He had, once more, the urge to smash his fist against the wall, just so that he could feel real, normal pain in his knuckles. But now he was terrified to do even that . . . because what if he hit the wall and it turned out to be made of green cheese instead of plaster? Anything was possible as long as Kevin was stuck to those glasses, anything—from Santa Claus coming down the chimney to a child-eating monster hiding in his bedroom closet. How could he sleep? How could he ever close his eyes again?
"You're losing it, Bro," Josh told himself. "This must be what it feels like to go completely psycho."
Josh kept his vigil until the first rays of dawn, when he finally gave in to sleep.
14
THE CHARIOT OF HELIOS
Kevin was hauled out of sleep by his alarm clock at seven in the morning. Even before opening his eyes, he knew that the glasses had begun to charge. They were feeding on the sunlight that was shining through his window and hitting his face. The crippling weakness he felt the night before was already gone, and when he opened his eyes, all seemed right with the world.
The crack on the left lens was actually healing itself. It was only half its original length, and from what Kevin could tell, it had stopped sparking.
He timidly swung out of bed and dressed, every moment expecting sparks to fly from the lens, but they did not come. By the time he went downstairs, he was actually beginning to believe that the worst could be over.
His father, already back from his morning run, was cooking breakfast today, which must have meant he was celebrating the most recent pound he lost.
"I had a craving for waffles and whipped cream," he said.
"Lucky us," said Kevin's mom.
Teri had already scarfed her first one down and was waiting for a second. The moment Kevin came into the room, she eyed him like a hawk.
"Feeling okay, Kev?" she asked.
"Couldn't be better."
"Early to bed and early to rise," said Mr. Midas. "A good night's sleep never hurt anyone." He dropped a waffle on Kevin's plate and squirted it full of whipped cream. "You must have been wiped out."
"You could say that," said Kevin.
"I like your glasses," commented Kevin's mom. "They're very sharp."
"I can't stand them," mumbled Teri. "I wish they would shrivel up and die."
"Teri," said Mrs. Midas, "if you don't have anything nice to say, then stuff your face." She plopped the remainder of her waffle on Teri's empty plate, then got up to clean the eggshell-and-Bisquick mess Mr. Midas had artfully created. She turned on the radio above the sink, and revolting Muzak filled the room. Mrs. Midas claimed that this sort of music helped her window-box cuttings grow.
Currently it was winding down an unnatural violin version of "No Money Down, Deadman," one of Teri's favorite heavy-metal songs.
"I'm going to be sick," commented Teri, as she did every time her mother turned the station on.
For a moment, Kevin was able to forget his troubles, and he smiled a big whipped cream grin. These dumb family mornings were something he had never appreciated before.
"It's good to be back to normal," said Kevin.
On the radio, the song changed to a flowery choral version of "Sunrise, Sunset." Mom sang along, and that was always bad news, because Mom never remembered the words quite right.
"'Sunrise, sunset,'" mumbled Mom. '"Sunrise, sunset, quickly, day by day..."'
"Normal? There's nothing normal about this family," remarked Teri. "With or without your glasses, this place is a nuthouse."
Mr. Midas sat down with an oversized waffle and made it disappear beneath a mountain of whipped cream, while Mom continued to sing.
'"One season da-de-da de dum-dum, lifetimes of happiness, my dear . . . '"
And then the morning was shattered by a single thought—one spark that sprang from the hairline fracture in Kevin's glasses.
Teri saw the spark and put her fork down.
"Kevin?"
Kevin sat, frozen, the color slipping from his face. "Oh no."
'"Sunrise, sunset...,'" their mother continued to hum.
"What did you do, Kevin? What were you thinking about?"
Kevin swallowed. "The song," he said. "I was thinking about the song."
"No! You didn't! Tell me that you didn't, Kevin! Tell me!"
Mr. Midas looked up from his plate. "Something wrong?"
That's when Kevin's whole world went mad. The glasses, which had been gradually building up energy all morning, had finally begun to spark once more, with wild and random bursts.
"Kevin, your eyes!" shouted his mother.
His father reached up and tried to pull the glasses off, only to find that they were no longer a fashion accessory. They were a part of his son.
"Kevin!" He screamed, terrified, and light-years away from understanding. "Kevin, what have you done to yourself?"
"No!" Kevin covered his eyes, and felt the sparks numbing his palms and twisting the world around him. With a spark, their radio was gone, thought out of existence as if it had been nothing more than a daydream. Another spark, and the radio station itself could not be found on any radio dial. Anywhere.
Kevin bolted for the stairs.
"Kevin!" His parents followed.
Teri stayed. She stood slowly and peered out the window, the chorus of the old tune still playing in her head. The sun hung just above the electrical tower on the hill, and it was slowly, slowly sinking into the eastern sky.
What was wrong with that? thought Teri. Was there something unusual about the sun setting at seven-thirty in the morning? Was there? Had it ever been any different? And Teri began to cry because she could not remember.
Kevin had scrambled upstairs with his panicking parents behind him. He raced down the abnormally long hall.
At the top of the stairs Mr. Midas paused for a split second. The doors, said a thought far in the back of his mind. Since when did this hallway have so many doors? He hesitated just long enough for Kevin to get to the bathroom and lock himself in.
In an instant, Kevin imagined the bathroom sealed off from the rest of the world as best he could. The window was blocked in with bricks and thick mortar, the bathroom door was welded to the frame in a searing flash of orange light. The vanity lights around the mirror blew out one by one, leaving the small room in darkness.
Kevin didn't have a plan yet, but he knew instinctively what he had to do. Weakening the glasses was not enough. He had to starve them. Starve them until they crumbled and faded out of existence.
"Call a doctor—the police—the fire department," raved his mother.
Kevin's father pounded on the door, begging to be let in.
"Whatever it is, Kevin, we'll help you! Please, son, talk to me!"
Talk to him? What was there to talk about now? Kevin felt a hot and heavy fury that flew out in all directions. Where had his dad been for the past two weeks? Where had he been for the past two years? How could he hope to instantly bridge a gap that had been growing this long?
All the pounding and whining at the door was too little too late—another one of his father's favorite expressions.
A thick tongue of electricity licked out from the outlet across the room and into the glasses. "No!" screamed Kevin, and the force from that single thought fought the electricity back, sending a surge through the wires that melted the circuit breakers and blew out the power throughout the house.