The Long List Anthology Volume 6 by David Steffen

Author:David Steffen
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Diabolical Plots, L.L.C.
Published: 2020-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

It’s close to noon before I get out of bed and find Marty aimlessly wandering around the living room, and I’m not sure if he’s here or not, but he’s not talking to anyone else, so maybe? “Morning, Uncle,” I say.

“Cassie,” he says. He points to where I dumped all our crap on our way in at four AM. “The fellows at the garage dropped off a new knee for Dave.” He holds up a trilobite. “Also they brought me a bunch of these! I think I can reprogram them . . .”

“I bet you can,” I say. “What are you going to have them do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll need to dig into their code set. I haven’t had a project this fun in a long time.” His face falls. “But I should fix Dave’s knee, first. He’s been so very patient.”

I don’t comment on that. Instead, I pick up the knee motor. “I’ll do it,” I say.

“Thanks, Cassie! You’re the best. I wish the guys would get back here with the coffee, though. Machine is busted again . . .”

“It’s okay, I’m sure they’ll be along soon,” I say. Greg died of stomach cancer four years ago, and is buried only a few rows over from my mom. I don’t know where the others are. The garage itself is now a dry cleaner.

Dave has put his head back on his neck, and is looking out over the neighborhood. “Hey, Cassie,” he says.

“Hey, Dave. I’m going to put that joint motor in. I need you to not move, because if you think I’m mad about the road trip, you have no idea how pissed I’ll be if you squash me,” I say.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” he says.

“We don’t count? Thanks a lot,” I say, as I pull off the leg plate. There’s a little bit of rust on the edges, and I’ll have to get out here with a wire brush and some touch-up paint in the next month or two.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dave says.

And I know what Dave meant, but I also know sometimes you gotta adjust your expectation of what counts as alone and what doesn’t, because nobody has a perfect picture life, or not for very long.

Dave still has his neck craned all the way up. “What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Beige cars,” he says.

“Not today,” I say. “My father will be on the road to Fairham by now, if he’s not there already. Gonna go personally, too; can’t delegate that to any of his flunkies. Now hold still.” I grab the floor jack designed for house joists and I wedge it up under Dave’s butt crack to keep him steady, just in case.

Dave doesn’t really have a butt crack, of course, but there’s a plate up under the base of his tail where there’s the vague, diplomatic suggestion of something of the sort, and up inside above that plate there’s a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with green

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