This story follows "Round Two" in the Johnny/J.R. Series. The Harp-Weaver by Nexxie "J.R., go assist Winston," Cap Riley instructed the young firefighter. J.R. Gage trotted over to Paramedic Walt Winston who was treating the 30-year-old female victim of an MVA. She's in a bad way, he thought immediately as he knelt by Winston's side. One look at her face caused him to shiver, suddenly cold. "Whatcha need, Walt?" J.R. forced himself to speak normally. He noted FF/PM Christopher "Kit" Crawford starting an IV on another victim a few yards away. "Get on the O2," Winston instructed J.R. while setting up telemetry for an EKG. With a quick nod, J.R. set up the oxygen and adjusted the mask on the victim's face, hesitating at first to touch her. No need for reassuring words here---she's unconscious. I'm not sure I could speak them anyway...not for this particular victim. It's a good thing she's out of it, he thought, otherwise she'd be in agony. All in all she's lucky to even be alive. He shuddered at the burns, lacerations and contusions that covered a large portion of her body. From the corner of his eye, J.R. could see FF "Farms" Farmer hosing down hte remains of her car. Chaos ruled the accident scene until Engine and Squad 15 arrived, followed shortly by the vehicles from Station 51 and Squad 36. Both sides of the highway resembled a parking lot as motorists paused and craned their necks to see the gory details. From somewhere a crowd managed to gather, some offering assistance, some advice, others just gawking in disbelief at the incredible destruction. A traffic helicopter, buffeted by high winds, made accidental contact with high tension wires and spun out of control before crashing in the southbound lane of I-405 at rush hour. The resulting explosion quickly incinerated two cars and crushed a third. Burning debris flew through the air and impacted other vehicles, causing a major pile-up. In a quick survey, J.R. managed to count about fifteen cars involved. FF Gage manned a hose for the first ten minutes, helping Farms Farmer, Rudy Taylor and Dave Konnitsky reduce the conflagration to piles of smoking blackened steel. A quick and nauseating check of the wreckage confirmed the drivers and passengers of those vehicles to be beyond medical help. Grimly he helped remove them to a separate area to await the coroner. In the distance J.R. spotted his father assisting Charlie Dwyer and further on the paramedics from 36's worked frantically on two more victims. A bad scene. A very bad scene. He returned his attention to 15's senior paramedic...and the inert woman in his care. Winston's victim was injured when a piece of flaming helicopter flew through the front window of her Mazda. She either lost consciousness or control of the car, steering the small vehicle into the upright concrete supports of an overpass. After extinguishing the burning wreckage that shared the front seat of the vehicle, it took several precious minutes and the jaws of life to free her from the mangled remains of the car. Luckily she was the vehicle's sole occupant. "V-Fib!" Winston yelled, reaching for the defibrillator. J.R. quickly grabbed the tube of conductive gel and squirted some onto the paddles Walt held ready, then pushed the button to charge the machine. "400," the young firefighter yelled. "Clear!" Winston positioned the paddles on the woman's torso and applied shock. Her body bucked with the charge, but the monitor remained unchanged from the erratic pattern of spikes that crossed the screen. "Crawford, get over here!" Winston yelled. "Again!" he called to J.R., who recharged the defibrillator a second time. "400" "Clear!" J.R. jumped back and watched as the electric charge once more coursed through the woman's body. No conversion. Cap Riley took over the biophone, relaying information to Rampart Emergency as Winston readied an injection in anticipation of instructions from Dr. Early. "Crawford, airway; Gage, start CPR," Winston instructed as he inserted the syringe and watched the monitor. No effect. The paramedic prepared to shock again. "Clear!" J.R. sat back on his heels for a moment. The third shock proved as unsuccessful as the first two in restoring the woman's failing heart to sinus rhythm. She flat-lined and J.R. resumed CPR, desperate to save her life. Of all victims, he didn't want them to lose this one. "J.R., you'll have to leave, now," the doctor informed him as a nurse struggled to push the weeping teenager out of the ICU. "No, you can't make me leave...I can't leave. If I leave she'll die!" The lanky young man pushed past the petite nurse and and ran back to the woman's bedside. He grabbed the patient's hand and squeezed as if he could pump some of his own energy and life force into his mother's dying body. Her hand was pale and skeletal, eyes sunken in her pain-ravaged face, breaths shallow---each threatening to be the last. J.R. glued his eyes to the heart monitor, watching every pulse spike and fade, knowing that while the spikes lasted, he was not alone. "Mother, you just get better and we'll go to Los Angeles. I'll go to every fire station in town until I find my father, then I'll bring him home to you and we'll be a family. We'll have a real house with flowers and lots of books, and I'll get a truck just like he used to drive. It'll be good, Mother, you'll see. Please just try to get well; you can fight this, I know it!" Unconscious of the tears coursing down his face, of the breaks in his voice, the young man held his mother's hand against his cheek as he pleaded with the dying woman. It was inconceivable that he could lose her, that he would be forced to go on alone. Doctor Bradley motioned the nurse and orderlies away. He'd done all he could. They all had. The cancer simply refused to be stopped. And now the end of her suffering drew near. The boy knew; he just refused to accept the fact. Not surprising under the circumstances. Marnie McGuire finally lost the will and ability to go on as her body's systems one-by-one shut down their functions. Her son shouldn't be here to see this, but short of restraining the boy, the doctor couldn't keep him away. J.R. refused to look at the physician, refused to see the pity and resignation in his eyes. He just watched the heart monitor, willing it to make one more beep, and then another. Finally there were no more beeps---just a smooth, even, continuous line. J.R.'s eyes widened in terror. "Mother!" he shrieked, "oh no...oh God! Mother! Come back!...please...don't leave me. Don't leave me. Please, don't leave me." His voice dissolved into heartrending sobs. Still crying, J.R. turned to the doctor and begged, "Do something. Please do something. I can't lose her. I can't go on alone. Please help me!" Charles Bradley placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder as he looked into the brown eyes full of tears and desperation. "J.R., she...requested in writing not to be revived. We...have to adhere to her wishes." "No!" J.R. cried, throwing himself at his mother's body and shaking her lifeless shoulders as if to rouse her from a sound sleep. "J.R., stop! She's gone," the doctor said, clasping him firmly by the shoulders to draw the boy away from the only person in his world that gave a damn. "J.R., you can't do any more, stop now!" Walt Winston forcefully pulled J.R. away from the woman's body as Kit Crawford climbed into the ambulance to ride in with the victim, still administering CPR. After exhausting all means at their disposal to restart the heart, Dr. Early ordered the paramedics to continue CPR and bring the victim in. Not hearing, or unwilling to quit, J.R. kept up the heart compressions, sweat dripping freely from a face red with exertion. Mingled with the sweat were angry bitter tears. "Aaargh!" J.R. cried from the spot on the hot asphalt where he sank after Winston released him. The young fireman emitted a sound of deep despair, almost an animal sound. Overwhelmed by defeat and loss, he pulled his knees to his chest, dropped his head on his arms and sobbed. Farms Farmer, Dave Konnitsky and Del Nichols moved in to form a semi-circle around the young firefighter, shielding him from curious onlookers. "Get Captain Gage," Winston told FF Dave Konnitsky in a low voice. With a bob of his head, Dave took another quick glance at his young friend and ran off in search of his captain. "All right, gentlemen, let's get these hoses back on the engine and get outta here; I'm starved!" Captain John Gage felt a tug at his elbow. "Konnitsky, where have you been? Never mind, get your butt over there and help Taylor and Lopez load the hoses." Johnny was long on tired and short on patience. This had been a difficult response without nearly enough happy endings. "Cap!" Konnitsky stopped him. "Winston wants you over by Squad 15...it's J.R. He's freaked out or something." Johnny felt like he'd been hit in the stomach with a bowling ball. Memories of his ordeal in the ICU waiting to see if his son would recover came crowding into his mind, clearing it of any thoughts about food and rest. "Marco, take over!" he yelled before heading toward Squad 15 at a dead run, clearing equipment and debris like hurdles in his haste to reach his son. Captain Gene Riley intercepted the senior Gage, catching him by the shoulders, his eyes willing the man to calm down. With a gesture, Riley indicated the hunched up form of Johnny's son, rocking back and forth on the hose-soaked pavement, his sobs and moans muffled by the din of men and machines. A few of his fellow firefighters encircled J.R. to protect him from public view. The circle parted soundlessly to admit the young man's father. Winston knelt by J.R.'s side, uneasy and unsure. He looked up in relief as Johnny joined him. "Cap, I don't know what happened. He was performing CPR on a victim and wouldn't quit. When I pulled him off he just fell apart." The paramedic shook his head in bewilderment. Johnny hunkered down beside the two men, equally puzzled. "Who was the victim?" Johnny asked, looking for some clue. "It was a woman, about 30, long, dark brown hair, probably a real beauty before this accident. J.R. reacted funny to her at first, just staring, but then he seemed to be okay...until this." There was no doubt in Johnny's mind what set his son off. Although a pretty general description, it sure sounded like Marnie McGuire. John Gage wasn't with J.R.'s mother when she died, but he knew J.R. was. The senior Gage slowly stood and approached Captain Riley. "The description Winston gave of the victim sounds a lot like J.R.'s mother, Gene," he said with a sigh. "My son was there when she died. He must have flashed back to that time." Gene Riley shook his head sadly. "What do you want me to do, John?" he asked. "Should I find a replacement, or would returning to work be the best thing for him?" Riley knew he could rely on Johnny's paramedic expertise, and would willingly take his advise. Johnny rubbed the back of his neck and thought a moment before replying to his son's captain. "I can only go on instinct at this point, but I'd like to take him home. He needs me right now, I think. It's the first time he's ever done this, isn't it?" Riley nodded an affirmative; as far as he knew, that was correct. "Well, then," Gage continued, "can we treat this as an isolated incident and see if we can deal with the problem at home? It may be that he just needs to talk it out." As Riley nodded agreement, Johnny hoped that talking things out would be enough. If it wasn't, the Department might want J.R. evaluated by a professional. Returning to his son's side, Johnny motioned with his head for Winston to leave them alone. He put his arm around J.R.'s shoulders and smoothed the young man's hair, hoping the contact would be soothing. "J.R., son, listen, you need to get up off the pavement. We're gonna go back to Station 51 and I'll take you home as soon as I can get a replacement, all right? J.R...John Roderick Gage look at me!" Johnny's insistent voice pierced through the young firefighter's grief and misery. Only his mother had ever called him by his full name, and only when it was important. He reached up and covered the hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly, his body still jerking with sobs. Choking back further tears, he fought for control, accepting a proffered handkerchief with trembling fingers. The victim's face still haunted his mind, mingling and merging with the face of his mother before separating itself into a separate loss...a new failure. "I couldn't save her, Dad," he said in a small voice, his shoulders shaking. "I thought this time...this time she might live. Oh...no, oh, no, I'm gonna..." Johnny held J.R.'s head and blocked him from view as he vomited on the pavement behind the rear wheel of Squad 15. Winston handed J.R.'s father some paper towels and a cup of water poured from a canteen on the squad. Johnny looked up gratefully, accepting the offering of both assistance and sympathy. He could just bet that Winston was fighting some internal battle with guilt over this. "Walt," Johnny began, "there's no way you could have known that woman...that she... none of this is your fault, okay?" He could see Winston nod, but there was still doubt and uncertainty in his eyes. Johnny hoped Gene Riley would explain J.R.'s reaction to his shiftmates. J.R. finally stood up and followed his father to Engine 51. He kept his head down, not able to face the derisive looks he imagined on the faces of his fellow firefighters. Dave Konnitsky abandoned his seat on the engine and clapped J.R. on the shoulder, motioning him to take the place behind Cap Gage while Konnitsky ran to jump on the back of Big Red. Johnny sighed and looked at his engineer, "Thanks for finishing up for me, Marco. Now let's go home." Marco shot his captain a look of sympathy and understanding as he started Big Red on her way back to Station 51. Johnny's Crew only knew that something happened to their captain's son, and were understandably curious as to why the young man rode with them. They had enough tact and respect for John Gage however, not to discuss it openly. Whatever the problem, it was probably deeply personal and not a topic for idle speculation. Johnny shepherded J.R. to the dormitory and pushed him down onto a bunk. Johnny's Crew, he knew, would not intrude on his son's privacy, and he didn't feel like answering questions at the moment. What answers could he give anyway? A quick phone call to his friend Stony secured a replacement for the rest of the shift and Johnny called Chief McConnike while he waited for Captain Stone to show up, saying only that a personal emergency of a delicate nature had arisen. Johnny hoped Gene Riley wouldn't feel the need to enlighten anyone else in the department just yet. The two men made the ride home in silence. J.R. felt unable to face his father and Johnny couldn't think of a way to broach the subject that weighed heavily on both their minds. A quick sideways glance at J.R.'s face, however, reassured the elder Gage that he had made the right decision. Now to convince his son. When they reached the ranch, J.R. went into the house and trod wearily up to his room, sure his future as a firefighter was doomed. How can I face the guys at 15's?. They'll be embarrassed to be around me, wondering if I can be trusted to do the job from now on without bursting into tears. J.R. pounded the pillow in anger and disgust. Will Cap Riley be forced to suspend me because of this incident? Will I have to get counseling? How will the Department treat this 'episode'? Everything I've wanted in life has just started falling into place. I've found my dad and he turned out to be as great as my mom said. This house is the nicest place I've ever lived. I'm working at a job I like. I have a beautiful girlfriend who makes me feel special and loved. I have friends and the respect of my fellow firefighters...at least until today. Today I sat down in the middle of the street and started bawling like a baby---during a response. If that doesn't convince people I'm nuts, I don't know what will. What if Jennifer finds out about this? Will she think I'm just a weakling crybaby? But that woman...she looked so much like Mom. And I couldn't save her. Even the paramedics couldn't save her. What good is being a paramedic if you have to watch people die anyway? Lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, J.R. relived the accident scene again and again, each replay more damning in his mind than the one before. Finally, throwing an arm across his eyes, hot tears escaping to run down his cheeks, the young man fell asleep. Johnny eyed the ringing phone with annoyance, unsure whether to answer. There wasn't anyone he wanted to talk to at the moment except his son, but enough people went out on a limb today for him and J.R. that it would be ungrateful to ignore the call. "Gage home, John speaking." "Hey, John, how's J.R.?" Johnny felt a stab of guilt as he heard the concern in Gene Riley's voice. The Gage men were blessed with good friends who cared. "He was asleep last I looked, Gene," Johnny admitted. "That's probably the best thing for him," Cap Riley conceded. "Look, John, I won't keep you, but I want you to know that J.R.'s crew mates don't think less of him for this. They are just concerned about him. I thought it best to inform them that the woman who died bore a marked resemblance to J.R.'s mother. I hope you don't mind. I felt it would help justify and explain the kid's reaction. "No, I'm glad you told them. Understanding makes acceptance a lot easier. I just hope my son is willing to talk about it when he wakes up." Johnny pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of his apprehension. "You can tell him, if you want, that the guys understand. He doesn't have to worry when he comes back next shift about being embarrassed. The crew already decided to let the issue drop unless J.R. brings it up." "Gene, tell the guys 'thank you' for me. I appreciate their understanding and support." Johnny realized gratefully that Cap Riley's empahsis on J.R.'s return to work next shift meant that the incident would be forgotten. As he ended the conversation with Gene Riley, Johnny spied an open book on J.R.'s recliner. The kid is forever reading, he reflected. He's even got me doing it. Back in July when they went camping, Johnny and J.R. made their first breakthrough in sharing problems and dealing with issues from the past. His son referred to the place as 'Hawk Ridge' because of the graceful bird of prey that soared below them as they looked out over the valley. It was there that J.R. shared with Johnny his mother's love of poetry and gave a small glimpse of his life growing up in Kansas City. Would returning to Hawk Ridge help J.R. talk about what happened today? On impulse, the senior Gage called a neighbor and arranged for care of the animals over the next three days, then dug through the pantry for provisions. In the remaining daylight, he packed the Rover with all the necessary camping and fishing gear for a three-day trip. It was funny to see so much room still in the back of the vehicle compared with the trip they made in July. It did occur to Johnny that J.R. might want to avoid the issue, might resist his father's interference. Heck, I'll carry him out to the Rover in the morning myself if he doesn't go willingly, Johnny vowed. We need this time to sort things out---there's too much unsaid about the past. J.R. felt a persistent hand shaking his shoulder and heard, as if from a great distance, his father's voice calling him. "Wake up, sleepyhead, we're goin' campin'," Johnny almost sang. "C'mon, son, time's a-wastin'." The younger Gage forced one bleary eye to focus on the window before moving to the alarm clock. It seemed awful dark for four-thirty in the afternoon. He'd only been asleep what, two hours? "Go 'way!" J.R. slapped at the hand that insistently tried to prod him awake. "J.R., get up! We're leavin' in twenty minutes." Johnny's voice continued to be cheerful, but firm. Squinting at his father's determined face, J.R. sat up and grimaced at the stench of the grimy and sweat-stained uniform he still wore. Peeling off the offensive clothing, he padded his way to the shower and stepped beneath the spray, then lathered and scrubbed until he had thoroughly cleansed the smell of the accident scene from his body. As he slid back the shower door, J.R. became aware of another much more pleasant smell that permeated the house---coffee, bacon and eggs, toast too probably. He pulled on jeans and a clean shirt before wandering downstairs to join Johnny in the kitchen. "So, where are we goin'?" The smell of breakfast clued him in that it was actually four-forty in the morning---fourteen hours after his head hit the pillow. As J.R. fought to figure out why he was home when he should be at the station, the memory of yesterday's call, and the aftermath, came back in a rush. "I'm going back to bed," he declared, unwilling to face any more of the day than absolutely necessary. "No," Johnny told him calmly, "you are going to eat your breakfast and then you are going to plant your scrawny butt in the passenger seat of the Rover---by force if necessary." The determined sound of his father's voice told J.R. he had no option. "Where did you say we're going?" "I didn't," Johnny responded, his voice irritatingly smug. "Did I forget planning this little excursion?" J.R. knew full well this was in honor of yesterday's debacle, but hoped to remind his father that he was a grown man instead a child to be ordered about. Not that his actions yesterday were particularly mature... "Nope," Johnny responded, fully aware of what J.R. was implying. "I just came up with the idea last night. J.R., we need this time...both of us." Johnny poured the remainder of the coffee into a Thermos and cleared the dishes, rinsing and loading them into the dishwasher. With a flourish of his hand that clearly stated, 'after you', he waited while J.R. made his way out to the Rover. During the five-hour drive to the campsite, J.R. sat in mutinous silence. Once in a while Johnny switched on the radio for company, but allowed his son's lack of conversation to remain unchallenged. Hopefully this trip would change that. J.R. recognized the campsite immediately and gave his father a questioning glance, but otherwise remained silent. If he's brought me all the way up here to tell me I acted like a fool yesterday, he needn't have bothered, J.R. reflected. He removed his pack reluctantly and flung it on his back in a quick angry motion. Johnny ignored the attitude his son strove to make blatently obvious and contemplated the remaining contents of the Land Rover. Time for fishing and exploring tomorrow, he decided. He needs to talk, and I need to listen. "I don't think we have to take all this stuff," Johnny broke the silence. J.R. merely nodded. The two men left the fishing gear and the tent in the Rover and set off for the ridge. "Don't talk my ears off," Johnny muttered, his only indication of irritation with J.R.'s stubbornness. From his place in the lead, J.R. allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips. You noticed! he thought, 'bout time. I thought you were gonna "happy" me to death. More heavily loaded this time, since October was sure to be a lot cooler in the mountains than July, J.R. and Johnny still made the trip in much less time than when accompanied by Roy and Chris DeSoto. The elder Gage noticed that his son seemed to relax once they got on the trail and by the time they reached the top, clearly appeared to be enjoying himself. At the top of the trail, they dropped their packs and sat on the edge of an outcropping, resting a while to breathe in the crisp mountain air. The senior Gage saw J.R.'s lips moving as he looked off into the distance. From his son's unfocused look, Johnny guessed he was quoting poetry again. "Care to share it, son?" he asked. "It's a sad poem that my mother liked, but I hated it," J.R. admitted. Somewhat surprised, Johnny decided it must be important in some way and asked, "What poem? Why didn't you like it?" "It's called 'Ballad of a Harp-Weaver'," he said, "and I don't like it because it's too...too much like real life. Poetry is supposed to lift you up and inspire you, not depress you. This one just pointed out to me how awful things were for us. I guess Mom thought it would be helpful to look at somebody worse off, but it wasn't. I saw the similarities instead of the differences." "What was the poem about?" Johnny persisted. J.R. took a ragged breath. Man, I know you want me to talk about the past, but it's just so darned hard. He paused to gather his thoughts and, with much reluctance, began. "It's about a woman, a widow, and her little boy. They were poor and starving. The boy had no clothes that fit and they couldn't afford to buy any, so he had to sit home with his mother instead of going to school. There wasn't enough food or fuel for the fire. They ate little and burned the furniture to keep warm. The only pieces of furniture that remained in the house on Christmas Eve was a chair that they couldn't burn and a big harp that they couldn't sell. Dad, this is too depressing..." "Go on," Johnny urged. "What happened to them?" "Well," he sighed, "the little boy woke up in the middle of the night to a magical sight. His mother was weaving clothes, using the harp as a loom. The thread came out of nowhere. She wove all night while the boy fell back asleep. When he woke up, there was a pile of beautiful clothing his size on the floor beside his mother, who was sitting in the one remaining chair. Her fingers were still tangled in the strings of the harp...and she was d-dead." J.R.'s voice broke as he started breathing in great shuddering gasps. "Oh, Dad! It was so awful, I saw her face on that woman, and I tried to save her...I tried my best, but the doctor said she didn't want to be revived and I had to watch that flat line again..." J.R.'s words didn't make a lot of sense, but it was clear that he relived his mother's death yesterday and was traumatized anew. Like the last time they sat on the ridge, Johnny just pulled his son into his arms and let him cry, releasing the pain and anguish in his heart, the young man's whole body jerking with the strain of the heartbroken sobs that came from the bottom of his soul. Finally, emotionally spent, physically tired and throughly ashamed of his outburst, J.R. pulled away from Johnny and lay back on the grass, his forearm covering his tear-ravaged face and feet still dangling over the valley below. Pillowing his head on his arms, his father followed suit. "Now, you wanna explain some of that?" Johnny asked. Too drained to be obstinate, J.R. just nodded. "There were a lot of similarities between me and the little boy in the poem," he began uneasily. "The obvious ones were poverty and lack of a father. Sorry, Dad, but you wanted to know." At Johnny's nod he continued. "While Mom had her job with the telephone company---she was a telephone operator before she got sick---we didn't have it too bad. We had money for Chrismas presents and new clothes for school. We never lacked for food or a decent place to live and we went places in the car. We could get in for free at the zoo and a couple of small museums not far from home. Mom didn't think we needed a TV; we couldn't afford it anyway. She would say, 'There's the library, J.R.; between books and your imagination, there isn't anyplace you can't go. You don't need a box to spoonfeed you ideas and entertain you.'" "I never minded that there wasn't money for a lot of extra things, like Boy Scouts or marching band. I listened to music on the radio and played with kids in the park sometimes. But I was also real proud...I probably got that from you, Dad. I didn't feel comfortable inviting other kids to our house with all the second-hand furniture and no TV, so I was pretty much a loner." J.R.'s eyes took on a faraway look. "Mom, how come you're home?" The twelve-year-old dropped his school books on the kitchen table and crossed to kneel at his mother's side. To his eyes she looked pale and drawn. "I went to the doctor today, J.R.," she answered, "he...he had some bad news for me." Marnie sat up slowly and patted the worn sofa cushion by her side. "Sit down, honey, it's easier to talk down here. Besides, you're getting so big..." "Just a minute, Mom." J.R. made his way to the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of milk. There was just enough for one glass, but he asked anyway, "You want some milk?" At her refusal, he sighed in relief and pulled a handful of cookies from the chipped apple-shaped ceramic jar on the counter. He turned to see his mother regarding him in amusement. "What?" he inquired. "What would you have done if I'd said 'yes'?" she teased. "I knew you wouldn't," he replied confidently, the lopsided grin that appeared on his face a heart-stopping copy of his father's. Marnie put a thin arm around his shoulders as J.R. planted himself beside her on the sofa. "Baby, I've got cancer." The woman held up one hand to still her son's alarmed reaction. "Don't get all upset yet. Doctor Bradley thinks he may have caught it in time. He's going to start me on chemo-therapy next week." J.R. put the milk aside and set the cookies on the small coffee table before him. "Are you gonna be all right? Can he cure you?" "I don't know, son," her voice grew shaky and her eyes misted over. For a moment she nearly gave into the temptation to cry it all out on the narrow shoulders of the boy at her side. A look into his wide frightened eyes, however, gave Marnie the courage she needed to sit up a little straighter and face it...for her son. "We may have to make a few changes around here," she told him. "I'm only going to be able to work part-time. The doctor told me that after the treatments I will probably be pretty sick. On those days, I'm going to depend on you to help out, okay?" His chin trembling, J.R. just nodded, not trusting his voice. An ache began in the back of his throat. Marnie examined the small living room with the second-hand furniture and dime store curtains. "We're going to have to move," she told him. "I've found a little apartment that is cheaper and closer to both work and the hospital." "We have to move again?" It wasn't really a question. "She tried to make it sound like an adventure," J.R. choked and went silent, struggling to regain his composure. Johnny waited patiently, his eyes revealing nothing, unsure how to react. The sound of the breeze rustling the few remaining leaves seemed loud in the otherwise quiet surroundings. At last, J.R. faced his father and continued. "I learned to cook and keep house after school and on weekends. We bought our clothes at yard sales during the summer and I still went to the library once a week for books to read in the evenings. In a way the new neighborhood was easier to deal with. Most of the kids had about as much as we did; some had less. With Mom to take care of, though, I didn't get to play very often anyway. She and I became pretty much everything to each other, you know?" Johnny nodded, his throat constricting at the picture his son's words evoked. J.R. hitched up one knee and rested his chin on it for a few minutes. Loath to begin describing the end of his mother's life, he gazed out over the peaceful vista, drawing strength from its beauty. The yard in front of the apartment building loomed stark and empty. Too cold for outdoor play, the building's many children opted to remain indoors. J.R. felt a chill envelop him that had nothing to do with the blustery December weather. Shivering with apprehension, he opened the outer door of the huge building they laughingly called "the ark" for it's stark lines and variety of occupants. The hall loomed dark, as usual. Maintenance had yet to replace lightbulbs in the structure. He counted four burned-out bulbs as he made his way down the dingy corridor to the tiny apartment. J.R. fit his key into the lock more by feel than by the grace of any illumination, and pushed, the heavy door giving way before his strong teenage shoulders. Sixteen next week, he thought, I'll be old enough to drive. Now if I can just get a job, I'll learn to drive and buy a car, then Mom won't have to take a bus to her appointments anymore. "Honey, I'm home," the teenage voice gave out in a voice deepened to resemble the neighbor he mimicked so well. The cinder block walls created an echo that magnified, rather than muffled, sounds from the neighboring apartments. J.R. waited uneasily for his mother's usual admonishment of "J.R. Gage, they'll hear you!" It didn't come. "Mom?" He entered the living room and stopped short. "Mom!" The boy raced toward Marnie's limp form lying on the floor before the sliding glass doors that lead to the small wooden platform they called a "balcony". "Mom? Mom, are you all right?" He lifted her head in hands that suddenly began to shake. Carefully lowering her head back to the floor, J.R. stood and raced to the door then down the hall where he pounded at the door of the only neighbor he knew with a telephone. END OF PART I the story continues