At Risk by Alice Hoffman Page A

married a doctor. Mind if I smoke a cigar?”
    The smell makes Charlie sick, but he says, “Sure,” and gets one from the glove compartment. His grandfather isn’t allowed to smoke at home; he has to sit in the basement if he wants a cigar. Al hands Charlie the cold bottle of beer to hold, then takes the cigar and lights it.
    “Do you think she’ll die?” Charlie says.
    “Well, son,” his grandfather says, “we’re all going to die, aren’t we?”
    “Don’t talk to me like I’m a baby,” Charlie says.
    “You’re right,” Al says. “I forget how old you are. As far as I can tell, it doesn’t look good.” He glances at Charlie to gauge his reaction. “Want to try that beer?”
    Charlie looks over at his grandfather to see if he’s kidding. Al’s eyes are on the road. Charlie takes a swig of beer, which stings as it goes down. It is disgusting. Charlie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
    “Not bad,” he says.
    They take the turnoff for the New England Thruway. Charlie stares out the window and imagines the tyrannosaurus in his dream. It is taller than any of the trees along the road, taller than the lampposts and the water towers. The sky is clear, the luminous blue it turns on summer evenings, just before dark. Charlie thinks of teeth and claws, blood and bones. He always thought he was smart, and now, quite suddenly, he sees that science has made him stupid. He really believed that, given enough time, science could answer any question, but it cannot answer what is most important: What if there’s no time left?
    “I’ve been up and down this road so many times, I know it by heart,” Grandpa Al says. “Want some music?”
    “I don’t want to go home,” Charlie says.
    “Of course you don’t,” Al says, his foot steady on the gas.
    They drive the rest of the way in silence except for the few songs Charlie’s grandfather sings, old songs Charlie doesn’t know the words to, love songs Al himself can barely remember. After they skirt Boston, the air begins to feel salty. They drive on 95, past Peabody, and Gloucester, and Ipswich. At the exit for Morrow, they see three white herons walking along the side of the road. Charlie’s grandfather switches on the high beams and he has a second beer, not quite cold enough to be good for anything, certainly not for quenching his thirst. There are no more fireflies, and it’s gotten darker earlier than it did only a few days ago. They drive through town, past the green and the shops.
    “Almost there,” Al says mournfully.
    They turn onto Chestnut Street, go half a block, then pull into the driveway. Ivan is out on the front porch, waiting for them maybe, or just getting some air. He stands up when the car pulls in. Charlie is afraid to look at his father, but he does anyway. His father looks just the same as he did when he drove Charlie to the bus, only now he’s wearing a blue shirt, beige slacks, and loafers without any socks. He stands in front of the house and doesn’t move; he’s frozen in place. Charlie starts to open the car door before the car comes to a stop. As he walks to his father, the patch Charlie’s grandmother stitched on his jacket begins to glow like a piece of ashy, forgotten meteor.
    Charlie does his best not to talk to anyone for the rest of the evening, and as soon as he can, he escapes up to his room. When Amanda comes to his room, the light is off and she can’t make anything out.
    “Are you here?” she says.
    The window is open and the white rice-paper shade moves back and forth, hitting against the sill. The children’s grandfather is spending the night, and he and their mom and dad are out on the porch, drinking beer and talking low. So low, Amanda is pretty certain that they’re talking about her.
    “I’m here,” Charlie says.
    For some reason he doesn’t want to take any of his clothes off before going to bed, not even his jacket. Amanda sees the phosphorescent dinosaur patch and she follows it to the