The Legend of Sam Miracle

  Matt and Sir T saw Sam watching them, and both focused their attention on him—eyes wide, tongues out, nostrils flared. Sam looked away quickly before he could laugh and disrupt the story all over again. Jude had Jimmy and Johnny defending a wagon train full of beautiful pioneer girls, and that kind of thing should not be interrupted.

  Just off to Sam’s left, Tiago Lopez and Simon Zeal both leaned against the cinder-block wall with their legs stretched out. They were motionless while three blue-tailed lizards skittered over and under their legs and then darted behind their backs. The lizards had tiny leashes of red thread tied to the boys’ fingers. Tiago wore a short Mohawk on the top of his head only, and Simon wore his dark hair however the bed left it until the Spaldings finally did something about it. These boys made traps whenever they could—sometimes with Barto’s help—and snuck out of the dorm late at night to set them. When Jude needed heroes to tame or find some legendary beast, when he needed a monster defeated in some distant darkness, Simon and Tiago always made the trip and got the job done.

  So why didn’t Sam get any stories?

  Sam looked down at his arms. The answer was a little bit obvious, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Jude could easily fudge his arms in a story. Sam did it in his dreams all the time.

  Of course, Jude didn’t write stories about Peter either. But that was probably because he was scared Peter would hate them.

  “Sam!”

  Mr. Spalding loomed in the doorway, a tall backlit shadow. Everything stopped. Jude dropped his pages. Barto set down his wire. Matt and Sir T both spat out cards. All eleven of Sam’s Ranch Brothers were silent, staring.

  “Sam,” Mr. Spalding said again, quieter this time. “Got a doc here for you.” He looked around the quiet room. “You boys . . . behave.”

  He slid the door shut and was gone.

  The boys watched Sam stretch out his legs and then rock up onto his feet.

  Peter pushed himself up off the floor. Drew did the same.

  “Want us to come?” Peter asked. “We can.”

  Sam shook his head and smiled. Peter always offered. Sometimes he insisted. Even when it was just a nurse with some new cream she wanted to try on his arms.

  “I’m fine,” Sam said. “Finish your story. I’m sure Jimmy and Johnny both die at the end.”

  “Hey!” The redheads spoke in unison. “No way!”

  Matt and Sir T threw a pile of cards at them.

  “Kill ’em, Jude!” Matt said.

  Sam tugged the sliding glass door open, ignoring the throb in his rigid elbows. Heat punched him in the face as he stepped outside. He jerked the door closed on laughter behind him.

  The Youth Ranch consisted of three cinder-block buildings squatting around a gravel courtyard decorated with barrels and a rotten old wagon with no wheels. Next to the Commons, there was the Bunk House, where the boys slept and showered. Across the courtyard from Sam, the Spaldings’ house shone with a fresh coat of pink paint, courtesy of a life lesson for the Destitute Youth earlier in the month. Pink or not, it still looked more like a prison than a house. The windows of both stories were dark and caged with bars, and the metal roof had grown a skin of rust decades ago.

  Beyond these three buildings, there was a rickety water tank on stilts too short to be called a tower and a small shed the boys called the Blood Barn, where coyotes eventually killed and ate any livestock that the Spaldings might have recently purchased for the boys to raise. There were two goats in there now, alive but nervous.

  Beyond the Blood Barn, twelve acres of boulders and cacti had been fenced off—one for each of the Destitute Youth to learn about cultivating rocks. Beyond the fences, miles of desolation rolled slowly upward toward the mountains, hiding abandoned mines and railroads, skeletal ghost towns, and eventually Mexico.

  Sam paused in the courtyard. He was alone with the sun. Whoever was waiting for him could wait another minute. He bowed his head and extended his scarred brown arms straight out from his shoulders, letting the solar fire do its work. When his arms were hot, his right arm could bend at least a centimeter, and his left a full inch. The burn was worth it.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sam dropped his arms and looked up. A girl was leaning against the pink house, squeezed back into a thin shadow. She was wearing a baggy old SADDYR T-shirt and jeans belted with bright braided rope and cuffed up well above her boots. She was thin, but her cheekbones were wide and high and soft. Her eyes were hidden beneath a ball cap pulled low, and her long black hair fountained out the back in a ponytail. She wasn’t any taller than Sam, and she couldn’t be much older. Sam knew who she was. He’d seen pictures of her before, but never the real thing. And the pictures he’d seen—of a chubby-cheeked dark-haired girl in frilly dresses—clearly were years out of date.

  “Most people can’t stand the heat,” she said. “You looked like you were trying to cook.”

  Sam shrugged. “My arms move a little when they’re hot. I like to feel them bend.”

  “Doesn’t the burn hurt?”

  “They always hurt.”

  The girl considered this. “Well, you should at least wear a sweatshirt or something. Cover the skin. Why don’t your arms bend?”

  “I’m not sure.” Sam squinted, trying to see her face. “Not exactly. The doctors say I was in a car that got hit by a train and thrown off a cliff. They say I’m lucky to have arms at all.”

  “Don’t know if I would call that lucky,” the girl said. “Do you remember any of it?”

  Sam blinked slowly. Sweat ran down behind his ear. He flexed his right arm, and for once, he didn’t even notice if it bent.

  Sam shook his head. “I dream a train wreck lots of nights. But it isn’t a real memory or anything. I’m always inside the train, and my arms are fine afterwards, but there are these gunfighters . . .” Sam stopped himself. Gunfighters? Really? He sounded eight years old. Nobody ever sounds smart when they’re talking about their dreams. The girl was just staring at him. She might be thinking anything.

  “It’s actually a scene from the beginning of a book,” Sam said. “About an outlaw with really fast hands that people can’t hardly see, and he always wears this poncho . . .” He trailed off. Talking about the book wasn’t helping.

  The girl pushed off the wall and stepped into the sun, clearly assessing him. “I’ve never dreamed it, but I’ve read it. The Legend of Poncho. With the red cover. It’s always been here. Kinda weird, but I liked the end. I’m glad he died. The bad guy was cool.”

  Sam’s lip curled, and he shook his head. “I make up different endings every time, and all of them are way better. That’s the only part of the book I really hated.”

  The girl crossed her arms. “Well, you should read that part again, because that’s how it had to happen.”

  “I can’t,” Sam said. “I tore those pages out and flushed them down the toilet a year ago.”

  The girl laughed, but bottled it up quickly in a smile, and then smudged the smile down into a smirk.

  “I’m Gloria Spalding. My friends call me Glo. My parents are too scared of you boys to keep me around, but I’m in between boarding schools at the moment.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to call you Glo,” said Sam. He shrugged up a shoulder and ground his sweaty cheek against his shirt.

  Gloria flinched. “Nobody said you had to. You’re not my friend.”

  “Even if I was, I still wouldn’t. Glo makes me think of worms.”

  Above them, a fist was thumping on glass. Sam looked up at the second-floor windows in the pink house. He could see Mr. Spalding’s shape behind the bars and the reflection of the sky wobbling as the pane moved. He looked back down at his guardian’s daughter.

  “I’m going to call you Glory.” Sam Miracle smiled. “Now I should go.”

  Sam moved toward the side of the house. Glory watched him go. When he reached the screen door, she spoke.

  “I wouldn’t go up there. The guy is a total creeper.
That’s why I’m out here. Just hide with the goats or something.”

  Sam pulled the screen door open, pushed through the heavier door inside, and shut both behind him.

  The air in the entryway was cool and lifeless. The light was dim, but Sam could see the dark thickly carpeted stairs rising up in front of him. He stepped forward while his eyes were still adjusting. Paper crunched under his shoe. There was a note on the stairs. He bent and picked it up with a rigid arm.

  Heavy woven paper with rough edges. Sharp large handwriting and curly exclamation marks.

  RETREAT! LIFE AND DEATH! BUNK HOUSE NOW! EXPLAIN LATER!

  FT

  Who the heck was FT and what was he talking about? Not that it mattered. The note couldn’t be for Sam. He straight-armed it into his pocket and hopped up the next two stairs. He could hear voices trickling down from the Spaldings’ living room. Mrs. Spalding was laughing uncomfortably.

  Paper crunched, and Sam stopped again. Another note. How had he missed it? The light paper stood out on the dark carpet like snow on asphalt.

  IDIOT! BACK DOWN SLOWLY, GET OUTSIDE, THEN RUN!

  FT

  Sam looked up the rest of the stairs. No more notes. He could see the old photos of frilly-dress Glory near the top. He could see the fuzzy rope dangling from the ceiling to hold Mrs. Spalding’s fake plants.

  Sam took another step.

  Crunch.

  How was this possible? Was this a joke? Sam’s heart was pounding. He looked down the stairs behind him.

  “Glory?” he whispered. “This isn’t funny.”

  Nobody. He picked up the note.

  I CAN’T KEEP CIRCLING BACK FOREVER WITHOUT GOING INSANE! NITWIT! LEAVE NOW!

  Sam didn’t even move before the next note appeared. One second it was simply there and a small swirl of sand rustled off it onto the carpet. The handwriting had grown so large, Sam didn’t need to pick it up to read it.

  IF HE GETS YOUR HEART, THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO

  The next second, in a gust of wind, multiple notes appeared clustered on every single step all the way up, sand hissing across the loose paper.

  Sam ran. Up. Not down. Slipping on the notes, kicking them into a cloud behind him, he fell onto his stiff arms and scrambled on all fours. Heart drumming, adrenaline humming, he crashed into the Spaldings’ living room, kicked over a lamp, and rolled clear of the stairs.

  Conversation stopped. Five eyes focused on him.

  2

  Tiempo

  MR. SPALDING WAS STANDING IN FRONT OF THE WINDOW with his hands behind his back. He had a head like a speckled egg stuck in a small hair nest, his skin was loose and sun-flaked, and his forearms were bald from years of nervous picking. He didn’t seem at all surprised that Sam was sprawled on his floor beside a broken lamp. Sam had done far more surprising things than this.

  Mrs. Spalding was squeezed into a plush recliner and her face needed extra skin just about everywhere. Her hair was big, her eyebrows were made of pencil, and she was wearing her best floral bathrobe. Even as a woman who survived exclusively on mail-order cookie dough and who never got dressed before dinner, she still managed to aggressively judge others. She was judging Sam right now.

  “Samuel Miracle! You wouldn’t think it, but of all the boys we’ve ever found it in our hearts to foster, he’s the most trouble per inch.” She wasn’t looking at Sam. Her eyes were focused on someone behind him.

  Sam jumped to his feet and spun around, nearly falling all over again.

  “I don’t doubt.”

  The man who spoke was thinner and taller than Mr. Spalding and bent like a fingernail moon. He was wearing a tweed three-piece suit much too small for his bony frame with the trousers tucked into high black motorcycle boots with big silver buckles. The sleeves of his jacket stopped inches short of his knobby wrists, revealing two thick tangles of string bracelets. His long-fingered hands were webbed together around a battered old coffee cup.

  Sam stared. He’d seen this man before, or . . . some version of this man. A shorter and thicker and unbent version. And the experience hadn’t been pleasant. Sam might not be able to remember, but his body could. His already pounding heart was kicking harder. His throat was tightening.

  The man’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but a deep scar ran down his forehead and dove behind the glasses onto his cheekbone before veering sideways and almost completely halving his nose. His dark hair was parted hard and oiled back, and he was grinning above a small pointed beard much too delicate for his face.

  “Sam,” said Mr. Spalding. “This is Professor Tiny. He’s from England.”

  “Professor?” The man laughed. His voice was deep. “Naw. That was just a posh tone to shine you. Sam knows me. We’ve been mates for ages. We’ve bled together.” He took a long wobbly step forward. “You remember Tiny, don’t you Sam? Don’t hurt my feelings.”

  Sam coughed and stepped back. “I . . . don’t remember.” He heard the door open downstairs. “Sorry. I don’t remember lots of things.”

  “Oh, but I do,” Tiny said. “This flesh has stretched out a bit with all the laps I’ve run from then to now, but my mind’s as fit as fit gets. Not like yours.” He took another step forward, long fingers gripping his coffee cup. His smile grew and his voice hardened. “I remember your sweet mother. I remember her funeral and your pretty sis taking you on that slow train. Because I’ve seen it all over and over again searching for you. And I remember a boy named Sam Miracle carving my perfect face in two.” The lengthy man sneered and the mug shattered in his hands. Coffee and ceramic shards rained down on the carpet between his boots.

  “Greg,” Mrs. Spalding said. She slipped out of her recliner and backed toward the kitchen. “Greg! Do something!”

  Mr. Spalding inched forward, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  “Mr. Tiny, it appears you have no real medical interest in Sam, so I’m going to need you to leave.”

  Tiny laughed.

  Sam could feel his guardian’s hand shaking on his shoulder. But his own fear had evaporated. His mind was wandering, searching, racing through dreams and memories for something that he had to find. His mother? A sister?

  He could see the old wooden train platform. He could hear the same chuff and puff of the engine that he heard in all his dreams. He could see long blond hair moving down the aisle of a train car in front of him. And then he saw the hair begin to float toward the roof. He was floating, too. Rising among suitcases and hats. And then metal began to scream and glass began to shatter.

  Glory stepped out of the stairwell into the living room. Sam didn’t even look at her.

  Groaning. Crying. Fire. Laughter. Gunshots.

  Sam was pinned between a broken bench and a bent slab of floor. He braced his feet against the bench. Sputtering blood, he pressed it away and rolled free.

  A man stood above him with a revolver in his hand. He wasn’t tall. He had a pointed beard. And his dark hair was parted hard and oiled back. His eyes were vivid blue. And then he grinned.

  “Guv! Over here!”

  The man pointed his gun straight down at Sam, cocking it with his thumb. Sam’s hand closed around a long jagged shard of metal, and he knew that his arms could still bend.

  Sam Miracle blinked. And blinked. He twitched his head from side to side, trying to focus. Mr. Spalding’s hand was still on his shoulder. Glory was looking at him from the side, dark eyes worried.

  “Sam?” Glory asked. “Are you okay?”

  Tiny was amused. His scarred face as curious as it was threatening.

  “Black out often, do you?” he said. “See anything worth sharing?”

  Sam lunged forward, his stiff arm swinging. Tiny flinched back too late, and Sam’s hand slammed into his face. The sunglasses snapped and spun free.

  Tiny snarled. His right eye was completely missing. His left was vivid blue and on fire with hate.

  “I remember,” Sam said. He pointed up at Tiny. “I remember you taking my sister
. I remember when you had both your eyes.”

  “Your sister?” Tiny snorted. “How much do you even remember? What was her name, Sam? You remember my eyes, what color were hers?” He laughed. “She’s been erased from her own brother’s memory. She’s forgotten. That’s even crueler than killing. Thank the priest for that. We only snatched her.”

  “Millie,” Sam said, and the name practically choked him coming up. It lived inside him somewhere deep. Deeper than memory. It was written in his blood. Rooted in his heart. “I see her every day. In every dream.”

  Tiny laughed and his torso rippled. “And in these dreams, does your sweet sister survive, Sam? Because if she does, then you’re playing make-believe.”

  Sam’s fists were clenched, and he leaned forward against Mr. Spalding’s grip. But his guardian backed him away. Glory was rooted to the carpet, her mouth frozen open. Somewhere behind Sam, he could hear Mrs. Spalding sobbing.

  The windows in the living room began to chatter. Sand hissed hard against the glass. The fake plants swung on their fuzzy ropes.

  Tiny glanced up and smiled. “Speak of the devil and he’s soon at your elbow.” He pulled a worn old-fashioned revolver from inside his coat and pointed it at Sam. “You’re coming with me, laddo.”

  Sam heard the door bang open downstairs. Boys were shouting.

  “No way!” Glory jumped in front of Sam. “Mom, call the cops!”

  “Yes, give them a ring,” Tiny said. “Tell them that Samuel Miracle has gone missing for the last time.”

  Mr. Spalding exploded. With one hand, he threw Sam to the floor. The other tossed Glory down after him. Roaring, he jumped at Tiny, grabbing for the gun.

  Sam landed on his back with a gasp, and his breath was gone. Dazed, he watched the world slow down. Glory floated on top of him, flailing before she slammed onto his chest. He saw Mr. Spalding swimming through the air toward his enemy, and he thought that Mr. Spalding wasn’t very boring after all. He saw Tiny’s gun barrel thump Mr. Spalding on the head, and he watched his guardian crumple. He saw sand streaming into the room and he watched the fake plants fall as the sand raced across the ceiling.