the floor.
Arthur backed away from the door. He could feel his heart speed up. Was there something in there?
He glanced around for an object to use as a weapon if he needed it. A plank of wood with a couple of rusty nails sticking out of it lay on the ground nearby. He picked it up gingerly and used it to push the door open a little wider, thinking maybe whatever was inside would come running out.
Nothing did.
There was an old paint can lid next to his feet, he noticed. Just to see what would happen, he picked it up and tossed it into the darkness. He could hear the lid rolling and spinning across what must have been a cement floor.
Again, nothing.
Arthur took another deep breath, telling himself he was thirteen years old and should have more guts. He had survived three weeks in juvie with Slash. He’d gone up against half of the varsity football team at his school to rescue Squeak from the trash can. It was ridiculous to be scared of a garage in the middle of the day.
Still holding the piece of nail-studded wood, Arthur eased cautiously through the doorway. His wet shoes squelched on the cement, which was the only sound—other than his heart pounding in his ears—he could hear at first.
Silently, he searched along the side of the doorframe for a light switch. He was sure there must be one nearby—especially if Mr. Hampton worked there late at night, which Groovy Jim said he did sometimes. The old guy wouldn’t wander around blindly in the dark.
Arthur’s fingers finally found the switch next to the door.
Instinctively, he squinted before pushing the switch upward, as if expecting it to be painfully bright, like suddenly going from a dark room into the blazing sunlight.
But he definitely wasn’t prepared for the dazzling vision that awaited him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A ll Arthur saw at first was a wall of gold and silver. A stunned gasp escaped from him.
What the heck had he stumbled upon?
It looked like a shimmering shrine inside the garage, like something you’d see on a Hollywood movie set or in an Egyptian temple or something. There were glittering tables, silver pillars, gilt pedestals, and throne-like chairs. Arthur couldn’t believe his eyes. Radiant gold-and-silver objects filled almost half of the room—the pieces piled so high they nearly touched the low ceiling lights.
It was
unreal.
Arthur wondered if he was having a hallucination or some kind of crazy dream. Was he really standing inside Mr. Hampton’s garage in Washington, D.C.? He closed his eyes and opened them again just to check if everything was still there.
It was.
And that’s when he noticed something else.
There were wings
everywhere.
They were attached to the sides of the tables, the backs of the chairs, the pedestals and pillars. Everything he could see had its own pair of sparkling wings.
Arthur remembered what Mr. Hampton had said about his dad’s hat.
I took it for the wings.
Was this what he’d meant?
Still trying to grasp the unbelievable scene in front of him, Arthur stood motionless by the door. His leaky boots made two moist prints like wings on the cement. Where had Mr. Hampton found all of these things? And what was the mysterious creation supposed to be?
Arthur might have stayed frozen in the same spot forever, lost in the vision of the shimmering world, if it hadn’t been for the sound.
From the opposite side of the garage, Arthur heard a low moan.
His eyes darted toward the far corner of the garage, where there didn’t seem to be much light—only pools of darkness and shadow, and piles of stuff he couldn’t really identify in the gloom. Except for one thing.
A man lying on the floor.
He wore a familiar tan coat. His shoes were still on his feet, and a pair of shattered glasses rested on the floor in front of his head.
Arthur’s heart dropped.
James Hampton.
TWENTY-EIGHT
L ater on, Arthur couldn’t remember everything that happened. It was like the night his dad died. He could only recall certain
Arthur backed away from the door. He could feel his heart speed up. Was there something in there?
He glanced around for an object to use as a weapon if he needed it. A plank of wood with a couple of rusty nails sticking out of it lay on the ground nearby. He picked it up gingerly and used it to push the door open a little wider, thinking maybe whatever was inside would come running out.
Nothing did.
There was an old paint can lid next to his feet, he noticed. Just to see what would happen, he picked it up and tossed it into the darkness. He could hear the lid rolling and spinning across what must have been a cement floor.
Again, nothing.
Arthur took another deep breath, telling himself he was thirteen years old and should have more guts. He had survived three weeks in juvie with Slash. He’d gone up against half of the varsity football team at his school to rescue Squeak from the trash can. It was ridiculous to be scared of a garage in the middle of the day.
Still holding the piece of nail-studded wood, Arthur eased cautiously through the doorway. His wet shoes squelched on the cement, which was the only sound—other than his heart pounding in his ears—he could hear at first.
Silently, he searched along the side of the doorframe for a light switch. He was sure there must be one nearby—especially if Mr. Hampton worked there late at night, which Groovy Jim said he did sometimes. The old guy wouldn’t wander around blindly in the dark.
Arthur’s fingers finally found the switch next to the door.
Instinctively, he squinted before pushing the switch upward, as if expecting it to be painfully bright, like suddenly going from a dark room into the blazing sunlight.
But he definitely wasn’t prepared for the dazzling vision that awaited him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
A ll Arthur saw at first was a wall of gold and silver. A stunned gasp escaped from him.
What the heck had he stumbled upon?
It looked like a shimmering shrine inside the garage, like something you’d see on a Hollywood movie set or in an Egyptian temple or something. There were glittering tables, silver pillars, gilt pedestals, and throne-like chairs. Arthur couldn’t believe his eyes. Radiant gold-and-silver objects filled almost half of the room—the pieces piled so high they nearly touched the low ceiling lights.
It was
unreal.
Arthur wondered if he was having a hallucination or some kind of crazy dream. Was he really standing inside Mr. Hampton’s garage in Washington, D.C.? He closed his eyes and opened them again just to check if everything was still there.
It was.
And that’s when he noticed something else.
There were wings
everywhere.
They were attached to the sides of the tables, the backs of the chairs, the pedestals and pillars. Everything he could see had its own pair of sparkling wings.
Arthur remembered what Mr. Hampton had said about his dad’s hat.
I took it for the wings.
Was this what he’d meant?
Still trying to grasp the unbelievable scene in front of him, Arthur stood motionless by the door. His leaky boots made two moist prints like wings on the cement. Where had Mr. Hampton found all of these things? And what was the mysterious creation supposed to be?
Arthur might have stayed frozen in the same spot forever, lost in the vision of the shimmering world, if it hadn’t been for the sound.
From the opposite side of the garage, Arthur heard a low moan.
His eyes darted toward the far corner of the garage, where there didn’t seem to be much light—only pools of darkness and shadow, and piles of stuff he couldn’t really identify in the gloom. Except for one thing.
A man lying on the floor.
He wore a familiar tan coat. His shoes were still on his feet, and a pair of shattered glasses rested on the floor in front of his head.
Arthur’s heart dropped.
James Hampton.
TWENTY-EIGHT
L ater on, Arthur couldn’t remember everything that happened. It was like the night his dad died. He could only recall certain
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