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Parker sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. He flung himself out of bed. The blankets twisted around his legs and he fell to the floor, dragging the mass of damp bedclothes with him. He checked his hands, back and front. They shook, but they were otherwise normal. He threw back the tangled web of blankets and inspected his bare feet and legs. He checked his bed, the walls, the room around him.
Nothing out of the ordinary. He was home. He had been in bed. It was morning.
He drew a deep breath and held it, then collapsed backward onto the cold hard floor. He closed his eyes tight, pressed on them with the heels of his hands, and exhaled.
He dropped his hands to his sides and opened his eyes. “I need help.” On the ceiling, Tal looked down at him from her cockpit. “And more posters.”
On the bedside table, next to a glass jelly jar, a scale model of Colby Max’s robotic battle-suit looked back at him. Strapped inside stood a tiny mechanical boy his age. “What time is it, Colby?”
Glowing red digits appeared above the clock. “Seven-thirty . . . a.m. Time to kick some plasma!” declared the clock.
Parker sat up. “That’s for sure.”
“Take it to the max!” said the clock.
Tacked to the wall above the clock hung a calendar. The top of the calendar showed Colby Max in his flying robotic suit, rescuing a crippled airliner about to plunge into a blue ocean. Below this, each day for the month of July bore a large red X. The rows of red X’s led up to Friday the thirteenth. This day bore a handwritten word: Dad. And below this a little birthday cake with Lucky 13 written inside it.
Parker smiled. All week Bubba had been saying that turning thirteen on Friday the thirteenth was malchance. French for bad luck. Each time, Parker shook his head or laughed; he wasn’t superstitious. And he had a reason to smile: today, at long last, his dad was coming home.
Parker stood and scooped up the blankets and tossed them on the bed. “That’s the last time I sleep here.”
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