8

Jack arose, checked on his charges, found them still fast asleep, had a quick shower and breakfast, then sat down at the kitchen table with his coffee to read the morning paper.

'H'm. Not your typical Tuesday paper. There's actually more writing than advertising.' After a cursory glance, he put the paper down in disgust. It was all speculation about the downed alien craft. Apparently, no one had yet figured out how to get inside it. The ruptured sections were empty and sealed off, attesting to the fact that someone on board was still alive. Other than endless photos showing the craft from every possible vantage, it was all talk and speculation, from "experts" who knew nothing of substance, to kooks who assumed a War of the Worlds scenario was soon to take place.

Jack sighed. 'They've probably sealed themselves inside because they're terrified. Who wouldn't be? They're surrounded by enough high-tech military equipment to start a bloody war!'

He checked the time, decided to look in on the two alien girls again to make sure they were only asleep.

As he pushed the door open, the sight of the two gave him pause. In repose they looked perfectly human, though their features were unusual in a way he couldn't readily define. He realised that it was when they were animate that their differences really stood out. Part of it was their unusual clothing, the cut of their hair, endless little things. Although, he mused to himself, in that way, they're not much different than people from a really foreign culture.

He moved closer to make sure they were alive. The blonde-haired one, the smaller of the two, Yelina, made a little sleep-noise, shifted position a little, and was soon breathing the breath of deep sleep once more. She was sucking her thumb. The other, Kiko, stirred as she was disturbed, but didn't waken.

No, Jack thought to himself, watching them, after a while, you don't look alien at all. But maybe that's the way with all strange things . . . they're only strange until you get used to them.

Jack had to smile to himself as the two did finally waken. They shuffled in the general direction of the bathroom, eyes still glued shut with sleep, and closed the door with a thud. Soon there came the sound of running water, in the sink, in the bath; the toilet flushed three or four times. All the while he could hear the two talking quietly together.

It was almost an hour before they made an appearance, still wearing their nighties, looking fresher, their hair still slightly damp. Jack made them a breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and orange-juice.

They had just started eating when there came a knock at the back door. It was Jason.

'Hey, you eaten yet?' Jack asked him.

Jason shook his head.

He looks tired, Jack thought. 'Here, sit down and have mine. I'll make some more.' He moved to the stove. 'You look like you've been up all night.'

'Dad's back in jail,' Jason muttered. 'He just got out, and now he's . . . what a stupid, fucking bastard!'

'Language, kid,' Jack admonished, though gently. 'What's he done this time?'

Jason almost choked on his emotion, though his tone of voice was empty. 'The cops told us he's killed someone . . . some poor old guy who owned a store.' He was silent for several bleak moments. 'Mom says that's the end of it. She's talking to a lawyer right now, asking how she soon can get a divorce . . .'

Jack didn't let it show, but all he felt was relief at this news. Carl Whyte was a drunken, vicious lout and a thug who had beaten and terrorised his wife, and his children as they came along. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Jack had intervened a number of times, especially of late, as Carl had come by in violation of the restraining order against him. The last time he had been armed with a rifle, and had taken a shot in Jack's direction. If he hadn't been blind, staggering drunk, he probably wouldn't have missed. Jack and another male neighbour had wrestled Carl to the ground as Jason's mother called the police.

And now that he was freshly released from prison, he had straightaway committed murder . . .

'Here, have some sausages,' Jack said quietly, forking a number out of the frying pan onto his plate. He gave some to his guests, who appeared to be still interested in food, and some fried, sliced apple to go with them. He put the pan back on the cooling element, reseated himself, and had a bite of apple and sausage. 'You were right about one thing- they seem to be able to eat what we eat. By the way, this one with the dark hair is Kiko, the little one is Yelina.'

'They're both pretty small,' Jason smiled. Then, 'Hey, how'd you know their names?'

'Because,' Jack said, finishing his orange juice, 'they told me.' He pointed to Yelina. 'Yelina.' He turned to her companion. 'Kiko.' He turned to Jason. 'Jason.'

'Jay-sun?' Kiko tried.

'Jason,' he corrected.

'Jason.'

Jack set to washing up as the three tried conversing. From time to time he had to smile to himself, not so much at what they were saying, but at the awkward silences that left them at a loss.

'I don't suppose you'd like to keep them entertained for a while?' Jack asked Jason. 'If I gave you my credit card, d'you think you could maybe take my truck and drive them to Saskatoon? Get them some clothes and stuff?'

Jason brightened immediately, but as suddenly the bubble burst. 'Sure! But . . . I don't know anything about girls' clothes.'

'So, maybe take Carly with you?' Carly was Jason's twelve-year-old younger sister.

Jason rolled his eyes at that. 'Okay . . . I guess.'

Jack smiled at that and handed him the keys, credit card, some money and a piece of paper. 'There's money for gas and something to eat, my card, and my contact information in case anyone thinks you stole either my truck or my card. Don't lose that piece of paper! It's probably the most important thing on you right now. If you get in trouble, call. And see if you can find them something to wear for now. Don't let them go outside in the clothes they were wearing.'

Jack finished cleaning up, then went to his office, a former spare bedroom, the smallest of the three. He'd made his money in Nortel stock, years ago, before the tech bubble had burst. He'd been one of the lucky ones, had sold his Nortel stock some time before the corporation imploded. Pretty much all he did now was some minor juggling and maintenance of his assets.

His broker had been horrified to find him still living in Anaheim, in a very average three-bedroom house in a very average neighbourhood in a very average town, driving an unremarkable old pickup truck.

'You could be living in a palace!' his broker had told him.

Jack had given him a withering look. 'This is a palace. You're not talking about a palace. You're talking about excess, about a bunch of junk I don't want and don't need.'

Sometimes, he reflected, it seemed like some people were from other planets.