No Passengers Beyond This Point

  “Bing’s mom,” Mouse replies.

  “I don’t think so. I think it came from the song India used to sing to you. Man did you love that song. B-I-N-G, B-I-N-G, and Bingo was his name-o. Remember, Mouse? Remember?”

  “Finn?”

  “Yeah, Mouse.”

  “My locker opened.”

  Mouse is out now. She puts her eye up close to the locker vent so she can see me inside. Her finger pokes through for a finger wave.

  “You do it now,” she says.

  “One: Remember what you want to forget.” I take a deep breath. That one isn’t hard to answer. “The day Daddy died.”

  “Was I there?”

  “You weren’t born yet. Mommy was in the hospital. She was about to have you. I went with Grandma Essie to visit Dad.”

  “He was in a car accident taking Mommy to the hospital because I wanted to get out of Mommy’s tummy,” Mouse fills in.

  “That wasn’t your fault, Mouse.”

  “India thinks it was.”

  “No she doesn’t. She just misses Dad like I do. Anyway, he survived the accident. He was going to be fine,” I say.

  “But then his heart stopped,” Mouse chimes in. “So he never got to meet me.”

  “Grandma Essie stopped at the hospital gift shop to buy candy for the nurse who was taking care of Mommy and you in Mommy’s tummy.”

  “Where was India?”

  “With Aunt Sammy. I headed up the back stairs to Daddy’s room. Grandma Essie said not to, but I couldn’t wait to see him. I thought he was playing hide-and-seek under the covers. Then I thought he was sleeping. I called to him, ‘Daddy wake up. It’s Finn! Daddy!’”

  “Did he wake up, Finn? Did he?” Mouse asks.

  “No,” I whisper. “He didn’t.”

  It’s quiet now. All I see is Mouse’s eye pressed up close against the locker vent.

  “Two: Ask a question you can’t answer,” Mouse prompts.

  “Uh-huh,” I mutter, trying to keep the waver out of my voice. “How do you grow up without a dad?”

  “Don’t worry, Finn,” Mouse chirps, “there are books for that. Mommy will take us to the library when we get home. I get to do the last one, Finn. Remember what you didn’t want to forget. What’s Coach P.’s cell number?”

  “Eight-oh-five, five-five-five, oh-one-oh-nine.”

  “Did it open? Did it?”

  “That is his cell number, Mouse.”

  “Oh, I’ve got it. How old is Henry in dog years?”

  “Twenty-eight. That won’t work. That’s right too.”

  “Finn,” Mouse scolds, “what have you forgotten?”

  “I don’t know, Mouse. That’s the point.”

  “What is Uncle Red’s address?”

  “Fourteen Horsehair Reservoir Road, Fort Baker, Colorado.”

  “Nu-uh. It’s twenty-seven Horsehair Reservoir Road,” Mouse cheers. “Open it now, Finn! Open it now!”

  Once again I try the lever, but the lever doesn’t budge. “Still locked.”

  “How could it still be locked?”

  “Maybe because I didn’t want to remember that,” I mutter.

  “Ohhhh,” Mouse sighs.

  In the silence I hear my clock ticking and Mouse’s too. What if she can’t think of something? What if we time out right here?

  “I know,” Mouse says finally. “Finn, what was it like to sit on Daddy’s lap?”

  I try to call this up. I want to remember what it felt like to be that safe, that loved. I want it more than anything. I can remember his face. The way he laughed. The way his eyes shone.

  “I don’t remember, Mouse,” I say miserably as the lock mechanism clicks open.

  “Finn!” Mouse is smiling now, her face lit up like a carnival ride. She wraps the fingers of her good hand around mine. “C’mon, Finn,” she says, “let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE BLUE TRAM

  It seems like everything happened so fast. One minute I was in Chuck’s taxi. The next minute I’m in this tram whizzing back to my welcomer station, gliding along on the cushiony blue monorail seats. Finn and Mouse will do fine without me. They stick together, those two. They don’t need me to solve some puzzle about a box, that’s for sure. They are better at puzzles than I am.

  My wrist screen has my welcomer group on it. They are singing a new welcoming song, but there’s an empty spot in row two. My spot. See, that’s just like them. They saved a spot for me and I’ll save one for Maddy. She’ll find a way to get here. Maddy gets what she wants.

  I wonder who will be arriving today. For a second I feel an aching longing for the sound of my name on the loudspeaker. India! India! There is nothing like your own welcoming.

  But a welcoming like that only happens once. I know that now.

  I shouldn’t have made Laird mad. I will need to apologize to him first thing, I decide as the tram passes through the great entrance, which I remember from when we came through in the feather cab. Welcome to Falling Bird, it says in a prism of color glowing on the streets below.

  The tram hums on beyond the city gates. The glass doors open, but there’s no one to get in or out. The doors slide shut again and the tram zips forward. According to the map posted above my seat, the next stop is mine—the amphitheater—and from there it’s a short hop by foot to my welcomer station. I scootch down the row of sky blue cushions to the glass doors, which are already opening. I’m getting up when the white cat from my dream house leaps into the tram, landing on the seat almost noiselessly. Where did she come from?

  I brush past her, fur grazing my arm as I lurch toward the doorway, but the glass door slides shut, bumping me back. I flail around, grabbing for a handle to keep from falling as the tram glides on with me and the white cat inside.

  What happened? Did I hesitate and lose my chance to get off? It almost seemed like the tram door closed in my face on purpose. I know what my mom would say. Don’t be a victim, India. The world is not out to get you, you made a choice. But how could that be? I chose to get off and the cat got in my way.

  Don’t make tough decisions when you’re upset. Wait until you’re calm and you can think it all through. But I don’t have that luxury here, Mom. What then?

  I study the color-coded map again. There are five more stops on this line. The next one is Headquarters Bungalows. I’ll get off there.

  The white cat is retching. She pukes up a yellow green mess of slimy liquid on the blue cloud carpet.

  “Kitty?” I call.

  I don’t even know her name.

  She stares at me as if she knows things she doesn’t want to tell. But how could she tell me anything? She’s a cat. Am I losing my mind?

  The tram doesn’t slow at Headquarters Bungalows. I can barely read the letters on the platform as we speed by. I only recognize the stop by the blur of purple and turquoise colors on the sign. The tram rumbles in a hopeful way at Vehicle Registration. There’s a small cluster of passengers waiting to board. I’m sitting in front of the doors now, so I can leap out the second they open. But the tram doesn’t stop at Vehicle Registration or Weather Group Station or Awareness Training. There is only one station left. Passengers Waiting.

  Passengers Waiting? That sounds lame. I hate waiting. Still, something about this tram is creepy, and I want to get off.

  When we pull up, the stop isn’t outside as the others have been. The doors open into a room with glass walls, jam-packed with people. Men, women, and kids are sitting on the floor hunched over game boards, drinking sodas, lazily fanning themselves. The trash cans overflow with drink cups and empty hamburger containers.

  Every chair is claimed. Almost every square foot of the floor too. These people look like they’re camping out in this room. How long have they been here?

  No way am I getting off. Even if the tram is creepy, it’s a whole lot better than that place. The white cat is up now. She walks on stiff, uncertain legs.

  The cat’s weird. I don’t know why she was
in that perfect house with me. She was the only part that didn’t totally make sense. She’s a white cat with a dark side, I swear it. Now I wish she’d go away.

  I stare out at the packed room as numbers are called over the loudspeaker. “Five-eight-two-two-two-one dash four-five-seven-six-seven-eight-A,” the mechanized voice announces. But no person looks at his or her number. No one even listens to the numbers being called. They continue talking as if the numbers don’t mean anything. Nothing at all.

  If only this tram would move so I can book it back to the amphitheater and have a do-over of this lame day.

  “Final stop. All passengers must disembark and take a ticket from the dispenser located on the rear wall.” The mechanical voice is closer now—it’s coming through the speaker inside the tram. My scalp begins to itch, my head throbs.

  “Final stop. All passengers please disembark,” the voice repeats.

  Mom. I need my mom. Whatever is happening here is beyond what Maddy can handle. I dig in my pocket for my cell and push the on switch, wishing so, so hard that it would connect. Mom could tell me how to get out of here. She would know what to do, but the stupid cell won’t turn on.

  The tram motor gears up into its about-to-move hum. I sink back into the cushion, breathing out a tiny sigh of relief. But when my back makes contact with the sleek blue cushion, a burst of turbulent air sends me flying head over heels. I grab the seat, the handle, the glass, but the air system like a mini tornado carries me and the hissing, scratching cat out the tram door and into the crowded room.

  The doors of the tram slide shut and the tram glides forward.

  I watch from the glass-paneled room, a ticket I don’t remember taking in my hand. The tram gains speed quickly. I watch until the last car speeds by in a blue blur.

  CHAPTER 25

  TUNNEL DOGS

  I try my best to hurry Mouse along. We lost a half hour in the lockers. We can’t afford to make a mistake like that again. We don’t have time to take a wrong turn either. So far there has only been one direction, but up ahead the paths diverge in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. This worries me. Plus, before you even get there, you must first pass through a door made entirely of glass.

  I try the handle. Locked, of course.

  It’s Mouse who sees the sign. Ticketed Passengers Only Beyond This Point.

  “Do you still have your boarding pass?” I ask.

  Mouse digs in her pocket with her good hand and fishes out her boarding stub. I find mine and together we locate the bar code reader. The red light scans the tickets and the door slides open.

  On the other side, Mouse begins looking for signs to tell us which way to go, when a dog howls in the distance.

  “That way!” Mouse shouts. “That’s them . . . the tunnel dogs!”

  It’s possible there are dogs in each direction. But I can’t stop Mouse now. She is half running down the center path.

  And then the tunnel makes a sharp right and a solid corrugated aluminum door appears, also locked. More dogs are howling now, just beyond the door.

  I smell dogs and straw and kibble and wet fur. It smells like Henry! Mouse is jumping up and down, holding her arm steady. All we have to do is open the door.

  I kneel down, running my hand along the locked handle. Is there a key pad? A bar code reader? A fingerprint access? Could we jimmy the lock?

  Mouse studies the corrugated door and the sleek surrounding space looking for signs.

  But there are no signs; there is nothing but a small insignia of the company that manufactured the door.

  “What’s it say?” I ask.

  “Franklin Doors,” Mouse answers.

  “I never heard of ’em,” I mutter. “But then again, I don’t know the names of any companies that make doors.”

  “Franklin,” Mouse repeats. “Do you know anyone named Franklin, Finn?”

  “There’s Benjamin Franklin. And a turtle named Franklin in a book. And a president named Franklin,” I say.

  “A famous president?”

  “All presidents are famous, Mouse,” I tell her as she leans against the door and wiggles the fingers of her good hand into her shoe.

  “No, Finn. Only the rich ones are famous. The ones they put on money,” Mouse insists.

  “The money presidents aren’t rich, they’re just extra-famous,” I tell her as she hands me a dime.

  “What’s this for?” I ask.

  “Which president is on there?”

  I look closely at the dime. Eisenhower maybe? But wait. Could it be Franklin Roosevelt?

  I inspect the mechanism under the handle again. This time my fingernail detects a small silver slot just dime-size.

  I slip her dime into the slot. The coin hits the money box and the lock clicks open. “You’re brilliant, Mouse,” I tell her as a mechanical arm opens the door tchk, tchk, tchk.

  Inside is an enormous room full of dogs in traveling cages—one on top of the other five pallets high. The pallets are stacked next to a series of ramps so the dogs can go up to their cages. Some crates are empty, but most have one dog inside. There are all kinds of dogs: German shepherds, golden retrievers, Great Danes, poodles, Yorkies, corgies, and some breeds I’ve never even seen before.

  The dogs aren’t locked into their traveling crates, the doors are open. Each dog is free to go. There’s even a doggy door in the back wall of the room where they could leave if they wanted, but every dog stays in its crate. The dogs sniff, their tails wag hesitantly. They’re eager to check us out like people scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Once they’ve seen us, they settle back down again. We are not who they’re waiting for.

  “Look.” Mouse points to a photo of a kid clipped to the front of one cage. Pictures of one kid, sometimes two or three are attached with metal clips to each crate.

  “The owners . . .” I say. “That must be who they’re waiting for.”

  Mouse surveys the great stack of dog cages. “War-rantine?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “What you said Henry would have to do if she flew with us.”

  “Oh, quarantine.... Maybe. Maybe they need their owners to release them.”

  Mouse walks from one end of the pallet to the other, inspecting the dogs. “Is anybody feeding them?”

  “Must be. They seem well cared for.”

  Mouse points to a crate on the first tier. “What about this one?” The door is wide open, like the others, but there’s no photo clipped to the front, and the big dog inside has clean bandages—like white high-top booties—on all four feet. The center of each bandage has a strip of tape decorated with a string of pink hearts. The dog—tan and black, a long-haired German shepherd with strange blue eyes and a bitten-up ear—huddles in the corner.

  Mouse digs a Milk-Bone out of her pocket and breaks it in two.

  “Where’d you get that?” I ask.

  “From home.”

  “When we were trying to get Henry back in the house?”

  She nods.

  When was that, I wonder. Two days ago? Three?

  Mouse holds up the Milk-Bone, but the blue-eyed dog continues to cower in the back, as if she can’t get far enough away from us.

  “How do you think she got hurt?” Mouse asks.

  I shake my head.

  Mouse takes a step closer. The dog doesn’t move a muscle except for her blue eyes that track every move we make.

  Mouse throws half the Milk-Bone into the crate and we walk up and down the pallets, wondering how we can convince a dog to come with us.

  The blue-eyed dog waits until Mouse has moved to the other side of the pallet, then she swoops down on the Milk-Bone, and dashes back to the dark corner of her crate. She watches us, her black lips holding the unchewed bone while drips of drool slide out of her mouth.

  She keeps waiting, until she can’t stand it anymore and crunches down on the bone. When she has licked up every crumb, she lies down again, her eyes trained on us.

  Now Mouse tosses her
the other half of the Milk-Bone and the dog goes through the same ritual again.

  These are the tunnel dogs? How are they ever going to help us find the black box? They can’t even leave their crates.

  “We’ll never get them to come with us.”

  “This one will,” Mouse announces.

  “She’s all bandaged up, Mouse.”

  Mouse pushes her hair back. Her face is filthy, her hair is wildly uncombed on one side and matted down on the other. She looks even crazier than normal. “So? My arm is hurt and you don’t leave me.”

  “The bandages are clean. Somebody’s taking good care of her.” The dog’s ears are cocked forward like she’s listening intently.

  Mouse whispers to the blue-eyed dog. She appears to be explaining our situation in detail and then suddenly from the other side of the Franklin door we hear people approaching.

  “They couldn’t have made it this far.” Manny’s voice. “We would have seen them.”

  Uh-oh. Manny and Francine.

  “Mouse,” I whisper, “we’ve got to get out of here.”

  “No harm in checking.” Francine booms. “Only costs a dime.”

  “We’re not passengers, Francine. We shouldn’t be in here and you know it.”

  “C’mon, Mouse!” I half drag her to the doggy door in the back as we hear the tchk, tchk, tchk of the Franklin door opening.

  CHAPTER 26

  PASSENGERS WAITING

  There isn’t enough air in this room. It’s stuffy and everybody looks grimy and tired and all packed together. God, I hope I don’t look like they do. But you know what? I don’t even care right now. I just want to get out of here and back to the welcomer station. Laird will fix me up.

  I hope they come for me soon, I think as I find a spot on the blue linoleum in the corner next to a garbage can that smells like mustard. My back is to the wall. I bury my head in my hands, ignoring everyone. Like I want to talk to any of these people?

  I only lift my head when they announce a new set of numbers. Then I pull out my ticket and listen carefully to the long series of digits. Why am I the only person doing this? Do they know their numbers by heart? Even so, they’d have to listen, wouldn’t they? None of these people even stop their conversations. The dude next to me sings softly to himself. He has a clock just like I do. But his doesn’t seem to be moving. I pull mine out. My clock isn’t moving either. It’s stuck at six hours and thirteen minutes.