The Clay Lion Read Online Free Page A

clear it up.  One of the listed possible side
effects of the drug included lung problems or lung infections, so as small as
the possibility was that the medication caused his disease, we kept it on the
list. 
    The second possible contaminant was the hardware
store where Branson worked on and off during the year.  During his final
months working there before he got sick, the building had the roof
replaced.  In the process of removing the shingles, it was discovered that
some of the plywood underlayment needed replacing as well, so Branson and some
of the other boys were sent into the attic to clear out excess inventory so the
work could be done.  Branson came home every evening freezing and
exhausted from the cold of the unheated attic space, but those nights were full
of stories about the ridiculous and unusual items the boys discovered while
they were cleaning up.  Dr. Rudlough surmised
that with the age of the building, there was possible asbestos exposure during
that time.
    That was all I had to go on.  I had three
goals to accomplish on my journey back.  Keep Branson from using the
methotrexate sodium cream on his shins, convince him not to work at the
hardware store, and avoid changing too much in the past so as to not convolute
the future beyond recognition.
    Armed with my theoretical agenda, I headed to the
local branch of the government bureau in charge of travel, the United States
Department of Traveling Service, early on a Tuesday morning.  Like any
government agency, the employees were overworked and understaffed, and
therefore, each step of the process was excruciatingly slow.  I waited
several hours to be seen by my assigned caseworker, Gina.
    When my name was called, I was ushered into what
amounted to a warehouse divided into dozens of cubicles.  Each caseworker
had his or her own cube, and as far as I could see, each cube housed a would-be
traveler.  I had no idea how prevalent traveling actually was in our
society. 
    In my family, only my great uncle had ever used
his trip.  He returned to be with his wife on the day he had asked her to
marry him.  The Christmas after she died of pancreatic cancer, he arranged
to use his trip as a present to himself, to see her one last time.  He
followed every rule established by the government to the letter and returned
home to the world just as he had left it.  He died before Valentine’s Day
of a massive coronary.  I believed his heart had broken.
    I had never entertained thoughts of using my trip
later in life as I was growing up.  We were taught about the early trials
in school.  We all knew how badly things could end up if the rules were
not followed.  We also knew just how difficult those rules were to
follow.  My parents rarely discussed the issue.  They were not risk
takers and were content with what they were given by grace in the present
day.  They believe there was a reason for how and why things were the way
they were. There seemed nothing in their linear lives that would be worth
risking for the chance to travel back into the past.  And
so, none of us ever had.   Until now.
    Gina was slender, in her mid-thirties, with dark
roots and spectacle glasses.  She sat at her desk and silently motioned
for me to sit in the seat adjacent to her.  There were no
formalities.  Hundreds of muffled voices filled the room as she reviewed
my file.  She thumbed through hastily.  After several minutes, she
paused to read a section that seemed to hold her interest.  She looked up
to meet my gaze.
    “It says that your only brother recently passed
away.  Is this correct?” she asked.
    “Last July,” I confirmed.
    She read further into my file.
    “Is your desire to travel at this point a direct
result of your brother’s death?” she asked bluntly.
    My breath hitched and my voice caught in the back
of my throat.  I mentally encouraged myself to take air into my lungs and
reply with the answer I had prepared.
    “My brother’s sudden death has