the front pocket of his shorts. One of his shoes was still untied, and the laces slapped against his bare ankles. He didn’t dare stop to tie it. If he didn’t get to the South Texas University campus in 20 minutes, his life would be over.
Kevin had just finished toweling off from a late afternoon shower when he’d begun to read the letters from his South Texas University mailbox. The first one had stopped him cold, and it felt like shaved ice had poured into his stomach. He’d read the letter twice to make sure he’d understood it correctly, then frantically called the number at the top of the letter. Getting a busy signal, he scrambled into the first clothes he could find. The long-sleeved button-downed shirt he’d ripped from a closet hanger was wildly incongruous with the workout shorts and tennis shoes, but he didn’t care. Besides, he’d seen a lot worse on other graduate students.
He jumped into his Mustang and tossed the letter onto the front seat. As he inserted the ignition key, Kevin rested his other hand on the steering wheel, then immediately pulled it back with a gasp. Even this late in the day, the September sun was still strong enough to heat the MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT
11
steering wheel to scorching temperatures. Gripping the cooler lower part of the steering wheel, he turned the key.
The Mustang wheezed for a few seconds, then nothing. Kevin swore under his breath. He’d had the car for nine years, won it in a radio contest when he was still in high school. His parents had let him keep it as long as he could make the insurance premiums. He’d gladly agreed and for the first two years lived the teenage male’s dream of owning a flaming red V8 hot rod. But since then, it had started to slowly fall apart. The rear hatch release, the gas gauge, and the right window switch were all broken. The latest frustration was its difficulty starting. Probably a bad solenoid. He’d been meaning to get it fixed, but money had been tight lately.
He tried again, mouthing a silent prayer. The car roared to life.
“Yes,” Kevin said. He tore out of the parking space and headed for the exit.
The Mustang roared down the straightaway lining the Sycamore apartment complex until Kevin had to brake for the closed security gate. The ten-foot-high gate slid sideways on a track.
The gate always seemed to move slower when he was in a hurry, but it still probably took no more than eight seconds to open fully.
As soon as the opening was wide enough, Kevin accelerated, looked quickly to the left for cars, and turned right onto Gulfton.
A stop sign loomed a quarter mile ahead as he approached Chimney Rock, a major four-lane road split by a median. He’d have to turn left to go north to the Southwest Freeway, the quickest route to the university. As he braked, Kevin glanced at the dashboard clock. 4:43. He wasn’t going to make it. Not unless he took some chances.
MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT
12
The Mustang squealed to a halt. Kevin rested his foot on the accelerator, revving the engine to 3000 rpm. Seconds later, a minuscule hole opened in the southbound traffic, one he thought would be just big enough. He popped the clutch.
The Mustang launched forward, and horns blared from his left. He could feel the back tires losing traction. He lifted his foot slightly, sliding the car gracefully into the northbound traffic, narrowly missing a minivan that had begun to change lanes.
The heavy traffic didn’t leave much room for maneuvering, so he was stuck with the traffic’s plodding pace, changing lanes over and over, looking for any opening he could exploit. Finally, he reached the traffic light at the Southwest Freeway feeder road and turned right to get onto the entrance ramp.
Once on the freeway, he was able to dodge the traffic at speeds 10 mph faster than the 70 mph flow. Thirteen minutes later, he was on the STU campus, amazed that he hadn’t hit any freeway snarls or been stopped by the police. The
Kevin had just finished toweling off from a late afternoon shower when he’d begun to read the letters from his South Texas University mailbox. The first one had stopped him cold, and it felt like shaved ice had poured into his stomach. He’d read the letter twice to make sure he’d understood it correctly, then frantically called the number at the top of the letter. Getting a busy signal, he scrambled into the first clothes he could find. The long-sleeved button-downed shirt he’d ripped from a closet hanger was wildly incongruous with the workout shorts and tennis shoes, but he didn’t care. Besides, he’d seen a lot worse on other graduate students.
He jumped into his Mustang and tossed the letter onto the front seat. As he inserted the ignition key, Kevin rested his other hand on the steering wheel, then immediately pulled it back with a gasp. Even this late in the day, the September sun was still strong enough to heat the MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT
11
steering wheel to scorching temperatures. Gripping the cooler lower part of the steering wheel, he turned the key.
The Mustang wheezed for a few seconds, then nothing. Kevin swore under his breath. He’d had the car for nine years, won it in a radio contest when he was still in high school. His parents had let him keep it as long as he could make the insurance premiums. He’d gladly agreed and for the first two years lived the teenage male’s dream of owning a flaming red V8 hot rod. But since then, it had started to slowly fall apart. The rear hatch release, the gas gauge, and the right window switch were all broken. The latest frustration was its difficulty starting. Probably a bad solenoid. He’d been meaning to get it fixed, but money had been tight lately.
He tried again, mouthing a silent prayer. The car roared to life.
“Yes,” Kevin said. He tore out of the parking space and headed for the exit.
The Mustang roared down the straightaway lining the Sycamore apartment complex until Kevin had to brake for the closed security gate. The ten-foot-high gate slid sideways on a track.
The gate always seemed to move slower when he was in a hurry, but it still probably took no more than eight seconds to open fully.
As soon as the opening was wide enough, Kevin accelerated, looked quickly to the left for cars, and turned right onto Gulfton.
A stop sign loomed a quarter mile ahead as he approached Chimney Rock, a major four-lane road split by a median. He’d have to turn left to go north to the Southwest Freeway, the quickest route to the university. As he braked, Kevin glanced at the dashboard clock. 4:43. He wasn’t going to make it. Not unless he took some chances.
MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT
12
The Mustang squealed to a halt. Kevin rested his foot on the accelerator, revving the engine to 3000 rpm. Seconds later, a minuscule hole opened in the southbound traffic, one he thought would be just big enough. He popped the clutch.
The Mustang launched forward, and horns blared from his left. He could feel the back tires losing traction. He lifted his foot slightly, sliding the car gracefully into the northbound traffic, narrowly missing a minivan that had begun to change lanes.
The heavy traffic didn’t leave much room for maneuvering, so he was stuck with the traffic’s plodding pace, changing lanes over and over, looking for any opening he could exploit. Finally, he reached the traffic light at the Southwest Freeway feeder road and turned right to get onto the entrance ramp.
Once on the freeway, he was able to dodge the traffic at speeds 10 mph faster than the 70 mph flow. Thirteen minutes later, he was on the STU campus, amazed that he hadn’t hit any freeway snarls or been stopped by the police. The
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