was worn by the mother.

“I hope that The Dapper Pig has a fancy section.”

“I overdid it a bit, didn’t I?” remarked Abigail.

“Significantly, but you look gorgeous.”

The mother’s cheeks reddened, though she did not look angry.

“Hey there, young fella,” Sandy said to Hug. “You’re gonna have some good fun tonight.”

The anomalous boy said, “Okay,” and checked for snipers.

“Come on inside.”

Hug and Abigail followed Sandy into the front hall, which contained an artificial jungle that was inhabited by numerous wild animals, none of which were moving.

The anomalous boy surveyed the taxidermy.

Within the faux vegetation were five bears, preserved in displays of ferocity, six proud elks, and a pair of lions that threatened a startled deer, a grumpy badger, and a terrified boar. Three hawks, talons outstretched, and five silently screaming eagles dangled on wires that depended from the ceiling.

Abigail gestured at the animals. “I can’t believe that your ex-wife didn’t want these.”

“Surprising isn’t it?” Sandy threw a grin and looked at Hug. “What do you think?”

The anomalous boy was impressed by all of the wild animals, but felt a little sad that they were no longer alive. His nubbin pointed at the largest of the five bears, which was standing upright and roaring. “Is that a grizzly?”

“It is.”

“Did you shoot it?”

“Nope. My pa took that one down.” The handsome man pointed at two smaller bears. “I bagged those.”

“Those aren’t so big.”

“I’m not as good a hunter as my pa was . . . and he wasn’t half as good as my grandpa.”

Abigail inspected the startled deer. “Do you hunt often?”

“When my ex-wife and I were still together, she turned into a vegetarian, and I went huntin’ all the time with my pals—to make her mad, I figure, though I didn’t see it that way then.” Sandy scratched his mustache. “I don’t hunt anymore, though—pretty much lost my taste for it.

“These days, I’d much rather go to galleries or dinner theater . . . which is coincidentally what my ex-wife always wanted to do . . .” The handsome man smirked. “Odd how that worked out, isn’t it?”

“Certainly.”

“‘Cause my ex-wife sure does love that dinner theater.”

“Maybe we should put a moratorium for the rest of the evening on using the term ‘ex-wife.’”

“You’re right—and I’m sorry about that.” Sandy scratched his mustache. “I haven’t been out on a date in a good long while.”

Abigail looked at her clutch and nodded. “Neither have I.”

In the foliage that stood behind the lions, Hug saw a slowly moving shadow. “The sniper got in!”

“That’s just Rex,” said Sandy, who then faced the bushes. “Come on out, son.”

A scrappy nine year old who had mischievous blue eyes, wild blond hair, and camouflage clothing emerged from the greenery. Held in his right hand was some kind of rifle.

“Come on over here,” said the handsome man.

Rex walked toward the gathering and eyed Hug. “You look weird.”

Mismatched eyes blinked, and a nubbin waggled.

“Do you like to shoot things?” asked the scrappy youth.

“Um . . . yes.”

This was not exactly a true statement, since the anomalous boy had never once held a firearm of any type, but a desire to shoot things did exist.

“Watch this!”

Rex raised the rifle to his shoulder, aimed the muzzle toward the ceiling, squinted, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The firearm popped and a pellet smacked one of the hanging eagles.

Slain again, the stuffed bird spun in circles.

Hug was impressed. “Where were you trained?”

Abigail held up her hands. “Hug is not allowed to shoot things.”

The scrappy youth cocked the rifle, which startled the mother.

“Rex,” said Sandy. “You’re upsetting Miss Westinghouse.”

The scrappy youth and his handsome father eyed each other like men did on the streets of an old western town.

“Son. No more shooting tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rex lowered the pellet rifle and winked at Hug. This flashed eyelid seemed to imply some kind of conspiracy.

“Now give a proper hello to Miss Westinghouse,” said Sandy.

“Howdy.”

“Hello,” said Abigail, who was scrutinizing the firearm. “That’s a toy gun, right?”

Slow footfalls sounded in an adjacent hallway, and the handsome man gestured. “The babysitter’s on his way to get your approval, Miss Westinghouse.”

Hug and Abigail looked toward the doorway, where ambled a huddled octogenarian who wore a nightshirt and very long, white socks.

“I’m Edmund,” said the old babysitter.

The mother communicated an unspoken question to the handsome man.

“They’ll be fine,” said Sandy. “Rex always has a grand time with old Edmund.”

The old babysitter raised his white socks over his knees, coughed, and wiped his red nose. “I’m fun.”

Suddenly, Hug noticed the grandfather clock that stood in the hallway. “The New Adventures of Douglas Starchaser is about to start!”

“We’ve got a giant-screen TV in the den,” said Rex.

“Splendid. Let’s go.”

“Hug.”

Hug looked at Abigail, whose eyes were sparkling for some reason.

“Mommy?”

The mother leaned over and kissed her son on the forehead, which he thought felt nice, even if it was a little embarrassing in front of the fellas.

“Go have fun,” said Abigail.

“I will.”

“Come on!” exclaimed Rex.

The anomalous boy nodded and followed the scrappy youth from the room.

———

Fiddles, odiferous smoke, and laughter enlivened the atmosphere of The Dapper Pig. Sitting in a wood booth in the crowded barbecue joint were Abigail Westinghouse and Sandy. A pile of pork ribs that had been picked clean, a half-filled pitcher of beer, and the remnants of some sloppy side dishes of macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and collard greens lay between the pair.

At present, the mother leaned back and patted her belly, which felt like it was currently filled with iron. She did not know if she had eaten too much because she was nervous or if she had done so because the food was so delicious, but she knew that she had definitely overindulged.

“If you need to lie down on that bench, I won’t object,” remarked Sandy. “Not in the least.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

A stout, red-faced person who wore a fraternity jacket walked past the table.

“I saw that fella at a college baseball game nine years ago,” said the handsome man. “He was rootin’ for the losing team the whole damn time. Loudly.”

“He looks like the type.”

The handsome man pointed out an elderly Mexican fellow who was wiping a table in the back. “Fourteen years ago, he washed cars at Averson’s.”

“You’re either a good improviser or you really do have a photographic memory.”

A beer was applied to an uncommonly white grin and then removed. “Option two.”

“So what was it about my face that set it apart from the thousands of others that you’ve stored in your memory banks?”

The handsome man smirked. “Well, that’s an interesting way to ask for a compliment.”

“I didn’t mean for it to come off that way.”

“I’m happy to oblige your request, whatever the reason.

“You’re foxy, but more specifically, you have the exact kind of features that handle age gracefully—you’re always gonna look good, even when you’ve got a walker. And in my view, attraction is no more and no less than half of what makes a romance work.

“So there’s that.

“Also, I could tell from your eyes that you were very intelligent and uncommonly direct. It’s hard for men and women to communicate, and smarts and directness make things a whole lot easier for everyone.”

Ruminating, Sandy scratched his mustache and nodded his head. “That’s what I thought when I first saw you, and years later, after eating too much barbecue and talking to you for a couple of hours, I’m still thinking the same exact thing.”

Blushing, Abigail stared at some macaroni. “Well . . .
now I’m really embarrassed . . .”

The handsome man walked around the table, sat down beside the mother, and took her left hand. “Hey. Abby. Look at me.”

Abigail looked up at Sandy.

This confident and self-aware fellow was different in almost every way from her deceased husband, who had been a cerebral and shy painter, yet there was no point in denying the attraction that she currently felt.

The luminous grin disappeared.

A thick blond mustache proceeded toward a mouth from which barbecue sauce and lipstick had recently been removed.

There was a moment of hesitation.

Mouths pressed together.

Somewhere in the restaurant, somebody clapped.

Abigail shoved aside any embarrassment that she felt and buried herself more deeply in Sandy, the handsome cowboy who had boldly walked into her life. The fellow turned out to be a very good kisser.

Unnoticed by the pair, some fraternity guys hooted, and a check fell on the table.

———

“Let’s get off of this godforsaken planet, pronto!” shouted the new actor who played Douglas Starchaser. A team of military spacemen who wore fishbowls over their heads and rubber gloves scrambled across sparkling, lime green rock.

Lying atop a cheetah-skin rug and watching this program were Hug Chickenpenny and Rex.

Fearful astronauts boarded The Spacecutter, which closed its doors, shook, and rumbled. The ship shot up, and credits rolled in the opposite direction.

“That was a good adventure,” remarked Hug. “Those aliens really deserved what they—”

“Quiet,” whispered Rex.

Confused, the anomalous boy eyed the scrappy youth, who then got up, walked over to the television, and lowered the volume. A variety show filled the screen, but made no noise.

Rex pointed to the far side of the room, and Hug swiveled his head all the way around.

Leaning back on the sofa and snoring was Edmund, the old babysitter.

“Now we can go do whatever we want,” whispered the scrappy youth, whose blue eyes shone with mischief. “Absolutely anything.”

“But he might wake up and catch us,” said the anomalous boy, who spoke just as quietly.

“He won’t.” Rex pointed out the empty drinking glass that rested in Edmund’s lap. “I put two of my dad’s sleeping pills in his prune juice.”

Hug did not think that this was an appropriate thing to do, but at least the old babysitter looked like he was comfortable. “How long will he remain unconscious?”

“Plenty long.”

“He won’t tell your dad what happened?”

“He isn’t gonna tell him that he fell asleep when he was supposed to be watching us.”

A loud snore emerged from the human chimney.

Hug waggled his stump and looked at Rex. “So what do we do now?”

The scrappy youth reached under a recliner chair and withdrew a pointy metal star, which he gave to his anomalous guest, and the pellet rifle, which he retained. “The hunt calls.”

Armed and unsupervised, the pair crept from the den and down a carpeted hallway. Soon they reached the faux jungle, where Rex donned a camouflage jacket that had twelve pockets and helped Hug into his asymmetrical parka.

“It’s not camouflage,” the scrappy youth observed, “but at least it’s dark.”

The anomalous boy nodded, realizing at that moment that the hunt would take place outdoors. “A lot of my clothing is dark.”

“That’s good. Though try to get your mom to buy you some camouflage for next time.”

“Okay.”

Rex pointed to the far hallway. “Quickly!”

Clothed, armed, and unsupervised, the pair stole down the indicated corridor. At the far end of this hall, the scrappy youth unlocked a sliding glass door, which he then shoved aside on its runners.

“Quickly!”

Hug ambled through the opening and onto a wooden deck. Cold air stung his skin. Overhead hung the moon and some raggedy clouds.

Rex stepped outside and closed the door. “You know how to throw a shuriken?”

Hug raised the pointy metal star. “This?”

“Yep.”

The anomalous boy fingered the weapon. “I can hypothesize.”

“I’ll show you later—once we’re in the blind.”

“Okay.”

“Quickly!”

The scrappy youth led the anomalous boy around a heated, kidney bean-shaped swimming pool and off of the wooden deck. Rubber soles squeaked on damp grass as the pair hastened toward their destination.

This was the first time that Hug had been out in the dark without an adult since the night that Doctor Hannersby had eaten the poisonous mushrooms. It was scary but also exciting.

“Quickly!”

“What are we hunting?” asked Hug, between breaths.

A grin that Rex had inherited from his father flashed across the night. “Automobiles.”

Fifteen minutes later, the hunters prostrated themselves within the blind, which resembled (and was) a thicket of roadside bushes.

Distant lights shone upon the serpentine street that the pair monitored.

Rex raised his pellet rifle.

Hug felt his heart hammer in quick groups of three. From his pocket, he removed the shuriken.

A beige, four-door sedan sped toward the blind.

The scrappy youth pulled the trigger, and the rifle popped.

A pellet clanked against the car’s bumper.

“Goddammit and hell!” muttered Rex, who was good at using bad words.

Hug raised his shuriken.

“It’s out of range,” said the more experienced automobile hunter.

Oblivious of the attack, the vehicle sped off down the road.

“I need to throw the shuriken ahead of time, don’t I?” asked the anomalous boy. “So that it gets there in time.”

“Yeah. And aim for a tire—that’s why Orientals invented them in the first place.”

“To give flat tires?”

“Right.”

Rex cracked the rifle barrel, slotted another pellet, sealed the chamber, cocked the weapon, and aimed. Hug fingered the shuriken.

For five minutes, the hunters waited in a predacious silence.

A distant light twinkled.

“There,” said the anomalous boy.

“This buck’s mine.”

“Okay.”

A yellow sports car sped up the street, rounded the nearest corner, and came into range. Lights glared upon the road and cast scary black shadows in all directions.

Hug squinted.

Exhaling, Rex squeezed the trigger.

The rifle popped.

A headlight shattered on the front of the yellow vehicle, and the woman behind the wheel yelped in surprise. The vehicle rounded the next bend and disappeared.

“Bullseye,” stated the scrappy youth.

“Splendid,” whispered the anomalous boy. Although the night was cold, he felt hot and tingly all over.

Rex slotted a new pellet, cocked the rifle three times, and offered the weapon to Hug. “Here.”

Warily, the anomalous boy eyed the gun.

“Take it,” said the scrappy youth. “Aim for the headlights—it’s good practice for when we get older and go on safaris.”

“My mommy said that I wasn’t allowed to—”

“She won’t know unless you tattle.”

“I won’t tattle. I never did—even when they were mean to me at the orphanage, I never tattled.”

Rex eyed Hug for a moment and then nodded his head. “I believe you.”

The grumble of a distant car engine precluded further debate.

“Give me the rifle,” said the anomalous boy.

Grinning, the scrappy youth extended the weapon.

Hug dropped the shuriken, took the rifle stock in his hand, and balanced the barrel across his nubbin. Prone, he closed his red eye and aligned the little vertical notch with the approaching vehicle.

The grumbling sound of the engine grew louder.

Tense, the anomalous boy waited for his target to come into range.

His mottled index finger curled around the trigger, but did not squeeze. Every heartbeat thudded, gurgled, and a thumped in his throat.

Headlights burst around the corner of the winding road. Rocks and shrubbery were thrown into bas-relief. A blue station wagon that contained a driver and no passengers appeared.

Squinting, Hug jerked the trigger.

The rifle popped.

A front tire exploded. The blue car swerved and skidded.

Terrified, the anomalous boy gasped.

The station wagon veered off of the road, smashed through a mass of crackling bushes, and pounded into a huge rock. Glass shattered, and hissing steam rose from the hood.

Hug gaped at Rex. “Should we go see if he’s—”

Something clicked, startling the anomalous boy, who then eyed the wreckage, which was thirty yards away and on the opposite side of the road.

The driver’s door swung open and out of the vehicle stepped an angry man who wore a jogging suit and sandals. Held in his right hand was a metal baseball bat.

“Run!” hissed the scrappy youth. “Quickly!”

Scrambling, the hunters departed from the blind and disappeared into the woods.

Hug followed Rex, who dodged rocks, tree limbs, and animal burrows until he reached the main trail. Upon this path and behind the scrappy youth, the anomalous boy hobbled. Cold air burned his little lung, which had to work twice as hard as the big one, but he did not ask his fellow hunter to slow the pace, since their lives were at stake.

No words were said by either of them as they careened through the dark for ten minutes.

At present, Rex reached the hidden tunnel that he had dug underneath a tall wire fence that circumscribed the Huntsman ranch.

“You first. Quickly!”

Hug dropped into the hole, crawled to the other side, and ascended. Rex followed after and covered up the tunnel entrance with a wood plank. Upon this surface, both hunters kicked a blanket of dirt.

The anomalous boy looked back through the fence and scanned the woods, but saw no sign of the man who carried the metal baseball bat.

“Quickly!”

Shoes squeaked as the hunters tore across the field.

Hug felt the physical strain of his flight. His mismatched lungs burned, and his heart beat so quickly that each triplet felt like one single violent pulsation.

Rex glanced over his shoulder, stopped, and bent forward. “Get on my back—I can carry you.”

“No—I’m seven . . . and a half.”

“Okay.”

At a slower pace, the hunters crossed the remainder of the field, mounted the wooden deck, and circumvented the kidney-shaped pool.

Rex shoved aside the sliding door. “Quickly!”

Hug remembered something, and his stomach knotted. “Darn it!” He stopped ambling toward the doorway and shook his head. “Double . . . darn!”

“Get inside,” said Rex. “We’re almost in the clear.”

“I can’t—I left . . . the shuriken . . . in the blind.”

“Forget about it. I have five others.”

“It has our . . . fingerprints . . . on it. I need to go back . . . before the police . . . find it. I can’t . . . let you get in trouble.”

Hug turned around and hobbled across the wood deck.

“Don’t go!” cried Rex, who sounded like he was too scared to follow.

“I have to.”

Lopsidedly, Hug tore across the moonlit grass.

His lungs burned, especially the little one, and his heart felt like three hot needles, but he proceeded apace. Memories of the terrible night that he had gotten lost while trying to save the teratologist entered his mind but were discarded. Something like that could happen to an incompetent five year old, but not a mature (and advanced) young man of seven and a half.

The anomalous boy uncovered the secret entrance to the tunnel, crawled under the fence, and hobbled into the forest, which was comprised of slabs of darkness, hunks of moonlight, trees that looked like people, bushes that looked like animals, and holes that looked like mouths.

At present, he found and followed the trail. Sweat dripped from his white hair and stung his eyes.

“Darn it.”

Hug wiped his face and tripped on a root. The ground slammed into his chest, but his thick parka softened the impact.

“Double . . . darn.”

The anomalous boy sat upright and convulsed. There was a cold, tingling sensation in his neck as his insides constricted a second time. Violently, he coughed.

Glittering purple dust sprayed from his mouth into the air.

Doubled over, Hug convulsed again. His body ached, and violently, he coughed.

Something scraped the insides of his throat, passed into his mouth, and rattled against his teeth.

The anomalous boy spat this something into his hand.

Lying in his palm was a sparkling, purple stone that was no larger than a pea.

Nothing like this crystalline object nor the glittering dust had ever before emerged from any part of him, but he knew that now was not a good time for him to ponder teratological wonders.

Hug discarded the purple stone and continued toward his destination. The similarly colored pustules that grew upon his neck itched, but he ignored them.

Ahead of him, the trail ended.

The anomalous boy plunged into the brush and reached a hill, on the far side of which lay the blind. Quietly, he ascended to the top.

“Right there!” yelled an angry man.

Terrified, Hug froze. His skin tingled, and his heart raced.

“Right there—d’you see?”

The anomalous boy looked toward the speaker.

Across the street and thirty yards to the south, the driver aimed his metal baseball bat at the trailer hitch that jutted from the rear of his station wagon.

“That’s usually where they’re located,” said a burly fellow who was pulling a large metal hook from the back of a tow truck.

Hug crawled into the blind, reclaimed the shuriken, and quietly disappeared into the night. His actions had ensured that the identities of the two young hunters would never be discovered.

Twenty minutes later, the anomalous boy and the scrappy youth disinterestedly watched the den television, which did not better entertain the snoring babysitter.

A studio audience applauded, and a happy man who wore a sequin-encrusted white suit played an accordion while riding a unicycle in tiny circles.

Hug was unable to pay any attention to these silly antics after his night of peril. Automobile hunting was dangerous sport for both the hunters and the hunted, and he had no intention of looking for any more four-wheeled game ever again.

“Don’t tell anyone what happened,” whispered the anomalous boy.

“I won’t. I swear to God I won’t. It’s our special secret.”

Nodding in agreement, Hug smiled.

“You have fangs.”

“Seven. And an eighth one is starting to come in.”

“I wish I had fangs.”

XXI | Brotherhood

Snow fell upon the ranch.

Prone in the den, Hug Chickenpenny and Rex drew pictures of futuristic weaponry, while on television the original black-and-white Douglas Starchaser pistol-whipped a nine-eyed alien.

The anomalous boy scratched the two purple pustules that had grown on his left cheek during the previous year and rubbed his cloudy red eye, which was now half blind.

A terrified girl squealed. Oboe leaped off of the television and the illustrators looked up.

On the screen, Douglas Starchaser carried a voluptuous (and now unconscious) blonde through the door of a rocket ship. “Let’s get off of this godforsaken planet, pronto!”

The eloquent space explorer fingered the ignition button. Thrusters fired. Boulders, sand, and some debris that looked like crumpled paper fell all around the ship.

“You think there’s such things as aliens?” asked the scrappy youth. “For real?”

Hug looked at Rex, who had grown three inches taller and received a crew cut since the two of them met. “Of course there are aliens. Do you know how big outer space is? How many stars and planets exist?”

“Pretty much.”

“So then, statistically speaking, Earth can’t be the only place with life—there are far too many planets in the universe for them all to be boring.”

“You’re probably right.”

“And also,” the anomalous boy continued, “when I was younger, I used to have this same dream over and over again, so many times and so clearly that I know it has to be true. That this ‘dream’ was actually a memory of mine—or quite possibly, a vision.

“In it, my dad is an alien scientist on some far-off world who beamed me through space into my mom’s stomach. My DNA is very hard on her system, which’s why she didn’t survive giving birth to me.

“It turns out that the main reason he sent me here was so that I could learn about Earth and the human race and so forth. Eventually, I’m supposed to go back to him and let him know the situation down here.”

Chewing an eraser, Rex nodded his head. “So that’s why you’re so smart and look weird.”

“That’s why, though I’ve never told anybody else before. So don’t tell my mommy—it might upset her.”

“I won’t, I won’t. It’ll be our secret.” The scrappy youth grew wistful. “I wish my dad was an alien.”

“Your dad owns a ranch and horses and a big toothpaste company and knows how to hunt and square dance.”

“Alien is better.”

The anomalous boy patted the scrappy youth on the shoulder.

Footfalls sounded in the hallway.

Concerned, Hug gestured at the drawing pads. “Quickly!”

Amazing illustrations of futuristic weaponry were covered up by mediocre pictures of bucktoothed horses.

At present, Abigail and Sandy walked into the den. Both of them looked very, very, very happy.

The handsome man cleared his throat and faced the prone children. “Boys . . . we have a very important announcement to make.”

The mother wiped her sparkling eyes. “We’re getting married.”

“So you’ll be my dad?” Hug asked Sandy.

“Proudly.”

“And Rex will be my older brother?”

“That’s right,” said the handsome man. “This summer we’ll become one big family.

Three arms and a nubbin shot into the air as the children cheered.

Seventy jubilant wedding guests danced to the tempo that was set by the swishing hi-hat of the band’s curly-haired drummer. The focal point of the twirling, sliding assemblage was Abigail, who had long hair and wore a blue wedding gown, and her new husband, Sandy, who was tuxedoed and clean-shaven.

Amongst the many eyes observing the newlyweds was a mismatched pair that blinked asynchronously at the kids’ table. Dressed in a well-tailored blue suit, Hug Chickenpenny happily swung his legs in time with the music while Rex talked with Cherub, a doughy eleven-year-old boy who had red hair, chubby cheeks, and tiny green eyes.

The song ended, and cake was served.

Hug picked up his fork.

“The place is haunted,” Cherub said to Rex. “Full of ghosts. Jam-packed.”

Interested, the anomalous boy cleared his throat. “Ghosts? Are they malicious? Wraiths of the night?”

“You can talk!” exclaimed the doughy redhead, who then snickered unpleasantly.

“Of course I can talk. Though at get-togethers such as this, I generally prefer to eavesdrop or just quietly ruminate.”

Cherub shoved some cake into his mouth and demonstrated the process of chewing. “But what’s wrong with you? Somebody dropped you into a slime pit or something?”

Frowning, Rex shook his head. “Nothing’s ‘wrong’ with him—he’s just different.”

The doughy redhead eyed the anomalous boy. “Where do you go to school?”

“I’m home-schooled—my mommy teaches me.”

“Your ‘mommy’ teaches you? How old are you? Six? Five?”

Indignant, Hug straightened his hunched back to the best of his abilities. “I’m nine.”

“It’s pretty hard to tell,” said Cherub. “You look—”

“Shut up,” barked Rex, who then curled five of his fingers into a fist. “Lay off my brother, or I’ll knock your teeth out.”

The doughy redhead sought the support of the other boys and girls who were at the kids’ table, but nobody returned his gaze. Cowed by the threat of a toothless future, he continued to gruesomely devour his cake.

Hug coughed and patted Rex on the shoulder. “Thank you.”

“We’re brothers.”

XXII | Sidereal, Ethereal, and Corporeal

Boring flute music leaked from the ceiling speakers into the waiting room of Doctor Sheila’s office, which had mauve wallpaper, matching carpeting, and four white sofas, upon one of which sat Hug Chickenpenny. Held by his right hand and the thumb that had grown out of his nubbin during the last two years was the comic book Journey of the Interstellar Buccaneers.

The anomalous eleven-year-old wiped his nose slits and coughed. Glittering purple dust sprayed onto the page that he was reading. “Darn it.”

Hug withdrew a handkerchief from his denim vest and wiped the sparkling matter from the comic book. The well-used cloth was then folded and replaced in his pocket.

Ignoring rather than scratching the twelve itchy pustules that adorned his face and neck, the anomalous boy resumed reading.

———

Abigail Westinghouse wiped tears from her eyes as Sandy squeezed her shoulders. Across the desk from the couple and in front of numerous framed degrees sat Doctor Sheila, a confident thirty-six-year-old woman who had short blonde hair, long fingers, and invisible eyebrows. Bright steel instruments filled the metal trays that lay on either side of the physician, and upon an adjacent wall were hung three anatomical diagrams.

The upset mother found her voice. “Isn’t there something—anything—that you can do?”

“Because of the uniqueness of Hug’s physiology, I’ve regularly consulted with my colleagues, and we’re all in agreement . . . These cysts are deeply rooted and connected to too many key arterial networks for us to consider surgically removing them. The bleeding from such a procedure might prove fatal.”

“So that’s it?” snapped Abigail. “With all the big advances in ‘modern medicine,’ all this stuff on your walls—your degrees—my poor son just has to suffer?”

Doctor Sheila folded her hands and took a deep breath. “Hug has a good home, a brother who’s his best friend, and two parents who love him very, very much, which is far more than he had a few years ago. These cysts may look bad, but they’re not harmful.”

“They itch. He says that they itch all the time.”

“I’m sure that they do . . . though it seems like he’s adapting to it.”

“That boy’s had to adapt his whole life.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

The mother felt her illogical hostility toward the physician dwindle. “I’m sorry, Doctor . . . I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I understand your frustration . . . and I wish that I had some better answers for you at this time. I do my very best for all of my patients, but if I could do something more for Hug—anything at all—I would. His spirit is remarkable.”

Sniffling, Abigail nodded her head in agreement.

“Come on, Abby,” Sandy said, “let’s not have him spend too much of his birthday in the waiting room.”

“You’re right.”

“There’s one other thing I’d like to mention before you go,” said Doctor Sheila. “Not exactly good news, but . . . well . . . definitely more positive than the other stuff we’ve discussed.”

Befuddled, the mother looked from the physician to the handsome man whom she had married.

A runner squeaked as Doctor Sheila opened a drawer. From her desk, she removed a black velvet pouch, which she then set next to a paperweight. The contents of the little bag clicked.

“These came from a growth that’s connected to Hug’s appendix.”

Abigail opened the pouch and looked inside.

Collected within were three purple, crystalline stones.

The mother withdrew a lone specimen from the pouch. Light glimmered beautifully on the violescent surfaces of the multifaceted object.

“This is an amethyst,” said Abigail.

“Our lab technician shared one with a jeweler, who said the same exact thing.”

Hug Chickenpenny sat in the back seat of the family van with Rex, who had not long ago turned thirteen. Up front, Sandy dialed the wheel clockwise, and Abigail gestured.

“We’re here.”

The anomalous boy coughed and looked through the windshield.

On the far side of the glass was the town observatory. Five huge telescopes jutted from the domed roof of the building and collected starlight.

“Splendid.”

It had been three months since Hug had last observed the sidereal bodies, and there were many astral positions that he needed to verify.

Sandy slotted the automobile into a space that had a wheelchair sign.

“All right, fellas. Let’s go.”

The family departed from the van and walked through the main entrance. Inside the huge circular room, the anomalous boy looked around.

The walls were covered with pictures of space expeditions, and the thirty or so people in attendance read information cards, ate hot dogs, inspected cosmic flotsam, bickered, and stood in line for the restroom.

“Quickly!” said Hug, who garnered a few wary glances from strangers as he and Rex proceeded to the telescopes. The Asian family who stood at the largest instrument politely fled when the brothers arrived.

Sometimes, the anomalous boy reaped the benefits of anomalousness.

Hug climbed onto the platform, slotted two quarters, closed his cloudy eye, brought his good one to the telescopic glass, and looked toward outer space.

Everything was blurry.

Employing the thumb that extruded from his nubbin, he recalibrated the focal plane.

The hazy gray image became hundreds of crisp bright dots, all of which were stars. Within this vast array of sidereal bodies was something very special.

“Rex!”

“Yeah?”

“You need to see this for yourself. Quickly!”

Hug stepped away from the telescope and gestured with his nubbin. Rex put his right eye to the telescopic glass. “What’m I looking for?”

“Remember the—” A cough interrupted the anomalous boy. “Remember the constellation that I was trying to locate when we sneaked out on the night of the new moon?”

“Yeah—The Nine-Headed Dragonlion.”

“That’s the one.”

“You found it? Where?”

“Do you see that swirl near the top right edge of the viewing field?”

“I do.”

“Right below that are sixteen stars in the shape of a reptile. Do you see that shape?”

Rex pivoted his body and silently counted from one to sixteen. “I do. Looks kinda like an iguana.”

“Rising from the front of that iguana are nine strings of stars.”

“Wait a minute.” The scrappy youth corkscrewed his head sideways and silently counted from one to nine. “I see them! All nine.”

“Those are the heads of the Dragonlion.”

“Wow. This’s the best constellation I’ve ever seen.”

Sandy materialized, munching popcorn, and patted Hug on the back. “Whenever you fellas are ready, your mom and I will take you over to Pinball Alley for some games and birthday cake.”

“We should be done with our observations in about thirty minutes.”

“We’ll stay as long as you want.”

“Splendid.”

Birthdays were the best.

———

Dressed in blue pajamas that were decorated with scores of little brown cows, Hug Chickenpenny flopped onto his bed, which was across from the one in which lay Rex, who was currently buttoning his camouflage sleeping attire. On the far wall of the room the brothers shared were the action figures, comics, and models that belonged to them both, the science books that belonged to the anomalous boy, and the sports equipment that belonged to the scrappy youth, who was starting to become a very good athlete.

Abigail kissed Hug on the forehead, and Sandy shook his hand, which made him feel like a real grown-up.

“Good night, young fella,” said the handsome man. “And happy eleventh birthday.”

The anomalous boy suddenly felt very sad.

Concerned, the mother sat on the edge of the bed. “You had a happy birthday, right?”

“Yes . . . it was great . . . really, really splendid.” Hug scratched his lumpy scalp. “I’m just . . . I’m just sad it’s over.”

Rex chuckled. “You’re always sad when it’s over. Just start looking forward to the next one—that’s what I do when mine ends.”

“It’s an astronomical year,” lamented the anomalous boy. “It takes forever for this darn planet to get all the way around the sun.”

Abigail took Hug’s right hand in hers and gently squeezed. “Next year you’ll be twelve—and that’s a very important birthday.”

“It is,” said the anomalous boy, who brightened at the thought. “The zenith preteen.”

“Sleep well, fellas,” said Sandy. “G’night.”

“G’night,” said Rex.

“Goodnight,” said Abigail, who then kissed Hug a second time and stood up. “Have pleasant dreams.”

“Goodnight Mommy—I mean, Mom. Goodnight Dad.”

The mother took the handsome man by the hand, waved goodbye, switched off the light, exited the room, and shut the door.

Two sets of diminishing footfalls sounded in the hallway outside.

Listening to these noises, Hug sat upright. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six—”

“Five,” Rex continued, “four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

A click, a small creak, and a gentle clack sounded at the far end of the hallway. The adults had entered their bedroom and locked the door.

Hug and Rex looked at each other.

“Quickly!” said the brothers.

The anomalous boy lunged out of bed, went to his dresser, and opened the top drawer.

All of his clothing was gone.

“Darn it!”

“Goddammit,” said the scrappy youth, whose dresser appeared to be empty as well.

It soon occurred to Hug what must have happened. “The maid probably packed up our summer clothes and put them in the attic. It’s supposed to get cold early this year.”

“Goddammit and hell.”

“We’ll have to go as we are.”

Rex exhumed a pair of ripped jeans from underneath his bed. “I’ve got these at least.”

“Quickly!”

The brothers stalked through the house like burglars and exited by the sliding glass door. Into the moonlit summer night and across the raised deck they padded. Sneakers in three different sizes squeaked across the damp grass as the scrappy youth and the anomalous boy hastened toward the perimeter of the property.

Hug felt an itchiness in the back of his throat but refrained from coughing while the house was still visible. Stealth was paramount.

Expertly, the brothers exhumed, uncovered, and traversed by the secret tunnel.

Rex helped Hug to his uneven legs and preceded him into the forest. For more than mile, the brothers followed a twisting, but familiar, trail.

“Wait.” The anomalous boy paused, coughed up some purple glitter, and pointed his nubbin toward an overgrown path. “Let’s try that one.”

“You sure? It doesn’t look real . . . visible.”

“I agree, but we’ve explored all of the other options.”

“Well okay.” The scrappy youth shrugged. “I really hope we find that house tonight.”

“So do I.”

Hug wiped his glitter-stained hand on the rump of his cow pajamas and walked toward the obscured path. From his pocket he withdrew a miniature red flashlight.

“Wait,” said Rex. “Let me go first. It’s overgrown, and I’ve got thicker clothes.”

“But—”

“Quickly!”

The scrappy youth hastened onto the obscured path and began his itinerary of breaking branches and snapping twigs. Following the cleared trail and shining a little flashlight was the anomalous boy.

Through foliage, branches, darkness, and time, the brothers hiked. “Watch out for this one.”

Hug avoided the indicated branch, sucked a leaf into nose slit, and started to cough. The little red flashlight fell from his hand and splashed in a puddle.

“You okay?”

The anomalous boy nodded his head, righted himself, and gave the scrappy youth a wet amethyst.

“Cool.”

Hug reclaimed the dark flashlight from the mud, but the device no longer worked. “Darn.”

“What time is it?”

The anomalous boy glanced at his glow-in-the-dark watch, which was the kind that astronauts wore. “It’s twenty-four minutes after midnight.”

“We’re gonna need to head back if we don’t find it pretty soon.”

The anomalous boy raised and pointed his nubbin. “Then quickly!”

Rex plunged headlong into the forest, followed by Hug, who was starting to doubt that they would locate the haunted house that night.

Branches cracked and dead leaves crunched as the brothers proceeded along the overgrown trail. Above the canopy, the moon was a fragmented thing that yielded inconstant amounts of light.

“Hug. Watch out for this hole.”

“Okay.”

The anomalous boy circumvented the opening, watched the scrappy youth break some things, and then looked to the right.

On the far side of a dense copse, silhouetted by the moon was a huge, dark rectangle.

Mismatched eyes blinked, and a nubbin waggled. “Rex—wait! I see something.”

The scrappy youth removed a pinecone from his hair, extracted a sizable branch from his shirt, and turned around.

“There—” The anomalous boy pointed his nubbin and the thumb that grew out of that appendage. “See it?”

“Affirmative.”

“Quickly!” exclaimed the brothers.

Snapping branches and stomping bushes, Rex plunged toward the huge, dark rectangle. His gait was aggressive, if not reckless.

Hug followed. A stick poked his curved left leg, and he kicked the obstacle aside. Two branches caught upon the right sleeve of his cow pajamas, and he tore the fabric loose. Nothing would get in the way of this long-delayed paranormal investigation.

The scrappy youth neared the edge of the underbrush, shoved aside a tall thicket, and motioned for the anomalous boy to pass through the opening. “Quickly!”

Hug exited the forest and found himself in a field.

On the far side of this clearing loomed a gigantic mansion. All of its windows were boarded up, and myriad creepers covered the major part of the façade like a scraggly beard. The tops of nine reddish-black trees poked out of the rotted roof, which was blanketed by an opalescent fungus that weirdly reflected the moonlight.

Hug did not know that this was the mansion in which Meredith Jubilee Chickenpenny had died while giving birth to her anomalous son.

Branches snapped, and bushes crackled as Rex emerged from the woods. “This’s gotta be the place.”

“It looks like a fertile environment for spirits, if such things truly exist—which I doubt.”

The anomalous boy coughed and wiped some purple glitter on his rump.

“How do we get inside?” inquired the scrappy youth. “Cherub said that the front door was locked.”

Hug closed his bad eye and scanned the back of the mansion with his good one.

Hidden within the creepers were the dark edges of a geometric shape. “Let’s investigate that—” The anomalous boy pointed his nubbin. “It appears as if a backdoor lies beneath that vegetation.”

“Your brown eye works real good.”

The brothers walked across the field and circumvented an overgrown garden. Amidst these tangled plants were nine upright stones.

Hug eyed these markers.

“Are those graves?” inquired Rex.

“Perhaps . . . but let’s not linger.”

The brothers soon reached the creeper-covered door that was at the back of the house. Five rusty padlocks dangled from the jamb.

“Darn it.”

“Goddammit and hell.”

The anomalous boy looked up and down and noticed the small, hinged flap that was at the bottom of the door.

“Can you fit through that?” asked the scrappy youth, who saw the same opening. “It’s too small for me.”

“I’m of the proper dimensions. Let me see if it’s been sealed up.”

Hug hoped that the doggie door would be unusable. The thought of entering this house was frightening, but the thought of doing so alone was terrifying, even though he did not believe in ghosts.

At present, he kneeled, extended his nubbin, and nudged the rubber flap.

The doggie door swung into the mansion and returned. Disturbed dust billowed, and the anomalous boy coughed.

Rex kneeled beside Hug. “You okay?”

The anomalous boy wiped purple glitter from his mouth and nose. “I’m fine.” Again, he coughed.

“Maybe we should just go home. It’s late, and you might get sick if w—”

“Go around to the front door. I’ll crawl through and open it from inside.”

“All right . . . but be careful in there.”

Hug flashed his shuriken, nodded, and crawled through the doggie door.

The cold darkness that surrounded him smelled like cheese, wet hay, and armpits. For a nauseous moment, he sat on the floor and coughed bad odors out of his lungs. The sickness passed, and the anomalous boy raised his head. Slowly, his mismatched eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, which was supplied by some moonbeams that had sneaked through holes in the shuttered windows.

Hug took in his surroundings.

The walls of this big, high-ceiling room were covered with hieroglyphics, dusty gems, and maps of unknown constellations. Eighteen candelabra that held the molten remains of scores of black candles stood on an oaken table, and gathered around this were nine tall chairs, each of which was surmounted by a skull that had belonged to a ram or a bull or a goat.

The anomalous boy suddenly felt very afraid. “Who lived here . . . ?”

No answer came from the staring skulls.

Hug noticed the entryway that stood on the far wall, rose to his feet, and ambled across the eerie room. From his moving vantage, he saw the curved knife that stuck out of the back of the tallest chair.

Widely circumventing the table, the anomalous boy hurried to the exit. His footfalls echoed.

A sheet of white gossamer flew at his face.

Gasping, Hug ducked under this apparition (which was made out of cobwebs) and exited the dining area. The hallway in which he now stood was at least ten degrees warmer than the space that he had just left.

Hug closed his bad eye and looked ahead.

No light shone at the end of the passageway.

Lacking options, the anomalous boy ambled into the dark, holding his hand in front of him like the prow of a ship that was entering a squall.

Wood creaked as he proceeded, blindly, and his heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

Something cold pressed against his palm.

Gasping, he looked up.

Standing out against the pure black background was a silhouetted, dark gray figure.

Hug froze.

Soon it became clear to him that he was looking at some kind of statue.

“Double darn you!”

The anomalous boy continued through the darkness until his hand struck a cool, flat surface that was a wall. There he turned his head ninety degrees to the left.

Moonlight limned the edges of a distant window and door. Both of these were in a room that looked like a foyer.

Quickly, Hug ambled forward. Dust filled the air as he progressed and precipitated another coughing fit.

“Hug?” Rex inquired from the far side of the door. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

It was then that the anomalous boy noticed the tall shadow that lurked in the far corner of the foyer.

His stomach knotted.

Suppressing terror, Hug turned away from the watcher, faced the door, and seized the deadbolt. Rust grated as he twisted the latch. The lock snapped, opening, and hinges creaked.

The anomalous boy flung the door and swiveled his head all the way around.

Moonlight shone upon the lurker, which was a coat rack that upheld three long, black robes. A red, nine-pointed star and eighteen weird glyphs adorned each robe.

A hand grabbed Hug, and he yelped.

“Sorry,” said Rex. “See any ghosts?”

The anomalous boy faced the scrappy youth. “Not yet, though I came upon some skulls and a curvy dagger. Did Cherub indicate where the spirits dwelled?”

“No. I bet he was too scared to come inside. Probably just saw the place and ran home.”

Hug swelled with pride over his feat of bravery.

“Where should we go?” asked Rex.

Ruminating, the anomalous boy surveyed the dark areas beyond the foyer. “I believe that we should go upstairs.”

“Why?”

“Hot air rises, and it’s been scientifically theorized that ghosts are made out of hot air molecules.”

“But I thought it got cold when they haunted someplace.”

“That’s correct—the haunted area is cold—but that’s only because the spirit has siphoned off the heat for its biological processes.”

“Makes sense.”

“Or so I’ve read,” added Hug, who did not want to imply that he believed in ghosts, even ones that were scientific.

At present, the anomalous boy raised his nubbin and pointed to the main stairwell. “Carefully!”

The brothers proceeded across mildewed carpets, up creaking steps, and entered the second-floor hallway, which was dimly illuminated by slender moonbeams. Lying against the rotten wainscoting on their sides were several paintings of unhappy people who had serious eyes and silly, puffy clothes.

A thought came to Hug. “I wonder if Mommy could sell these at the gallery?”

“I don’t think it’s safe to take anything from a place like this. Might make the spirits angry or something.”

“You’re right,” remarked the anomalous boy, who admitted to knowing very little about non-scientific things such as curses and sports.

The scrappy youth took the lead.

Hug followed Rex around the fallen chandelier that lay in the center of the passageway. The sounds of their progress echoed weirdly.

Perspiring, the anomalous boy wiped his lumpy forehead.

Floorboards creaked underneath the carpet as he ambled, and his heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

Something snapped.

Hug looked toward the noise.

Rex pulled his foot out of the floor. “Watch out for this.”

Hug circumvented the hole, the bottom of which was opaque. Cautiously, the brothers proceeded.

The anomalous boy wiped sweat from his stinging eyes and looked through a dark doorway that had appeared on his left.

Beyond this portal was a library that contained piles of books and rectilinear heaps of fungus that had once been books.

Hug followed after Rex and surveyed the area.

No ghosts were apparent.

The anomalous boy sucked something into his nose slits, sneezed, and coughed. These sounds went everywhere, echoing, and became high-pitched squeaks and low-pitched growls. If he were not so frightened, he might have favorably remarked upon the strange acoustical properties of the mansion.

Hug took another step, choked on something, and convulsed.

Fifteen feet away, Rex paused and turned around. “Hug?”

The anomalous boy was seized by a coughing fit. Purple glitter went everywhere, and something scraped the insides of his throat.

“Hug!” The scrappy youth hastened back. “I think you need some fresh air. We—”

“No.”

Hug recovered, spat an amethyst onto the floor, and wiped purple glitter onto the rump of his cow pajamas. “Let’s find . . . these ghosts . . . or prove the . . . nonexistence . . . of such things . . .”

Rex frowned, made an appraisal, and snorted. “Fine. But if you have another fit like that, we’re going home no matter what. I’m the older brother, and you’re my responsibility.”

“Deal.”

“And let’s go together—side by side—so I can watch you better.”

“Agreed.”

Hug replenished his lungs and ambled forward, flanked by Rex.

Floorboards creaked as the brothers continued up the hallway.

The anomalous boy monitored the area.

A dark doorway appeared on his right.

Ambling, Hug arrived at this opening and looked inside.

The trunks and branches of three living trees filled this room. Moonlight shone whitely in the staring eyes of three watching opossums that had jet-black fur.

Chilled, the anomalous boy looked away from the vermin and continued forward. A floorboard creaked.

“We’re coming to the end,” said Rex.

Hug closed his bad eye and looked with his good one.

Thirty feet away was the end of the second-floor hallway. In the middle of this wall stood a dark, open doorway.

The brothers traversed the remainder of the hallway and stopped.

“Now what?” asked the scrappy youth.

The anomalous boy closed his bad eye and tried to see what lay beyond the open portal.

All that he could see was darkness.

“Can you see anything in there?” Hug asked Rex.

“Nope. Nothing.”

The anomalous boy smelled something terrible and fanned the air away from his nose slits.

“Wasn’t me,” defended the scrappy youth. “I swear to God.”

“I know. It wasn’t me either.”

“It’s like bad meat or something.”

From the darkness came a quiet moan.

Hug froze.

“You heard that?” whispered Rex. “That moaning?”

“I did.”

Cold air wafted from the dark doorway.

The anomalous boy started to shake.

“You feel that?” asked the scrappy youth. “The air?”

“Y-y-yes.”

Rex clenched his fists.

Shaking and fearful, Hug wiped tears from his eyes.

From the dark doorway came another quiet moan.

“I wanna go home,” said the scrappy youth.

The anomalous boy nodded. “So do I.”

From the opening came the sound of a woman sobbing.

“Quickly!” said Rex.

A rippling black shape flew out of the darkness.

Terrified, Hug screamed, spun away, and slammed into Rex.

The scrappy youth stumbled backward. His shoulder struck a rotten balustrade, which shattered, and he fell off of the second story.

Plummeting, Rex yelled.

This cry was silenced by a sharp snap and two heavy thuds.

“Rex!”

Hug scrambled to the edge of the landing and looked down.

Below lay a cloud of dust that was surrounded by darkness.

“I’m coming, Rex!”

Horrified, the anomalous boy spun around and ambled toward the stairwell.

The rippling shape that had flown out of the doorway was gone.

A curved leg plunged into the hole that Rex had made, and Hug tripped.

Floorboards slammed against his face and chest.

Pained, Hug returned to his feet and limped forward. “I’m coming!” His words echoed weirdly as he hobbled to the stairwell.

Gripping the rail, he lurched down. Boards creaked and crunched, and blood dripped into his cloudy eye from a cut on his forehead, but he did not slacken his pace.

Wood buckled.

Unbalanced, the anomalous boy fell forward. Steps smacked his chest and back and limbs as he rolled down the stairwell. The first floor pounded his face and cracked two fangs.

Spitting enamel and blood, Hug regained his footing and hobbled across moldy oriental rugs toward the area that lay directly below the broken balustrade.

“Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay, please, please, please . . .”

Ahead of him stood a large sofa that was covered with hunks of wood. Perhaps this couch—or the one nearby—had caught Rex and softened the impact of his fall.

“I’m nearly there!”

Hug hobbled. Something appeared in front of him, and he closed his bad eye and looked with his good one.

Lying on the floor between the two sofas was Rex. His neck was bent and purple.

The anomalous boy felt his entire body go cold. His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped in his throat, and his nubbin waggled.

“Please, please, please . . .”

Hug ambled toward Rex, whose wide eyes and open mouth were unmoving. Blood drained from his left ear and pooled upon the floor.

The anomalous boy dropped to his knees and grabbed the right arm of the scrappy youth.

“Get up!”

Hug shook Rex, who remained unresponsive. “Wake up!”

The anomalous boy started to shiver. “Please . . .”

Two blue eyes gazed up at a mismatched pair.

Hug knew that Rex was not going to wake up. “I—I . . . I didn’t mean to.”

Frozen eyes stared.

The anomalous boy turned away from the scrappy youth, raised his nubbin, and pounded the floorboards. A sharp pain shot up the limb and into his body. This agony was not enough.

Hissing, Hug swung his nubbin again. Flesh smacked wood, blistering, and pain filled his entire body. Even so, this agony was not enough.

The anomalous boy grabbed his left limb with his right hand, squeezed, and hammered his disgusting stump against the floor again and again and again.

His nubbin thumb snapped.

A shriek that was the most horrible sound ever uttered by a human being echoed throughout the mansion in which Hug Chickenpenny had been born.

XXIII | Why?

The morning was hot and bright.

A score of formally dressed people were gathered upon a hill around a burnished coffin that bore the name Rex Roy Huntsman. Nearest this awful object and dressed in black stood a very pale blonde who was the deceased youth’s mother, Sandy, Abigail, and Hug Chickenpenny, whose face, nubbin, and thumb had been doctored and bandaged.

A dolorous minister walked to the opposite side of the coffin, bowed his head, and opened a little black book.

The anomalous boy coughed.

Rex’s mother looked at Hug. Her eyes shone with a deep and terrible hatred.

The anomalous boy stared at the ground and inserted three cough drops in his mouth so that he would not again disturb anybody.

People sniffled and wept. The minister said a lot of things that did not make sense to Hug, and eventually, the service ended.

“Amen,” said some people.

Grass squeaked beneath the hard shoes of dispersing mourners.

Abigail wiped her eyes and looked at Hug. “Let’s go down to the parking lot. Give Dad some time alone.”

“Okay.”

The mother led her son down the hill to a black limousine, where she withdrew, lighted, and smoked a cigarette. Both of her hands were shaking.

“Mommy . . . are you mad at me?”

Abigail exhaled smoke and looked at Hug. “No. Nobody is angry with you, and nobody blames you for what happened.”

“Dad did.”

“He was upset then, and he didn’t mean what he said.” The cigarette tip glowed. “And he apologized afterwards.”

The accusation was the thing that the handsome man had said with conviction—not the apology—but the anomalous boy did not want to point this out and contradict his mother.

Abigail exhaled smoke, tossed her cigarette away, and kissed Hug between the bandages that covered his repaired forehead. “We both still love you very much.”

“Okay,” said the anomalous boy, who had doubts.

At present, the mother and son looked toward the handsome man, who stood silhouetted at the grave on top of the hill.

“Scientifically speaking,” Hug said, “maybe I really am a monster.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But look at the evidence: Rex was my brother and my best friend, and he died because of me, and so did my first mom and Doctor Hannersby. I’ve got fangs and—”

“Hug,” interjected the mother, who then kneeled on the asphalt. “Hug, Hug, Hug . . . none of these things are your fault. Not one of them.”

Hug wanted answers, not sympathy, and he fought back the tears that currently stung his eyes. “But then why do I look like this? And why do so many bad things happen to the people I know?”

Sadly, Abigail shook her head. “There are no good answers to questions like those…

“There are no reasons why you’ve had so many hardships or why those people died. What really matters is how you endure—what kind of person you remain . . .

“The difficulties you’ve faced would’ve made a lot of people mean and angry, but always you’ve been sweet and good and hopeful and full of love.”

“Okay,” said Hug, who felt a little better.

Abigail wiped tears from her eyes. “Unlike most people—including me—you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are the least monstrous person I’ve ever known, and Meredith would have loved you just as much as I do.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

The mother hugged her son, who in turn embraced her with his arm and his nubbin. This made him feel a lot better.

Grass squeaked, and a shadow fell upon the anomalous boy, who then looked up.

Staring down at Hug was Sandy. His eyes were red, and his face was pale.

The mother released her son, stood up, and cleared her throat. “Do you want to go?”

Without a word, the bereft father opened the rear door of the limousine and motioned for his family to enter.

“Thank you,” Hug said while climbing across the squeaky leather upholstery.

No response came from Sandy.

XXIV | Drafty Hearths

The summer air cooled throughout the autumn and plummeted at the onset of winter. Standing alone on a five-hundred-acre ranch was a dark, quiet home.

Hug Chickenpenny closed his notebook, adjusted his tailored pajamas, and walked across his room, which had only one bed and no longer contained any sports equipment. Half of this living space was a void.

Through the dim and quiet house the anomalous boy ambled. His mother was at the gallery, and now that he had finished his assignments, he intended to see what was on television.

Rubbing the pustule that had recently appeared on his nubbin, Hug descended the stairs and entered the den. This room was dark, except for the gray light that came through the picture window.

The anomalous boy looked outside.

Snow drifted to the frozen grass from a charcoal sky.

Ambling toward the television, Hug noticed something in the farthest corner of the room that he might have noticed earlier if his right eye worked better. He turned his head.

Hidden by shadows and sitting in a recliner chair was Sandy, who had grown gaunt since the funeral. A wiry, grayish-blond beard covered his face, and his dull red eyes stared at the picture window. Lying in his lap was a tall, empty bottle.

Quietly, the anomalous boy retraced his steps and left the den.

———

The winter melted into spring.

Prone in the den and five feet from the television lay Hug Chickenpenny, closing his milky eye so that the image would be clearer. Upon the luminous giant screen at which he stared was Neon City Crime Patrol, a cop show. The anomalous boy preferred science fiction programs over ones in which policemen beat up minorities, but sometimes, the latter contained exciting car chases.

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Footfalls resounded and grew louder.

The anomalous boy turned his head toward the figure who darkened the den doorway.

Dressed in a raggedy robe and drinking from a rectangular bottle was Sandy. Liquor dripped from the wiry ends of his beard and onto his bare feet.

Hug switched off the television.

The silent man slumped in his recliner chair, and the anomalous boy departed.

———

The summer returned.

Abed and awake in the half-empty room, Hug Chickenpenny stared at the ceiling. Sandy had been in a car accident earlier that afternoon, though according to Abigail, he had not been seriously hurt.

Hoping to acquire some information, the anomalous boy opened his door and listened to the quiet conversation that occurred at the other end of the hallway.

“The faces . . .” said Sandy. “The faces are disappearing . . .

“All the ones I’ve committed to memory—tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands—they’re slipping away from me, one after the other . . .

“Sometimes . . . I can’t even remember what he looked like . . .

“Rex.

“My own son.”

“Sandy,” said Abigail. “Stop pacing around the room and come back to bed.”

Footfalls sounded, and mattress springs squeaked.

“Lie down,” said the mother.

“And that boy . . .

“That boy.

“Sometimes . . . when I look at him . . . I—I just want to—”

“Calm down,” said Abigail. “Just try to calm down.”

Hug closed the door.

Not for the first time since his brother had died, the anomalous boy wondered if he was too old to go back to the orphanage.

———

A heavy summer rain bent myriad blades of grass and crackled on the roof of the quiet ranch house. Abigail, Sandy, and Hug Chickenpenny sat at a table in the dining room, where they were surrounded by the mounted heads of wild animals. Upon the north wall and between two snarling boars hung a family portrait that the mother had painted just before the tragedy.

Rex was one quarter ounce of oil upon this canvas.

Rain crackled, and distant thunder rumbled. These sounds seemed unnaturally loud to Hug, who sat near Abigail in the cavernous dining room that summer night.

“Do you like the lamb?” inquired the mother.

The bereaved father nodded his head while staring up at the two-dimensional face of the scrappy youth.

Abigail looked at Hug. “Do you?”

“It’s delicious.”

The anomalous boy held his fork with his nubbin thumb and cut into the lamb chop with his steak knife. His grip slipped. Metal clinked, and his fork clattered on the table.

Hug reached for the utensil and knocked Abigail’s wine glass. The crystal piece fell from the table and shattered.

This crash echoed throughout dining room.

Sandy looked at the mass of shards that lay upon the tiled floor. His distant eyes narrowed in anger.

“I’m sorry,” said Hug.

Abigail raised a finger to her lips. “Hug . . . shhh.”

The quiet man rose from his seat and left the room.

“I didn’t mean to knock it over,” defended the anomalous boy. “I promise.”

“I know you didn’t.”

From the adjacent hallway came the sounds of a door being slammed, something metallic clanking, and booming footsteps.

Sandy reentered the dining room. The man wore a camouflage poncho, ripped jeans, and a cowboy hat. Held in his hands was a double-barreled shotgun.

All of a sudden, Hug felt very afraid.

The bereaved father stormed across the room, flung a door, and strode out into the hissing rain.

———

Four days later, Sandy returned, filthy and wild.

Abigail told Hug Chickenpenny to go to his room and stay there. The anomalous boy was worried that something might happen to his mother, but she said that things would be all right.

He had doubts.

For three hours, Hug sat at his desk and looked at the many rocket ships that he had drawn in this house with Rex, as well as the ones that he had designed at the orphanage and the primitive sketches that he had done while living with Doctor Hannersby.

Some new ideas came to the anomalous boy, who then turned to a blank page in his spiral and grabbed a mechanical pencil.

Quiet footfalls sounded in the hallway.

“Hug . . . ?”

“Mommy?”

There was a sniffle. “May I come in?”

“Of course.”

The door opened and in walked Abigail, whose eyes were wet and red from crying. Tightening the belt of her blue robe, she walked across the empty half of the room.

“What is it?” asked Hug, who felt tingles on his back.

The mother reached the desk, took her son’s hand, and cleared her throat. “It looks like you’re going to have to go away for a little while.”

A nubbin waggled, and mismatched eyes blinked asynchronously. “Okay.”

“It’s for Dad. Until he feels better.”

“Okay.”

Trembling, Abigail bit her lip. “This’s just for a little while. Your father, he’s just not . . . doing very well since Rex.”

“Okay.”

“I was able to find a place that will accept you. You won’t be there too long—I promise.”

“Okay.”

Abigail kissed Hug on the forehead, hastened from the room, and shut the door.

A small and very sad sound came from the hallway.

The anomalous boy scratched a pustule and shook his disappointed head.

“Darn it.”

XXV | Miscellaneous Junk

Set in the middle of a collapsed industrial zone was a gray factory. Thick steel bars covered all of its windows, and a sign atop its front door read: The Program for Productive & Disciplined Youths.

Inside a concrete cafeteria that smelled like boiled rice and ammonia and standing at attention were nineteen boys who wore gray overalls, matching work boots, and plastic safety helmets. Hug Chickenpenny was the smallest of these uniformed children and the only one who was of teratological interest.

A bolt snapped, and the lone door opened.

The anomalous boy turned his head.

Into the room strode Vladimir, a heavy man who had small eyes, a lesser fraction of his hair, a crooked nose, thick arms, a black jumpsuit, and heavy boots. Held in his right hand was a heavy rubber cudgel.

The instructor slammed the door and surveyed the assemblage. “Is everybody r—”

A cough came from a purple mouth and echoed throughout the cafeteria.

Vladimir eyed Hug, took three big strides, and swung his cudgel at the safety helmet. Rubber smacked plastic, echoing like gunfire, and unbalanced the anomalous boy.

“Sorry, I—”

Hug clasped his mouth and coughed a second time. Purple glitter sprayed between his fingers.

Again, the rubber cudgel smacked his helmet.

“Do not interrupt me again, Nineteen,” warned the instructor, whose accent made him sound like a robot. “Do you understand?”

Ears ringing, the anomalous boy nodded.

Vladimir eyed the assemblage. “Is everybody ready to go to the recycling area?”

“Yes,” replied the boys.

The instructor saw something. “Fifteen.”

“Yes?” responded Egg Roll, a skinny boy of twelve who had once been at Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted with Hug.

“Empty your pockets.”

The Asian youth grew fearful.

“Now.”

Cellophane crinkled as Egg Roll withdrew two pieces of hard candy.

Vladimir frowned. “Did you find those in the recycling area?”

“Yes, but th—”

“Quiet. Four. Go discipline Fifteen.”

The instructor extended his rubber cudgel, and the skinny black boy who was named Four took the proffered instrument and walked toward Egg Roll.

Footfalls echoed throughout the cafeteria.

Hug grimaced.

Four swung the rubber cudgel. Rubber smacked plastic, and under the helmet, Egg Roll gritted his teeth.

“Again,” ordered Vladimir.

“Don’t hurt him!” cried Hug.

The discipliner ran at the anomalous boy and whacked his helmet.

———

Flies buzzed.

Sitting in the cab of a flatbed truck, Vladimir raised a pair of binoculars to his little eyes and monitored the nineteen small gray shapes that clambered upon a mountain of garbage. Gliding over this tableau were the shadows of ugly birds that had crooked beaks.

At present, Hug Chickenpenny circumvented an overturned refrigerator, coughed, and saw something shiny. Towards this object and across assorted junk he dragged his ponderous burden. Gnats and flies buzzed around his sweaty head, but he did not swat them away. Sometimes, the noises that they made sounded like music.

The anomalous boy soon reached the shiny object.

Lying at his feet was a crushed beer can. This recyclable was on the list that had been memorized by Hug and every other child who was in the Program for Productive & Disciplined Youths.

The anomalous boy deposited the can in his treasure bag, which was a burlap sack that had once held fertilizer.

“Better take this down before it gets too heavy.”

Hug ambled and scrabbled across junk with his burden. His curved leg sank into a soft mass that squished, and he pulled the limb loose. A wire hanger scratched his overalls, and an ugly bird dug its beak into the belly of a baby doll.

Orbited by insects, the anomalous boy descended the mountain of garbage. All of his pustules throbbed and itched. His little lung burned, and his heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped as he leaped from the bottom of the pile onto the dirt road.

Hug dragged his burden toward the flatbed truck.

A gnat flew into his mouth.

Choking, the anomalous boy dropped his treasure bag. Recyclables spilled, and he fell to his knees.

His paroxysms turned into a coughing fit. Purple glitter flew everywhere, and stars appeared at the edges of his monocular vision.

“Vladimir’s coming!” cried Three and Egg Roll.

Coughing, Hug fell over. His stomach and throat felt like they were on fire.

Two huge boots landed in front of his face.

“Nineteen,” Vladimir said, “gather these recyclables and stop being a distraction.”

Hug convulsed continually and the rubber cudgel appeared in front of his face.

“Nineteen, do you hear me? Stop this right now.”

The anomalous boy coughed. Something scraped the insides his throat, shot out of his mouth, and clanked against a hubcap.

The seizure abated, and Hug wheezed in the dirt. It felt like somebody had knifed his lungs, especially the little one.

Vladimir wrinkled his brow, leaned over, and claimed the projectiles, which were two sparkling amethysts. “Nineteen?”

“Y-y-yes?”

“Have you ever coughed up these things before?”

“Sometimes . . . when I get sick.”

Sympathy that might have been genuine played upon the face of the instructor. “Then I will make sure that you are properly treated.”

———

It was a miracle of science.

Hug Chickenpenny looked at himself in the mirror and admired his smooth, unblemished skin, his strong, symmetrical limbs, his upright posture, his brunette hair, and his clear brown eyes. With this amazing, supernormal physique he could be an astronaut or an athlete or both.

“Now we can play football together,” said Rex, who was alive for some reason. “You could tackle anybody with that.”

“I bet that I can.” Hug made a muscle with his left arm and nodded. “And everyone will accept me—one hundred percent.”

A violent cough sent the anomalous boy back to his sick body.

It was cold in the sleeping quarters and had been for months. The nearest window was open, admitting a frigid draft that blew on his chest and neck, and once again, somebody had stolen his blanket. For some reason, he was supposed to go to sleep with wet hair, which made things even worse.

Hug coughed up amethysts all the time, but was not punished for so doing. It seemed as if Vladimir had become a nicer and more tolerant human being.

———

The winter warmed into spring.

This change did not improve the smells of the recycling area in which toiled the Program for Productive & Disciplined Youths.

Atop a garbage summit and on an overturned baby crib sat Hug Chickenpenny, bleary, feverish, and wheezing. His white hair was falling out, and purple pustules covered his nubbin and right hand, which were currently digging around in the back of a broken television set. From this old appliance, he removed a garish purse.

The anomalous boy bared his fangs and bit into his newest find. Twisting his head, he tried to wrest a brass buckle from the imitation leather.

A fang cracked. “Darn it.”

Hug dropped the entire purse into his treasure bag and spat out an enamel splinter.

“Don’t put recyclables in your mouth,” advised Egg Roll. “We’re not supposed to.”

“But I’m already sick,” said the anomalous boy. “I probably have every kind of germ in existence.”

“Nineteen, are you feeling o—”

The world moved, and the sky darkened. Somewhere, somebody shouted.

Groaning, Hug fell off of the crib. Garbage received and covered up his anomalous body.

A familiar voice said something.

Hug Chickenpenny opened his eyes.

Standing at the foot of a long white hospital bed and next to Vladimir was Abigail.

“Mommy,” rasped the anomalous boy.

Unshed tears sparkled in the mother’s hazel eyes as she leaned over and kissed her son.

The instructor cleared his throat and bowed his head in contrition. “I thought it was influenza at first, and I gave him some expensive medicine, but he—”

Abigail slapped Vladimir.

“Wait! I was just—”

The mother cracked her palm across the face of the instructor. His cheeks reddened, and his eyes sparkled.

Again, Abigail slapped Vladimir.

The anomalous boy reached out, grabbed his mother’s coat sleeve, and tugged.

Pausing, Abigail looked at Hug.

“Don’t . . . ” rasped the anomalous child. “Don’t be mean.”

XXVI | The Voyager

The windowless intensive care room was baby blue as were the sheets that covered the lower half of Hug, who currently wheezed into a hose as he slept. Plastic tubing led from his arm and nubbin to four inverted plasma sacs, and eight thin red wires connected suspended apparatuses to his pustule-covered chest and balding head. Arranged about the foot of the bed were twelve monitors that displayed luminous grids and statistics. Machines beeped and whirred.

Standing nearby and watching Hug was Abigail Westinghouse. The woman was destroyed.

Doctor Sheila returned to the room.

The mother cleared her throat. “How long . . . does he have?”

“I can’t say for certain. We’ve already lost him twice.”

Numbly, Abigail nodded her head. “I’ve failed him so many times. Can you please make sure that he—” Her voice cracked, and a ponderous moment of silence passed. “Can you please make sure that he survives just a little bit longer?”

“I will do everything that I can.”

“Thank you.”

———

Abigail Westinghouse pulled the seatbelt over Hug, who was unconscious, medicated, and swaddled in a clean, baby blue blanket.

The mother started her maroon sports car and drove out of the hospital parking lot, along freeways, and down a country road. Not once did the vehicle stop abruptly nor transcend the speed limit.

Abigail saw the desired field, dialed the steering wheel counterclockwise, and accelerated across tall grass toward an uncommonly large warehouse, which was made out of corrugated steel. A circular hole that was thirty feet in diameter had been cut into the angled roof of this building.

The mother stopped the car, shifted into park, and unbuckled her son. It was essential—though extremely difficult—for her to maintain her composure.

Cradling Hug, Abigail exited the vehicle, closed the door, and walked toward the entrance of the warehouse, which was wide open.

From the darkened interior came the buzzing sounds of two power generators.

“Hug?”

———

A voice called from someplace and awakened Hug Chickenpenny. His activated heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped . . . and reluctantly repeated this sequence.

“Wake up, Hug. Wake up.”

The anomalous boy opened his eyes, focused the good one, and saw a familiar face. “Mommy?”

“Yes. I’ve got a surprise for you. Look over there—”

Abigail motioned, and Hug turned his heavy head.

Ahead of him lay a huge, buzzing darkness.

“Look at what we built,” said the mother, who then tilted her head back and filled her lungs. “Lights!”

A snapping sound echoed, and six bright lights glared from the ceiling of a big metal place.

The anomalous boy squinted his good eye.

“Do you see it?” asked Abigail.

Concentrating, Hug tried to focus.

Something very tall and blurry stood in the big metal place.

The mother carried her son further inside. Footfalls echoed, and the tall object at which the anomalous boy stared came into focus.

Standing in the middle of the big metal warehouse was a rocket ship.

Amazed, Hug gaped at the sight of the interstellar craft, which was covered with fins, wings, laser cannons, racing stripes, lightning bolts, and antennae. All of these protrusions were sleekly designed in order to minimize drag, and the sixteen thrusters at the bottom were correctly arrayed for maximum speed.

Wheezing, the anomalous boy filled his little lung, which was the only one that still functioned. “It’s . . . the rocket . . . that I drew.”

“Yes.”

“When you . . . adopted me.”

“Yes.”

The mother carried her son toward the spacecraft. In his deteriorated condition, he did not notice that the hull was made out of wooden planks, drywall, and sheet metal.

Footfalls echoed throughout the warehouse.

Gasping, the anomalous boy inflated his little lung. “Does it really work?”

“You designed it, didn’t you?”

Smiling, Hug displayed the three fangs that remained in his purple gums. “How did you b—” He coughed. “How did you build it?”

“I had some help.”

“Who?”

“I helped her,” said an unseen man.

Hug turned his head.

From out of the blurry shadows strode Sandy, who wore grease-stained, denim overalls and carried a duffel bag. The fellow once again looked healthy and handsome.

“Dad!”

This exclamation brought various emotions to Sandy’s face, but through all of them shone his big grin. “Hey there young fella.”

“Hey there!”

Sandy walked over and embraced Hug, who weakly reciprocated with his arm and nubbin. An anomalous heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

Hug wheezed. “Are you . . . feeling better now?”

The handsome man withdrew, wiped his eyes, and nodded his head. “I am. Thanks for asking.”

Sandy reached into his duffel bag and withdrew the pellet rifle that had once belonged to Rex. “In case you need to do some huntin’ up there in space.”

Excited, Hug waggled his nubbin. “Put it in the trunk . . . the one . . . with the lightning bolts.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you.”

Sandy carried the rifle toward the rocket ship.

Abigail gestured. “Some other people helped too—”

The anomalous boy turned his head and focused his good eye.

From the blurry shadows strode Phalanges and Sidney, the two remaining members of the Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences. The lank mycologist employed a walker and was aided further by the bent arm of the portly phrenologist. Held in the free hand of the latter fellow was a pickle jar that contained formaldehyde and the preserved little left arm of Hug.

“My arm!”

Sidney nodded his head. “We believe that Hannersby would’ve wanted you to have it.”

“Thanks. They may be able . . . to reattach it . . . out in space.”

The footfalls of the oldsters echoed, and the portly phrenologist eyed the lank mycologist. “Say it, old man. It’s long overdue.”

“Okay.” Phalanges looked directly at Hug. “It was my fault about the mushrooms that time. I got mixed up and made a mistake and didn’t own up to it. I’m sorry I ever said otherwise.”

“It’s okay.”

Hug coughed up two amethysts, which arced through the air and skipped across the concrete floor.

“Thanks,” said Phalanges, who claimed and pocketed these stones. “We’ll study these.”

“Okay.”

Sidney gestured at the rocket ship. “We’ll put your arm in the trunk. The one with the lightning bolts.”

“Thank you.”

The oldsters walked toward the spacecraft.

“Up there—” said Abigail.

The anomalous boy raised his gaze.

Standing atop a long ladder that leaned against the rocket was Cinnamon, whom Hug remembered fondly from the orphanage. Held in her right hand was the dripping paintbrush with which she applied the final lightning bolt to a lateral fin. “Have yourself a real good trip!” called out the southern girl.

“Thank you!”

“Good luck!” said Cocoa, who was holding the bottom ladder.

“Thank you!”

Abigail carried Hug toward the ramp that led up into the rocket ship.

“Hug . . . ?”

This voice came from inside the spacecraft and belonged to a man. Vanished memories of a crib, an outer space mobile, a golden gorilla, soft hands, warmth, and safety returned to the anomalous boy.

Hug filled his little lung. “Is it . . . ?”

A chubby bearded man whose silver hair had once been red appeared in the doorway of the rocket ship. His green eyes shone brightly as did his smile.

“Georgie . . . ?”

“Yes, Hug, it’s me.”

George Dodgett walked down the ramp toward Hug, who soon extended his trembling limbs.

Footfalls echoed throughout the warehouse as the space between the anomalous boy and his first caretaker diminished.

George reached Hug and gently took him from the arms of Abigail.

The caretaker and the anomalous boy hugged.

“My mommy told me—” Hug wheezed. “My mommy told me . . . that you’re the one who named me.”

“I am.”

The anomalous boy buried his face deep into the soft chest of the caretaker. “Thank you.”

George trembled for a moment and then cleared his throat. “It was the best name that you could ever have.”

“I agree.”

Abigail reclaimed Hug and cradled him within her arms.

“Have an incredible journey,” said the caretaker.

“I will.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, Georgie.”

The mother carried her son onward. Boots clanked upon the metal ramp that rose to the open doorway.

“It’s very nice . . . that all of them helped,” remarked the anomalous boy.

“Yes. Very nice.”

Abigail carried Hug through the threshold, up the spiral staircase, and into the nosecone, which was filled with blinking lights and colorful displays. The mother set her son in the plush pilot’s chair, which felt very soft and comfortable, almost like a bed. She then pulled a seatbelt across his chest and slotted the buckle, which snapped in place.

Amazed, the anomalous boy surveyed the cockpit.

Colors flashed upon the console, and a stuffed golden gorilla sat in the copilot’s seat.

Hug looked up at Abigail. “Back in the hospital . . . for a little bit . . . I was starting to lose hope.”

“But you never did.”

“Nope.” The anomalous boy wheezed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Abigail kissed Hug on the forehead and stood upright. It seemed like she was trying very, very, very hard to keep a smile on her face.

For some reason, things were getting dark.

“Is the power going out?” asked the anomalous boy.

“No . . . but you should take off now. You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“I will.”

A four-fingered right hand and a nubbin thumb gripped the steering wheel.

“Have a safe trip,” said Abigail.

“I will. Bye, Mommy.”

“Bye.”

Footfalls echoed as the mother descended the stairs and left the ship. A door clanked shut.

Wheezing, Hug looked up.

Beyond the windshield and the hole that had been cut into the warehouse ceiling loomed the vastness of outer space, which was filled with stars, meteors, comets, planets, and galactic swirls.

Infinite wonderful possibilities awaited the young voyager.

Hug filled his little lung to capacity and looked at the golden gorilla. “Let’s get off this godforsaken planet, pronto.”

No objections came from the copilot.

The anomalous boy stomped the gas pedal. His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.

The rocket began to shake. Stars blurred.

Hug leaned back in his plush pilot’s seat.

An anomalous heart thudded and gurgled but did not thump.

Hug closed his eyes.

An anomalous heart thudded one final time.

Gravity released the rocket ship, and the voyager who was named Hug Chickenpenny flew away from Earth into the limitless unknown.

ABOUT S. CRAIG ZAHLER

S. Craig Zahler is an award-winning screenwriter, director, novelist, cinematographer and musician. He wrote, directed, and co-composed the score for the 2015 film Bone Tomahawk, an Independent Spirit Award-nominated picture (Best Screenplay; Best Supporting Actor) starring Kurt Russell, Patrick Wilson, Matthew Fox, Lili Simmons, David Arquette, and Richard Jenkins. The film garnered praise from critics and fans alike, including the New York Times, which called Bone Tomahawk, “[a] witty fusion of western, horror and comedy that gallops to its own beat”.

Zahler also wrote and directed Brawl in Cell Block 99 which stars Vince Vaughn, Jennifer Carpenter, Don Johnson, Udo Kier and Marc Blucas and had its World Premiere at the 2017 Venice Fim Festival.

Mel Gibson, Vince Vaughn and Tory Kittles star in Zahler’s latest film, the gritty cop thriller Dragged Across Concrete, in post-production as of Spring 2018.

Zahler has sold more than twenty-five of his screenplays and continues to maintain a grueling writing pace.

Zahler’s debut western novel, A Congregation of Jackals was nominated for both the Peacemaker and the Spur awards, and his novels Mean Business on North Ganson Street and Corpus Chrome, Inc. both received starred reviews for excellence in Booklist.

In addition to writing and directing, Zahler has founded and played in several bands, including the epic metal Realmbuilder, whose albums have been released by I Hate Records of Sweden. With his longtime friend and songwriting partner Jeff Herriott, Zahler co-composed the score for Bone Tomahawk and the original soul songs for Brawl in Cell Block 99, which were performed by the O’Jays and Butch Tavares. Recently the duo formed Binary Reptile, a synthesizer project that provided the music for the ear movie, The Narrow Caves.

Table of Contents

- I | An Assortment of Creepers
- II | George’s Cups
- III | They Crawled Away from Him
- IV | The End of His First Orbit
- V | The Amenable Doctor (of Teratology)
- VI | (The Coercion of) Soft Hands
- VII | The Antagonist’s Reward
- VIII | A Tour of the Hannersby Collection

- IX | The Society for the Advancement of the Greater Eccentric Sciences

- X | The Mushroom Hunters
- XI | Two Sleepers
- XII | Unwanted Again
- XIII | Other Children
- XIV | Cold Coffee and Old Obituaries
- XV | Clandestine Crafts
- XVI | The Instructor’s Lesson
- XVII | Wishes Realized
- XVIII | Television Tutelage
- XIX | An Artistic Survey
- XX | Unsupervised Nights
- XXI | Brotherhood
- XXII | Sidereal, Ethereal, and Corporeal
- XXIII | Why?
- XXIV | Drafty Hearths
- XXV | Miscellaneous Junk
- XXVI | The Voyager