Read Online The Edge of Forever by Melissa E. Hurst - Free Book Online
Authors: Melissa E. Hurst
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say, thinking it will never happen. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to no good.
Sela parks in front of The Gingerbread House, and I hurry inside. It’s a small old house painted a chocolate brown and trimmed in white with a variety of candies painted on the exterior. No one appears to be here other than the owner, Mrs. Randolph. I look forward to a few minutes of peace and quiet while I pick out my poison.
After I buy some donuts, I chat with Mrs. Randolph for a few minutes, but on the way to the exit I get that weird feeling again. My skin prickles as I reach for the door handle. I swear someone is watching me. I twist around and scan the small shop, but no one’s here except for Mrs. Randolph. She’s already turned back to her small television, engrossed in a soap opera, so she doesn’t see me looking around like a crazy person. Still, the feeling is there, like I’m standing right next to somebody.
And then I feel something, like a hand touching my arm.
I scream.
“What’s wrong, hun?” Mrs. Randolph asks, hurrying around the counter.
I stumble back from the door. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Or felt one.
7
BRIDGER
MARCH 11, 2146
A fter arriving at the shuttle port, I plow into the crowds sifting through downtown New Denver. It takes another fifteen minutes to get to Dad’s apartment. I stop in front of the retina scanner next to the door. A red light flashes in my eyes, indicating it’s identifying me. I never used to pay attention to the light. Now it reminds me of blood. I wonder if Dad was covered with blood when his body appeared back in our time after he died. I’ll never know. General Anderson wouldn’t let us see his body until the memorial ceremony.
The door slides open, and I step inside. It’s like a punch to the gut, knowing Dad isn’t here. I place my portacase on the nearest chair and examine the room. This is the first time I’ve been back since his memorial ceremony. Mom has put pressure on me and Shan to sell the place. Shan doesn’t care. But I don’t want to let it go. I realize Dad’s never coming back, but having his stuff here is comforting.
The apartment is huge—one of the perks of being a Time Bender—but nothing fancy. It’s the standard white unit you’d find in new apartments. But his presence is stamped everywhere. The overstuffed black couch is accented with three throw pillows that are green—Dad’s favorite color. Antiques from his past trips are scattered on shelves. Large digigraphs showing scenes from his favorite old films line the wall opposite a wide window overlooking the city. Smaller digigraphs of Dad, Shan, and me dot the black table in front of the couch.
I’m drawn to those like a magnet. My favorite shows the three of us when I was ten and Shan was six. We were on vacation, on a tour of the Washington, DC ruins. I run a finger along the side of the glass frame and watch as Dad, holding Shan on his shoulders, drapes his free arm around me. Then Shan and I wave at Mom, who was recording us.
There’s even a digigraph of Vika and me. Dad recorded it at the Christmas party he hosted back in December. Vika opens my present, squeals, and gives me a kiss in front of everybody. I remember how embarrassed I was, hearing the hoots of laughter from Dad’s friends.
I blink and swipe at my eyes, hating myself for being so weak. So not like Dad. He never would’ve been caught standing around crying like a baby. It’s time to man up.
I head to Dad’s bedroom but stop at the doorway. It still smells like him in here. His woodsy scent, though faint, fills the room. I let out a few deep puffs of air and force myself to enter. I keep my eye on my goal—the antique desk.
It’s not one of those cheap replicas you can find anywhere. It’s the real thing, made of maple. When the Department of Temporal Affairs has information about the exact date and time a property is to be
Sela parks in front of The Gingerbread House, and I hurry inside. It’s a small old house painted a chocolate brown and trimmed in white with a variety of candies painted on the exterior. No one appears to be here other than the owner, Mrs. Randolph. I look forward to a few minutes of peace and quiet while I pick out my poison.
After I buy some donuts, I chat with Mrs. Randolph for a few minutes, but on the way to the exit I get that weird feeling again. My skin prickles as I reach for the door handle. I swear someone is watching me. I twist around and scan the small shop, but no one’s here except for Mrs. Randolph. She’s already turned back to her small television, engrossed in a soap opera, so she doesn’t see me looking around like a crazy person. Still, the feeling is there, like I’m standing right next to somebody.
And then I feel something, like a hand touching my arm.
I scream.
“What’s wrong, hun?” Mrs. Randolph asks, hurrying around the counter.
I stumble back from the door. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Or felt one.
7
BRIDGER
MARCH 11, 2146
A fter arriving at the shuttle port, I plow into the crowds sifting through downtown New Denver. It takes another fifteen minutes to get to Dad’s apartment. I stop in front of the retina scanner next to the door. A red light flashes in my eyes, indicating it’s identifying me. I never used to pay attention to the light. Now it reminds me of blood. I wonder if Dad was covered with blood when his body appeared back in our time after he died. I’ll never know. General Anderson wouldn’t let us see his body until the memorial ceremony.
The door slides open, and I step inside. It’s like a punch to the gut, knowing Dad isn’t here. I place my portacase on the nearest chair and examine the room. This is the first time I’ve been back since his memorial ceremony. Mom has put pressure on me and Shan to sell the place. Shan doesn’t care. But I don’t want to let it go. I realize Dad’s never coming back, but having his stuff here is comforting.
The apartment is huge—one of the perks of being a Time Bender—but nothing fancy. It’s the standard white unit you’d find in new apartments. But his presence is stamped everywhere. The overstuffed black couch is accented with three throw pillows that are green—Dad’s favorite color. Antiques from his past trips are scattered on shelves. Large digigraphs showing scenes from his favorite old films line the wall opposite a wide window overlooking the city. Smaller digigraphs of Dad, Shan, and me dot the black table in front of the couch.
I’m drawn to those like a magnet. My favorite shows the three of us when I was ten and Shan was six. We were on vacation, on a tour of the Washington, DC ruins. I run a finger along the side of the glass frame and watch as Dad, holding Shan on his shoulders, drapes his free arm around me. Then Shan and I wave at Mom, who was recording us.
There’s even a digigraph of Vika and me. Dad recorded it at the Christmas party he hosted back in December. Vika opens my present, squeals, and gives me a kiss in front of everybody. I remember how embarrassed I was, hearing the hoots of laughter from Dad’s friends.
I blink and swipe at my eyes, hating myself for being so weak. So not like Dad. He never would’ve been caught standing around crying like a baby. It’s time to man up.
I head to Dad’s bedroom but stop at the doorway. It still smells like him in here. His woodsy scent, though faint, fills the room. I let out a few deep puffs of air and force myself to enter. I keep my eye on my goal—the antique desk.
It’s not one of those cheap replicas you can find anywhere. It’s the real thing, made of maple. When the Department of Temporal Affairs has information about the exact date and time a property is to be
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