To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 14

Timothy could hear his own heartbeat. One beat, two beats, three beats, four. Breathe. His jaw hurt from the effort of holding himself together. In. Of course Sam would know someone like him. Out. It was just Timothy's luck. He wanted to give in to the anger, to let Sam know just what he thought of him, much-admired father or not, but Sam had once again said the one thing he couldn't form a defense against. Timothy couldn't retaliate, not when Sam had a personal stake in the subject that haunted him. Not even if his father had earned his disability nobly. Timothy had wished for that countless times himself—just to know that he'd done something that mattered before it was all taken away.

He counted to ten beats of the horse's hooves, then did it again. Breathe. After repeating the exercise two more times, he was cool enough to realize what Sam had said. The War of the Great Divide. He groaned. "You're Elesolian, aren't you? That's what's wrong with you." Besides their affection for coffee, he knew two things about Elesol: that they were traitors to the crown, and that they had nearly torn themselves apart almost thirty years previously, which went to show how well their experiment in liberty had turned out.

Sam straightened, brow creasing as if that was the last thing he had expected Timothy to say. "Born and bred. But my mother is Solarian, which is why we're here now." Something unidentifiable passed across his face. "When father died suddenly she decided to go 'home,' and as the youngest it fell to my lot to go with her."

Timothy shifted uneasily, and some of the tightness in his shoulders relaxed, softened beyond all reason by Sam's story. "So you—have family in Elesol still?" he asked begrudgingly.

Sam crossed his arms with an unconvincing attempt at untainted pride. "Three brothers striking it rich—one in gold country, one in developing a new variety of wheat seed, and one in managing father's mercantile. Meanwhile, the youngest has taken it into his head to pursue medical school on a reporter's salary in a land he never saw until this year."

Timothy studied the dirt on the window. Sam needed a friend as badly as he did, but that still didn't excuse his behavior towards Mrs. Janson—or his nosiness. For a long while he was silent, but as his anger left, the bone-aching weariness returned. It wasn't even noon, but he'd felt all he could feel that day, and the tired struck him dumb. The longer he went without replying, the harder it was to open his mouth again. The gentle shaking of the cab lulled him into a half-conscious drowse, and he was dimly aware that something had caused him pain, but what? It was better to forget. The fog wasn't home, but it was better than hurting.

Timothy was only stirred from his thoughts—if such half-awake musings can be called thoughts—when Sam left the cab. The stairs to The Thameton Pry were framed by the cab door, and it entered his head that he should follow.

Halfway up the stairs he began to remember what had sent him there, and at the top he found that the cobwebs had cleared sufficiently to allow him the comfortably coherent thought that he was losing his mind. Sam had told him about his father, and like an idiot that should be committed to a mental asylum he had forgotten their conversation—forgotten everything!—and done what? Nothing. He didn't know the word for the haze that no one else seemed to feel.

There was only one other writer using a table on the opposite side of the room, and so Timothy and Sam were free to pick the same table as always. Even Lyman was gone, leaving behind only the ghost of cigar smoke past to remind them of his presence.

Timothy sat down heavily, rubbing his knee without thinking about it. Sam, however, did not have the human decency to do the same. He stopped at the end of the table and looked at him with such sadness that Timothy was afraid his tribulations would never end. He must have seemed abominably rude in the cab—but all Sam asked for now were his notes. He dug the notebook out of his pocket gladly, and turned to the pages Sam wanted to see.

Sam scanned them, then glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "Do you always cross your Ds?"

Timothy frowned. That happened sometimes, but it wasn't necessary to point it out. "Can you read it?"

For answer, Sam returned to the notes, and there followed the writing of the most agonizing article Timothy had ever written. Sam had conducted most of the interview, so it was only right that Timothy pull his weight now, but the Elesolian could not contain his desire to help, and Timothy soon lost count of the times that the rhythmic click of the typewriter keys stopped so Sam could offer his opinion. As good-natured as he seemed about it, Timothy could not help wondering why he wanted his help at all if he knew exactly how he wanted the article written. It was extremely trying to have to write with someone looking over his shoulder.

By the time they were done, had crossed out numerous lines and reworded others, and typed it again with almost as many errors, Lyman was back, and Sam delivered it to his employer's altar while Timothy stayed behind and tried to decide whether the S-key had always stuck, or just decided to become obstinate that day.

He was beginning to feel himself slipping back into the fog when a short burst of Lyman's laughter caught his attention. "'The Dare Murder,'" he said, without bothering to remove the cigar from his mouth. "I like it. Three thalers for you, and three for Mr. Wright. Keep doing work like this, and you'll find yourselves richer."

The coins had a deliciously heavy clink to them when Sam dropped three of them into Timothy's hand. "What do you think of that?" Sam asked, grinning. Timothy didn't answer at first, beset by the unnerving sensation that the three silver coins in his palm couldn't possibly be real. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much to his name. He could help with the rent now.

"I think," he said slowly, slipping the coins into his pocket, "that nearly dying pays well."

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The War of the Great Divide is this world's version of the Civil War. Countless men who had been in the Civil War came back amputees, or not at all.

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