Page 56 of Hoofin’ It

“Denied,” the judge barked. “You had your chance to question the prosecution’s selection of witnesses at the start of the trial. I have the discretion to approve the prosecution’s request to call their witness at this time. Sit down, Mr. Ulsra.”

“I call Carey, Francois, and Hubert Telleman to the stand,” the CDC’s lawyer announced.

I only recognized the family because of a few newspaper articles reporting on the traffic accident that had almost claimed their lives and had cost me my right eye. The father, Francois, carried his two year old son in his arms. The boy was hard at work sucking on his thumb.

Carey flashed me a smile, Francois nodded, and Abrahaman startled the entire court by bringing a stool to the witness stand so all three could sit. It was a tight squeeze.

Traditionally, they would have been questioned individually. The judge, with one unusual move, had turned the questioning from the events affecting one person to those affecting involving an entire family—a family still alive because of me.

In the ten minutes before I was subjected to my blood being drawn so Abrahaman could enjoy a hefty dose of infected blood, my lawyer had transformed me from a man classified as a public health hazard to someone who’d crawled into a burning car and pulled three unconscious people from the wreckage.

At my lawyer’s invitation, Carey pulled her shirt over her head to reveal her stomach and chest, which were covered in burn scars, a permanent reminder of the accident that had almost taken her life. I coughed and found somewhere else to look, as Mrs. Telleman had forgone wearing a bra so the jury could get a good look at the evidence she brought to the stand.

Only an idiot would believe she could have escaped the car on her own. Her husband shared similar scars, although he wasn’t quite as dramatic about showing them off.

Hubert had escaped unscathed; I’d pulled him out first, and his mother was eager to show the jury how her little boy wouldn’t carry a single mark from the accident, although he had some lingering vision problems from a hit to the head.

The CDC’s lawyer to finished with his questions in forty minutes, and as though understanding he’d dig his own grave, the defense passed on his chance to ask additional questions.

On their way to their seats, Francois stopped beside my seat and set his son on my lap. “Hubert, this is the nice police officer who pulled us out of the car. Say hello.”

A pair of wide blue eyes regarded me with a complete lack of fear. “Huwwo, Meester Police Officer.”

Hubert put his thumb back in his mouth, staring at me while I floundered. I had swallow several times before I could force myself to reply, “Hello, Hubert. It’s nice to meet you.”

Taking his thumb out of his mouth, he balled his small hand into a fist and patted his chest. “Me be a meester police officer, too.”

Words failed me.

Two hours following the injection of my blood, Abrahaman scanned clean of the lycanthropy virus, as did I. Unfortunately, my fever spiked and lingered, something the CDC blamed on excessive exposure to the virus in a short period of time. My fever came with a fringe benefit.

Since the live demonstrations were complete and the Tellemans’ testimonies had been given, I was no longer needed in the courtroom, which meant I could get on with my life while waiting for the verdict. The CDC compensated me for the trial time, the public testings, the risks associated with virus exposure, and the unanticipated consequences of their in-court experimentation.

If I was careful with my money, I had six months to find a new job.

For the first time since returning to Chicago, I felt good about going home, until I got in my door and faced the remnants of the glitter apocalypse. Sighing, I shook my head at the shimmering carpet, dug out my phone, and called my mother.

“Are you dead?” she asked.

“What sort of stupid question is that?”

“Just wondering, as it’s early evening and you’re calling me. That’s a reason for concern.”

“I escaped court without anyone killing me,” I announced. Although I’d had the boxes for weeks, I hadn’t opened any except my parents’, although the one from Marian sometimes tempted me. “Let’s say you received a bunch of boxes from unknown senders or distant acquaintances. Would you open them?”

“Do they tick?”

“No, Mom. They don’t tick. If they ticked, I would call the bomb squad, not leave them unopened in my apartment. I’m not an idiot.”

“I’d open them.”

“The last time I opened a box, glitter exploded in my face. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Don’t be a baby. Open the boxes and tell me what’s inside. Your dad’s working. I’m bored. This sounds like a good cure for my boredom. How long have you had them?”

“They were waiting when I came back to Chicago from Des Moines.”

“That was weeks ago.”