those restless souls,” he smiled. “Real restless,” Hall agreed. “Don’t you have any family?”
“Sure,” Jack said, “But I’m kind of on my own now. They’re in Oklahoma.”
Hall just stared blankly into space for a second, then got up, pounded the desk, and said “Follow me.”
Jack followed Hall out into the hallway, onto the elevator, where the hiring manager pressed the number 3. Moments later the doors opened into a large factory area. It was hot as hell and bustling with people. Rows of conveyer belts shuttled merchandise from one person to the next, with each person performing a different task—counting, pressing, packaging, and finally, stacking, until the merchandise was neatly arranged on pallets and ready to be taken out to trucks, which were parked, backs open, at various bays throughout the floor. “Well, this is it,” Hall said. “Think you could handle this for eight hours a day?”
“I think so,” Jack said.
“Good, you’re hired,” Hall replied. “Be here tomorrow at nine and we’ll get you started. Pay is nine bucks an hour; benefits kick in after 90 days, if you stick around that long.”
“Thank you,” Jack said.
Mr. Hall wandered off on the floor while Jack got back on the elevator and took it down to the lobby. He had gotten his job. Whoopee! In a week, he could afford to rent a room. Buy some food. Scratch out a meager existence in this two-horse town until they caught his scent, and he had to flee again and start all over someplace else. They say to be grateful for small blessings, but he did not feel grateful for this one, or, truth be told, for anything in his life. He never wanted any of this. Who would? Being hunted like a crocodile, forced to flee from town to town, never allowed the chance to make friends or establish relationships. And all in the service of a mission that he did not want, did not understand, and, he suspected, probably could never fulfill. Why him? Why couldn’t God have chosen someone else to lead the human race back to the Garden of Eden?
2
Well, at least I’ve got a job, Jack thought as he rinsed and spat in the sink of the bathroom at the Silverton Public Park. A couple of paychecks and I’ll get a room somewhere.
In the meantime, he was homeless. Not hardcore homeless, living in alleys, eating out of the trash, and pushing around a wagon full of empty cans. This was more of a temporary, between homes homelessness.
He put the toothbrush back in a baggie, along with his comb and a razor blade, tossed them in his backpack, and left the bathroom. He walked down a narrow, gravelly path, past some tennis courts, and over to a cluster of park benches which surrounded some picnic tables. He placed the back pack on the table, unzipped it, and pulled out a blanket. Then he brought the blanket over to the bench, kicked off his shoes, and laid down, face up, on the bench.
The night sky was full of stars. He started counting them. It was something he did to help him sleep—a trick his dad had taught him on the camping trips they used to take together when he was a kid. Back when he used to have a real life. As he lay there, he heard a strange, low-pitched rumbling. Without getting up, he looked around, cutting his eyes this way and that. He heard it again. It was coming from under the picnic table. It was a cat. Growling softly, the creature approached him, then stopped, midway between the table and the bench, pondering whether or not to proceed further. Jack put a hand on the concrete and tapped, encouraging the feline to come forward. Slowly, and with great deliberation, it did. Jack stroked it. It purred. Slowly, trust was established, and the cat climbed into the bench with Jack, curling itself into a ball in his chest. Cuddling the cat like a pillow, Jack’s breathing slowed, his eyes grew heavy, and his body grew cooler. Soon both he and the cat were fast asleep.
3
Peter Landers sorted through the mail, tossed most of it to the side, and held up one piece—a letter, postmarked Akron, Ohio. “We got something from Adam,” he called out to his wife. He didn’t call him Jack or any of the other surnames he had taken over the years as he wandered the country trying to throw his assassins off his trail. He called him by his birth name—Adam. That’s who he was and always would be, no matter what. His son—Adam. His wife came running in from the kitchen and snatched the envelope from Peter’s hand. They sat together on the sofa as she opened it up. She read it aloud:
Hi, folks. Doing okay. I’m still in Akron. Working at a packing plant. Boring work, but it pays for the room I’m renting. I think they’ve got my scent again, though; I guess I’ll be leaving soon. I will keep you posted. Love you both.
She put the card down on the coffee table and stared at Peter. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. He knew what she was thinking. They had been through it all a thousand times. They would love to have him there with them, but that wasn’t working out. As long as he was there, they would have to keep moving, as they did for the first eighteen years of his life. And it was just a lot easier for one person to run than for a whole family. So, Adam, against their wishes, ran. And he’d been running ever since. But wherever he ran, no matter how fast or how far, he was still their son. And nothing could change that.
4
Jack followed slowly behind as Mr. Hall lead the way along the long, wide perimeter of the factory floor, which was a maze of conveyer belts, stacks of merchandise, and pallet jacks. In place of air conditioning, the massive room was cooled by fans, placed strategically throughout the floor. Even so, it was sweltering. Every so often Hall would stop, point something out, then continue the tour. He finished by handing him off to another worker, who he instructed to show Jack the ropes. He was an older fellow, about sixty, with a slight paunch, big beefy arms, and a patch over one eye. “I’ll take it from here,” he assured Hall as the office manager thanked him and scuttled off to attend to other business.
The two men stood side by side behind a conveyer belt, one in five rows of such belts that took up most of the factory floor. Behind each belt stood four workers, spaced about three yards apart, with each one performing a particular task to prepare an item for shipment. The items in question were filters, the kind used in AC and furnace vents. Jack’s job, it appeared, would be to take two filters, place them on top of each other, then pass them down the line. The old man, next in line, would put a press on them from an overhead hanger, then move them down to the next person. At any rate, that’s how the older gentleman explained it, and it worked for Jack. He began slinging the filters down the line. As he worked, every so often, the older gentleman would offer a brief instruction, correction, or just a thumbs up sign. After an hour or so, the man said: “Not exactly exciting work, is it?”
“Not really,” Jack smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow “But it pays the bills.”
“That’s about the size of it,” the man said. “By the way, my name’s Kurt.”
“I’m Jack,” Jack replied.
“So, Jack,” Kurt asked, eying him curiously, “How’s a guy like you wind up at a place like this?”
The question did not offend Jack. There was no trace of judgment in Kurt’s voice. “Well, it’s like this,” Jack said, and proceeded to tell the man the absolute truth. He told him about the attempts on his life growing up, how he left home to protect his family, how he moved from town to town to keep a step ahead of the assassins, and how he had been chosen to lead the world back to the garden of Eden. When he was finished, Kurt just stared at him curiously for several moments, then threw his head back and let out a big, hearty laugh. “Oh, that’s good!” he said, waving a finger at Jack. “That’s really good. You should write that
