Jumper. Steven Gould

Safes, Vaults, Time Locks, and Closed-Circuit Television, then skimming a book on industrial security systems that I found in Applied Technologies.

      “David? David Rice?”

      I looked up. Mrs. Johnson, my geography teacher from Stanville High School, was walking toward me. I looked at the clock—school had been out for an hour.

      I hadn’t been to school in three weeks, ever since the first day I had jumped. I felt my face get hot and I stood up.

      “It really is you, David. I’m glad to see you’re all right. Have you gone home then?”

      For some reason I was surprised that the school knew I’d run away. I started to agree. It was so much easier to lie, to say I’d come back and that I’d be in school tomorrow. I know that’s what I would have done a month before. Take the path of least resistance. Avoid fuss. Say whatever was necessary to keep people from being mad at me.

      I hated for people to be mad at me.

      I shook my head “No, ma’am. I haven’t. And I’m not going to.”

      She didn’t seem shocked or even surprised “Your father seems very worried. He came up to the school and talked to all your classes, asking if anyone had seen you. He’s also put up those posters … well, you’ve probably seen them around town.”

      I blinked, then shrugged. Posters?

      “What about school?” she asked. “What are you going to do about classes? How are you going to go to college? Or get a job?”

      “I … I guess I’ll have to make other arrangements.” I felt good about not lying to her, but was still afraid she was going to disapprove of me, “I tried to take the GED,” I said. “But they won’t let a seventeen-year-old take it without parental permission or a court order.”

      Mrs. Johnson licked her lower lip, then asked, “Where are you staying, David? Are you getting enough to eat?”

      “Yes, ma’am. I’m okay.”

      Her words seemed chosen very carefully. It dawned on me that she wasn’t going to bawl me out for missing school or for running away. It was as if she was trying to avoid spooking me—avoid scaring me off.

      “I’m going to phone your father, David. It’s my duty. However, if you like we can talk to the county social worker. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to.” She hesitated and then finally said, “Does he abuse you, David?”

      The tears came then, like an anvil falling out of a clear blue sky. I thought I was fine up until then. I squeezed my eyes shut, and my shoulders were shaking. I kept quiet, stifling the sobs.

      Mrs. Johnson took a step toward me, I think to hug me. I recoiled, stepping back and turning away, wiping furiously at my eyes with my right hand.

      She dropped her arms to her side. She looked unhappy.

      I took a deep, shuddering breath, then two more, the shakes gradually diminishing. “Sorry,” I said.

      Mrs. Johnson spoke then, softly, carefully. “I won’t call your father, but only if you come see Mr. Mendoza with me. He”ll know what to do.”

      I shook my head. “No. I’m doing okay. I don’t want to go see Mr. Mendoza.”

      She looked even more unhappy. “Please, Davy. It’s not safe on the street, even in Stanville, Ohio. We can protect you from your father.”

      Oh, yeah? Where were you for the last five years? I shook my head again. This was going nowhere.

      “Do you still drive a gray VW, Mrs. Johnson?” I said, looking over her shoulder.

      She blinked, surprised by the change of subject. “Yes.”

      “I think somebody just hit it.”

      She turned her head quickly. Before she figured out that you couldn’t see the parking lot from where we were standing, I jumped back to the Brooklyn hotel.

      God damn it all to hell! I threw the industrial-security book across the room, then scrambled to get it, a wave of guilt washing over me, both about getting angry and about mistreating a library book. Books didn’t deserve to be abused … did people?

      I curled up on the bed and pulled the pillow over my head.

      It was dark when I sat up, dazed and uncomprehending, waking in slow, confusing stages. For a moment I looked around, expecting to find Mrs. Johnson standing over me and telling me many fascinating facts about western Africa, but I woke up a little more and the dim light coming through the thin shade revealed the room, my condition, my state of being.

      I stood up and stretched, wondered what time it was, and jumped to the Stanville library to look at their wall clock. It was 9:20 P.M. in Ohio, and the same in New York. Time to get to work.

      I jumped to my backyard, behind the oak tree. Dad’s car was in the driveway, but the only lights on were in his room, the den, and my room. What’s he doing with my room? I felt panic rising, but forced it down. Ignore it. You’ll be able to get to your room.

      The gardening stuff was in the garage, on a shelf above the lawn mower. Rakes, shovels, and a hoe hung on nails across the wall below the shelf. I appeared before this collection and groped past insecticides, fertilizer, grass seed until my hands closed on the old gardening gloves. I put them on, then jumped to the front driveway.

      Dad’s Caddy gleamed in the streetlight, a huge, hulking beast. I walked to the passenger side and tried the door, gently. It was locked. I looked in, at the plush upholstery and the gleaming dash. I could vividly remember the smell of it, the feel of the seats. I closed my eyes and jumped.

      The car alarm went off with a whooping shriek, but I was expecting it. I opened the glove compartment and took the flashlight. The porch light came on and the front door started to open. I jumped to my room.

      The alarm sounded a great deal quieter from here, but still unpleasant. I was sure that porch lights were coming on all over the neighborhood.

      The ski mask was in the bottom drawer of my dresser, buried under several pairs of too-small long underwear. I found it just as the car alarm stopped. I started to jump, then realized I didn’t have the flashlight in my hand. I looked around the room and saw it on the dresser.

      The front door shut and I heard footsteps in the hallway. I picked up the flashlight and jumped.

      The gloves were leather, old and stiff. They hurt my fingers just to bend them. The ski mask was large enough, even though it was four years old. All the stretch was gone and it was pulled out of shape, but I thought it would work. Positioned right, it covered all of my face except my eyes and the bridge of my nose. The bottom half hung loosely over the rest of my face, but it concealed it.

      It itched like hell.

      I jumped

      I appeared in a pitch black room with dead air and a smooth floor. I waited a moment before I turned on the light, steeling myself for the scream of an alarm. I was also afraid I wasn’t in the right place and didn’t want to rush the moment of failure’s discovery.

      I didn’t hear any alarms, though, for all I knew, lights could be flashing on a dozen monitor consoles from the bank all the way to the police station. If there were other teleporters in the world, wouldn’t banks know about them and take measures? Like flooding the vault with poison gas when it was locked? Or booby traps? The air around me turned thick, and the darkness pressed in on me until I thought that perhaps the very walls were moving in. I flicked the flashlight switch without conscious volition.

       So much money!

      The carts I’d seen earlier were stacked high—either with neatly bundled piles of money or with trays of rolled coins or rough canvas bags with “Chemical Bank of New York” stenciled on their sides. Most of the shelves held bundled stacks of new bills.

      I