Jeff didn’t sputter, but very nearly. “What do you mean?”
“Your son passed away when exactly?” The man in the tan jacket asked firmly, though not unkindly. He’d stood up from the lunch table and looking a bit intense. “It’s important.”
“Spring of ... ‘86?”
“The date, please, I need the date,” the man urged, his jacket rolled back to reveal a watchmaker’s nightmare of gears and bobs. He jabbed at the crown of a clock face the size of a dollar pancake, which was a moving target - the whole assembly revolved around the axis of his wrist.
The man was pulling a face as he harassed his machine. The face was average if a little haragged, and may have been ... Arab? White? Puerto Rican? One of those. His build seemed slight, but obscured with the jacket and black denim pants. Jeff had the insight this man would be difficult to describe to police.
“I don’t know why you--” The whirring coming from the stranger’s device seemed to mean business and he defaulted to honesty, “April 17, 1986.”
“Do remember the time?”
Jeff hadn’t forgotten. Just after some dinner in the hospital cafeteria with his wife, walking back up to Peter’s room to check in. Sneaking in that bootleg tape of Highlander the people at work were swapping around. Getting pulled into the little room near the nurses’ station instead and told your little boy was gone. You don’t forget something like that.
“Six. Thirteen past six. We just missed it,” his voice felt leaden. This really wasn’t how Jeff expected his lunch break to go. Then this guy at the cafe started asking about the children’s hospital and they got to talking about what happened, and well ...
The man paused his ministrations to sigh, “I’m sorry.”
Jeff nodded. It was one of those things, and it had been thirty years. The man’s face was sympathetic even if still glued to the thing running up one elbow. It was mouthing out “five fifty eight” while his tiny screwdriver turned a recessed notch.
Finally the man seemed satisfied and patted at the inside of his jacket. He ran a finger along the lining. “Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome, right?”
“Doctors were never sure, but they think so, yeah,” Jeff trailed, not recalling having mentioned it. “What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Something went wrong and I’m going to fix it.” The man handed Jeff a business card. “That’s all I should say.”
“Oh,” Jeff mumbled. He didn’t really look at the card. The stranger must be an insurance adjuster or some kind of cold-case worker with the hospital. Kind of guy to get REALLY into smart watches. He felt a little stupid for getting intrigued. “Well, thank you.”
The man palmed something from the inside of his jacket and turned to the door. “No, thank you for lunch, Jeff.” He paused at the door, “I’m sorry I’ve got to go, but I think you’ll understand why.”
Before Jeff managed, “No, I really don’t,” the man’s hand touched the doorknob and a buzzer rang out. It opened on a fluorescent-lit hallway. Jeff was very certain outside the cafe was a sidewalk and some parked cars. His was one - or had been. He rose to his feet.
The man cupped his ear. Jeff was too scared to speak. Together they heard a PA system drone, “Doctor Malcom to report to room 337.”
“That reminds me. The room?” the man asked.
Jeff puttered, “517″ despite the dropped jaw.
The man nodded and stepped through, but doubled back, “You probably won’t see me again, but word to the wise: Christmas 1986? You can’t go wrong with Nintendo. Control Deck bundle is probably enough.”
Jeff nodded dumbly. The man waved as he closed the door. Jeff’s body decided to stop being terrified and raced after him. The door opened to the sidewalk he’d expected and his Ford Focus parked nearby.
Jeff decided now would be an excellent time to read the card. It didn’t say much, only two lines:
DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS
origamiaround
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
pixelskylines
discoholicmusic
