Henry Franks by Peter Adam Salomon Page A

hand. “That.”
    â€œI don’t hear anything.”
    â€œSomething’s beeping,” she said.
    Henry turned the light back on but didn’t let go of her hand. He blinked in the sudden brightness.
    â€œThere it was again.”
    They stood in silence, still holding hands.
    â€œThat?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” she said, “it hasn’t been long enough. It’s every thirty seconds.”
    â€œYou’ve been counting?”
    â€œYes.” She nodded. “Did you hear it that time?”
    â€œNo, you were talking.”
    Justine reached her free hand up and covered Henry’s mouth with her palm. He turned to face her and slid the flashlight into his pocket, bringing his own hand up to cover her mouth. She smiled beneath his fingers as the beep sounded again.
    His eyes widened and she took her hand down. “Heard it that time, didn’t you?”
    Henry nodded and started walking away from the circuit box, into the far corner beneath the staircase. Thirty seconds later, they waited for another beep. After, they took a few more steps on tiptoe, trying to see behind boxes. Another beep.
    Henry moved a pile of boxes out of the way until he could see underneath the stairs. An old fire alarm hung off the wall, a faint red light blinking as it beeped once again.
    â€œWell,” Justine said, “that was anti-climactic.”
    â€œWhat were you expecting?” He took the battery out of the alarm and tested it on his tongue.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asked.
    â€œSeeing how much power is left.”
    â€œWith your tongue?”
    He held the 9-volt out to her. “Here, just touch the two metal things.”
    â€œNo thanks,” she said. “I trust you.”
    â€œIt tingles.”
    â€œIt’s electricity. We’re already alive—I’m not eating a battery.” She shook her head. “Though I could go for a donut.”
    He pocketed the battery and started picking up the boxes he’d moved.
    â€œHenry?” She was on her hands and knees when he turned to look at her, and all he saw was the way her shorts stretched across the back of very tan, very slim thighs, the shadows playing hide-and-seek with his vision as he watched her sit up. “It’s empty.”
    She passed a small box over to him, the half-ripped-off label still showing part of an address.
    â€œCME-U,” he read out loud. “I can’t make out the rest, it’s missing.”
    â€œDoes it mean anything to you?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “You?”
    â€œOf course, it solves everything,” she said. “Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?”
    Henry looked her up and down, at the dust stains on her knees, the long tendrils of hair sticking to her neck in the heat, the T-shirt glued to her skin. “I’d have enjoyed the books a lot more,” he said.
    Justine grabbed his hand and walked back into the maze of boxes, then let go of him with a laugh in order to straighten out the mess.
    On the way up the stairs, she turned the light out and reached for his hand again.

    In the kitchen, a bag of fast-food burgers sat on the table next to a pile of junk mail. Down the hall at the master bedroom a ray of light bled through the edges of the door, but his father was nowhere to be seen.
    â€œDinner?” Justine asked, pointing at the table.
    â€œBurgers again,” he said with a shrug.
    â€œI’m sorry we didn’t find anything.”
    â€œI have that box now, not to mention my scrapbook,” Henry said. “And a burger.”
    â€œAnd ketchup,” she said, picking up one of the packets next to the bag. “I’d still like to see your scrapbook one day.”
    â€œI’m free Sunday,” he said.
    She threw the packet of ketchup at him. “You have a date tomorrow?”
    He flinched, his hand a second too slow to stop it from bouncing off his forehead. “Something with my