"Steven Gould - Jumper" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

The thought of pulling a blank was scary, but it wasn't strange to me. Dad pulled blanks all the
time and I'd read enough fiction to be familiar with trauma-induced amnesia.

I was surprised that the library was closed and dark this time. I checked the wall clock. It read
two o'clock, an hour and five minutes later than the digital clock in Topper's truck. Jesus Christ. I
shivered in the library's air-conditioning and fumbled at my pants. The zipper was broken but the snap
worked. I buckled the belt an extra notch tight, then pulled my shirt out so it hung over the zipper. My
mouth tasted of blood and vomit.

The library was lit from without by pale white moonlight and the yellow glare of mercury
streetlamps. I threaded my way between shelves, chairs, tables to the water fountain and rinsed my
mouth again and again until the taste was gone from my mouth and the bleeding of my lip had
stopped.

In two weeks I'd worked my way over nine hundred miles from my father. In one heartbeat I'd
undone that, putting myself fifteen minutes away from the house. I sat down on a hard wooden chair
and put my head in my hands. What had I done to deserve this?

There was something I wasn't dealing with. I knew it. Something...

I'm so tired. All I want is to rest. I thought of all the snatches of sleep I'd had over the last two
weeks, miserable stolen moments on rest-stop benches, in people's cars, and under bushes like some
animal. I thought of the house, fifteen minutes away, of my bedroom, of my bed.

A wave of irresistible longing came over me and I found myself standing and walking, without
thought, just desire for that bed. I went to the emergency exit at the back, the one with the ALARM
WILL SOUND sign. I figured by the time any alarm was answered, I could be well away.

It was chained. I leaned against it and hit it very hard, an overhand blow with the flat of my hand.
I drew back, tears in my eyes, to hit it again but it wasn't there and I pitched forward, off balance and
flailing, into my bed.

I knew it was my bed. I think it was the smell of the room that told me first, but the backlit
alarm-clock face on the bedside table was the one Mom sent the year after she left and the light from
the back porch light streamed through the window at just the right angle.
 For one brief moment I relaxed, utterly and completely, muscle after muscle unknotting. I closed
my eyes and felt exhaustion steal over me in a palpable wave. Then I heard a noise and I jerked up,
rigid, on the bedspread on my hands and knees. The sound came again. Dad... snoring.

I shuddered. It was strange. It was a very comforting sound. It was home, it was family. It also
meant the son of a bitch was asleep.

I took off my shoes and padded down the hall. The door was half open and the overhead light
was on. He was sprawled diagonally across the bed, on top of the covers, both shoes and one sock
off, his shirt unbuttoned. There was an empty bottle of scotch tucked in the crook of his arm. I sighed.

Home sweet home.

I grabbed the bottle neck and pulled it gently from between his arm and his side, then set it on