Part 10 (2/2)

He and Gertrustein had studied Morse code all afternoon. Gertrustein had said that Sam had a mind like a steel trap. Sam pictured the inside of his own head, s.h.i.+ny steel with springs and teeth like a bear trap, grabbing at the Morse code and holding it tight so it would never escape.

Dit dah dit dah, he flashed again, remembering the signal he had learned with his bear-trap mind. He waited. He knew how slowly she walked, and how long it took her to do things with her aching arms and legs.

After a minute, across the yard, from the upstairs window of the next house, he saw her answer. Dah dah dah dah dah, she flashed. Contact established.

Sam grinned in the dark. Dit dit dit dit; dit dit, he flashed. Hi. It was very easy to do hi in Morse code. Probably even someone who didn't have a bear-trap mind could do it.

Hi, Gertrustein flashed back.

Sam and Gertrustein had decided that they would flash ”Hi” to each other every night for the rest of their lives.

She had taught him other messages, too. Dit dit dit; dah dah dah; dit dit dit was the one they would use only in case of emergency. If Sam happened to see scary monsters, for example, he could flash dit dit dit; dah dah dah; dit dit dit to Gertrustein, and she would save him. She would save him the very next instant, she promised.

If Gertrustein fell and broke her aching leg in fourteen pieces, she needed only to flash dit dit dit; dah dah dah; dit dit dit to Sam. He would rescue her in no more than thirty-two seconds, he had promised.

Sam watched through the dark, but there were no more flashes. Only the ”Hi.” No emergencies, no accidents, no monsters. Gertrustein was safe. So was Sam.

Content, he crept back through the dark room and climbed into his bed again. Carefully he aimed the flashlight at his ceiling and tapped out one more message with his thumb. A private message only for himself. Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he said to the ceiling. That meant Sam.

Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he flashed to the closet where occasionally there might be monsters. Sam. Any monsters would understand what that meant, and that they should go away.

Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he flashed to the Mickey Mouse night-light. Sam. Mickey would understand what that meant: that he wouldn't be needed anymore.

Dit dit dit; dit dah; dah dah, he flashed to his trucks in their cardboard garage. To the little box of dirt where King of Worms had once lived. To his books. To his jeans in a heap on the chair. To his sneakers with their Velcro fasteners on the floor. And to a half-eaten egg salad sandwich that he had hidden behind the curtains just last week.

Sam, he flashed.

Sam.

Sam.

Sam.

That's me, he thought with satisfaction, and he fell asleep.

end.

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