Second Honeymoon

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THE BOY WOULD be famous around the world one day, but there was no way he could imagine that now. What little kid could predict the future, or begin to understand it? Seven-year-old Ned Sinclair reached out in the darkness, his hand blindly feeling for the wall as he stepped outside his bedroom. He didn’t dare turn on a light in the hall. He didn’t dare make a sound. Not even a peep. Not yet.

Slowly, Ned tiptoed down the long, narrow hallway, the chill of the hardwood floor in the dead of an Albany winter reaching right up through his footed Superman pajamas. He was shaking, ice cold, his teeth on the verge of chattering.

Searching for the railing at the top of the stairs, Ned’s arm waved back and forth like a delicate branch caught in the wind. He felt nothing…still nothing…then—yes, there it was—the smooth curve of the lacquered pine against his fingertips.

He gripped the railing, white-knuckled, all the way down to the first floor, one quiet step at a time.

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