Jack Thompson's Arc

Chapter 14 of 25

Outside the tunnel, Jack handed 13 the lead and let the kid keep it. Seven leaned on 13's shoulder, lip still bleeding. "Owl's yours now," Jack said. "I'm out." 13 looked at him a long moment. "Fair." No threat in it. No Friday. Just a nod. Jack turned up the street and limped away on Lady Luck. The old library waited where he'd left it. Faded brick. Peeling paint. The door still gave under his shoulder. Inside smelled like dust and damp paper. Jack moved through the shelves to the back lot, where weeds had eaten the fence. Three battered dummies stood in a row, bullseyes scuffed pale. Quiet. No witnesses. His. He set the cracked dice on a stump between him and the targets. Red light bled through the seam. Not a crutch anymore. A marker. A place to aim the bridge at, instead of letting it aim at him. He breathed in. Held the connection steady. Felt Blackjack settle behind his ribs like a dog at heel. Jack drew a card from his sleeve and flicked it. It crossed the yard as a thin silver line and split the center dummy's throat clean through the wood. He smiled, small. Dealt another. Another. Three cards, three holes, no shake in his hand. No pull behind his eyes either. The dice glowed and stayed where he'd put them. He shifted Lady Luck off his hip and braced her against his shoulder. The reels spun. Jack picked the left dummy's heart, nudged the odds, and pulled. The shot bent in the air and punched the bullseye dead center. He worked the lever. Picked the right. Pulled. Same result. Sweat on his neck, but his head was his own. Jack lowered the shotgun and looked at his hands. Steady. The dice on the stump dimmed as he let the bridge ease. He'd done it alone, on purpose, without losing a minute or a mile. Not mastery yet. But proof. He sat down on the stump beside the dice and let himself breathe.