John nods to a large hawk perched on a tree limb above us.
“The Chim?rae are patrolling the area in case the Mogs realize that no one’s checking in with them from Ashwood and decide to investigate.”
“If the Mogs really are gearing up for an invasion, they’ll likely have more important things to worry about than Ashwood,” I say.
“Still, they’ve got your back. Plus . . .” He takes a look around, making sure there’s no one in earshot. “Walker and her crew are helping us out for now, but I feel better knowing the Chim?rae will protect you just in case anything happens. They’ll look after you until we get back. Do you know how to whistle?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Gamera up there is your new personal bodyguard. You whistle and he’ll come running. Or flying, or whatever.” He shrugs a little. “That was Sam’s idea. He thinks you’ve got a soft spot for Gamera since you named him. Anyway, I told all of them to stay out of sight for the most part. Walker’s agents know what they are, but if anyone else shows up they’ve got instructions not to morph in front of them. The fewer people who know about the Chim?rae, the better.”
The front door springs open, and Sam starts down the porch holding a plate piled high with yellow disks. One of them hangs out of his mouth, flapping as he jumps down onto the lawn.
“Dude, they’ve got frozen waffles in there,” he says to John as he chews. “I don’t know if they were Adam’s dad’s or if the Feds brought them or what, but there are like ten boxes in the freezer.” He shakes his head. “All these waffles and no syrup. The monsters.”
“Sweet,” John says, reaching for one.
Sam shirks away, twisting around so the plate’s out of reach.
“These are mine. Go get your own. I’d hurry too. Nine keeps challenging the FBI dudes to arm-wrestling matches, and I’m pretty sure Walker is about to sedate him or something.”
John shakes his head and looks at me again.
“Remember: just whistle.” Then he heads inside.
“Did you like that?” Sam asks, his face lighting up. “The whistling, I mean. It was totally my idea.”
“That’s what John said. Brilliant.”
He grins and holds out the plate.
I raise my eyebrows. “I thought those were for you.”
“Just eat some waffles, Dad. I doubt you were raiding the fridge during your all-night cram session in the archives.”
As if on cue, my stomach grumbles.
“See?” He pushes the plate into my hands, taking two more waffles for himself. “They’re making coffee inside, but these agents are just as addicted to it as you. I tried to get a cup, and one of them actually growled at me.”
“Sam,” I say. I don’t want to spoil his mood, but our time together is getting short. “I know this isn’t news to you, but this trip to New York might get pretty dangerous. If Setrákus Ra is planning on making a public appearance and it goes wrong—”
“I know,” he cuts me off. “I’ll be careful. If we get into a fight, I’ll leave the heroics to the actual alien superheroes as much as I can. Don’t worry about me. Just see if you can find something here that’ll help us take down these Mog shit heads.”
I give him an exaggerated sigh.
“What would your mother say if she heard you talking like that?” As if cursing even registers as a problem at this point in our lives. I’m honestly not sure where this reaction comes from. I guess part of me is still trying to mask my concern, as if letting these kids know how scared I am about them—about Sam—going to the front lines might somehow destroy their seemingly limitless capacities for bravery.
“I’m kind of more afraid that when I get home after all this is over, Mom’s going to chain me up in my room and never let me see the outside world again. Oh, speaking of, maybe I should call her on the drive and let her know I’m still alive.”
I think of my wife. The last time I saw her—when I showed up after years of being gone only to discover that Sam was missing too—she wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that I blamed my disappearance on aliens. Since then she hasn’t been too keen on talking to me.
“Do that,” I say. “Just remember that her phone is probably tapped, so no details. I’ll . . . I’ll wait until I have something good to tell her. Then I’ll call.”
“That reminds me—here,” he says, holding a black satellite phone out to me. I pat my pockets, realizing I haven’t been carrying mine around. Sam continues, “Yes, this is yours. Adam was messing with it. Apparently Earth’s understanding of communications systems is really basic. This is supposed to get a signal, like, anywhere. Or so he says.”
“Excellent,” I say. “We should all start carrying these.”