that moored it to the dock.
"I've got it!" she yelled, clinging to the line for her life. Michael lunged at her. She thought he would swamp her, but at the last second he twisted and grabbed for the counter. The boat zigzagged crazily, almost capsized when he hurled his body halfway over the taffrail and hung there, vomiting water and gasping.
Sam swam straight to the ladder at the end of the dock and clambered up. Grabbing the painter, he hauled it in, with Sydney still clutching at it. The sailboat's stern gently bumped the dock.
Footsteps banged overhead. Papa and Charles skidded to a stop at the edge and peered down at her. "Are you all right?" they asked in unison.
"I'm fine." To prove it, she let go of the line and swam over to the ladder. She weighed a ton; Charles had to help her up and over the last two rungs. Sam pulled the line in until the boat was inches away from the ladder; her father helped him hold it steady. "Need a hand?" Charles asked, bending down toward Michael.
Michael ignored him. He climbed the ladder deliberately and walked away from all of them before he stopped, put his hands on his knees, and coughed up more water.
"Never thought of that," Dr. Winter mused, watching him. "Can't swim, eh? Hm! Who'd've expected it?" He scratched his head and blinked down at his notebook.
Disgusted, Sydney padded, dripping, over to Michael. She touched the wet coat sticking to his back. "Are you all right?" He turned, and when she saw his face she drew back in dismay. "Oh, God," she blurted, "oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was stupid—I knew it—I did it anyway. Michael, wait—"
He wouldn't stop. Without looking back, he walked off in the direction of the guest house. After a startled second, O'Fallon followed.
Charles, solicitous as always, draped his jacket over her shoulders. "What did you call him?" he asked interestedly.
They watched the lost man plod through the sand and finally disappear into the trees at the end of the path. "Michael," she answered, miserable. "That's his name."
Chapter 4
“You're saying you're going to continue with these experiments?" Sydney stopped drying her hair to stare at her father incredulously. "Even though you know he can speak? He can say his name, Papa, I heard him."
When he was feeling beleaguered, Dr. Winter's defense was to grow even more vague than usual. "Not saying any such thing," he muttered, ducking his head between his shoulders, turtle fashion, doing his best to disappear behind his desk. "Not saying anything at all. Not talking," he finished inaudibly.
Charles wasn't as reticent. "You don't know what you heard, Sydney. You heard him say something—"
"Michael. I heard him say Michael."
"Even so. If he said it, and if that really is his name, what does it prove? Nothing." Her father looked up at that and nodded. "It only means he remembers his name. You seem to think it means he's a Harvard graduate who happened to get lost in the woods."
Her father chuckled at that. Chuckled. In her anger, Sydney forgot to be tactful. "You're scientists—you're supposed to be objective. How can you ignore what's been in front of your eyes for weeks? Especially you, Papa. You knew it already, or you suspected it. You wrote it in your notes!"
"A suspicion, perhaps, the merest—"
"No, you wrote it, don't you remember? 'His manner indicates he could speak if he would.' And you wondered why he had a book with him. Don't you see what it means? He knows everything!"
"Oh, nonsense."
"Not everything," she amended quickly. "But he's not the—the cipher you were hoping for, not by any means, so how can you experiment on him anymore as if he were a lab animal?"
Charles, who had been standing behind her father—like a son in a family photograph, nothing missing but the filial hand on the paternal shoulder—came around the desk and crossed to her. She had changed clothes, but her hair was still wet; the damp towel dangled from her fingers, forgotten. He reached
"I've got it!" she yelled, clinging to the line for her life. Michael lunged at her. She thought he would swamp her, but at the last second he twisted and grabbed for the counter. The boat zigzagged crazily, almost capsized when he hurled his body halfway over the taffrail and hung there, vomiting water and gasping.
Sam swam straight to the ladder at the end of the dock and clambered up. Grabbing the painter, he hauled it in, with Sydney still clutching at it. The sailboat's stern gently bumped the dock.
Footsteps banged overhead. Papa and Charles skidded to a stop at the edge and peered down at her. "Are you all right?" they asked in unison.
"I'm fine." To prove it, she let go of the line and swam over to the ladder. She weighed a ton; Charles had to help her up and over the last two rungs. Sam pulled the line in until the boat was inches away from the ladder; her father helped him hold it steady. "Need a hand?" Charles asked, bending down toward Michael.
Michael ignored him. He climbed the ladder deliberately and walked away from all of them before he stopped, put his hands on his knees, and coughed up more water.
"Never thought of that," Dr. Winter mused, watching him. "Can't swim, eh? Hm! Who'd've expected it?" He scratched his head and blinked down at his notebook.
Disgusted, Sydney padded, dripping, over to Michael. She touched the wet coat sticking to his back. "Are you all right?" He turned, and when she saw his face she drew back in dismay. "Oh, God," she blurted, "oh, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It was stupid—I knew it—I did it anyway. Michael, wait—"
He wouldn't stop. Without looking back, he walked off in the direction of the guest house. After a startled second, O'Fallon followed.
Charles, solicitous as always, draped his jacket over her shoulders. "What did you call him?" he asked interestedly.
They watched the lost man plod through the sand and finally disappear into the trees at the end of the path. "Michael," she answered, miserable. "That's his name."
Chapter 4
“You're saying you're going to continue with these experiments?" Sydney stopped drying her hair to stare at her father incredulously. "Even though you know he can speak? He can say his name, Papa, I heard him."
When he was feeling beleaguered, Dr. Winter's defense was to grow even more vague than usual. "Not saying any such thing," he muttered, ducking his head between his shoulders, turtle fashion, doing his best to disappear behind his desk. "Not saying anything at all. Not talking," he finished inaudibly.
Charles wasn't as reticent. "You don't know what you heard, Sydney. You heard him say something—"
"Michael. I heard him say Michael."
"Even so. If he said it, and if that really is his name, what does it prove? Nothing." Her father looked up at that and nodded. "It only means he remembers his name. You seem to think it means he's a Harvard graduate who happened to get lost in the woods."
Her father chuckled at that. Chuckled. In her anger, Sydney forgot to be tactful. "You're scientists—you're supposed to be objective. How can you ignore what's been in front of your eyes for weeks? Especially you, Papa. You knew it already, or you suspected it. You wrote it in your notes!"
"A suspicion, perhaps, the merest—"
"No, you wrote it, don't you remember? 'His manner indicates he could speak if he would.' And you wondered why he had a book with him. Don't you see what it means? He knows everything!"
"Oh, nonsense."
"Not everything," she amended quickly. "But he's not the—the cipher you were hoping for, not by any means, so how can you experiment on him anymore as if he were a lab animal?"
Charles, who had been standing behind her father—like a son in a family photograph, nothing missing but the filial hand on the paternal shoulder—came around the desk and crossed to her. She had changed clothes, but her hair was still wet; the damp towel dangled from her fingers, forgotten. He reached
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