Unstoppable Read Free

removed the plate from the soap and smudged at it with her fingertip.
    Harrison didn’t ask why she cared whether the soapy water got the dribs of yolk instead of him. “No, ma’am.”
    After the scrape of his chair, Mr. Constable stood and belched and pulled on his suit coat. “Time. I’ll be back, Mrs.”
    â€œYou call him ‘Papa,’ you hear?” Mrs. Constable dropped the plate into the water and scowled. “That’s how you address Mr. Constable with the judge. You forget that and I’ll have a bar of soap to feed you before afternoon chores.”
    Harrison knew well the taste of laundry soap, and he had to admit that it was a good reminder to call Mr. Constable “Papa.” Harrison climbed into the bed of the pickup truck with Zip, the jug-headed yellow Lab. The truck jounced down the driveway, jarring Harrison’s bones until the tires hummed on the smooth blacktop. The wind whisked through his shortened hair and Harrison flicked at the tiny brown pieces still clinging to his neck. Town held the county courthouse and several brick government buildings as well as the crumbling storefronts of the past hundred and fifty years. Once busy with trade from the railroad, they now sold nothing much more than yarn and used furniture. There were also two bars, a diner, and a nail shop, while the rest of the windows held FOR SALE signs behind their dusty glass.
    The courthouse was a busy place, though. Just outside town a large modern prison housed the state’s less dangerous criminals and offered up most of the good jobs for fifty miles around. Half the people in the courthouse seemed to be prisoners, and none of them was ever as glum as Harrison would be if he had to wear handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. Mr. Constable’s shoes clapped against the wood floor after they passed through a metal detector, and Harrison followed him to the back part of the courthouse, the new part with low ceilings, fake blond wood, and fluorescent tubes of light.
    In a courtroom that looked more like a classroom to Harrison, the judge sat on a low platform behind his bench. A state flag drooped alongside the American flag, and a brass clock hung on the wall. Mr. Constable waved to the lawyer, and they sat down. Harrison scanned the room for his mother, but she wasn’t to be seen. The judge scolded two teenage boys in orange jumpsuits before banging his gavel on the desk and watching them be ushered out by an armed guard. The boys looked scared, and the judge seemed satisfied with that.
    Harrison tugged at the collar of his shirt, replaying all the things he’d done recently that might put him in the company of the imprisoned boys.
    â€œHarrison Johnson.”
    The bailiff looked out over the courtroom. Mr. Constable leaned close. “Don’t forget—‘Papa.’”
    Mr. Constable stood. Harrison did too, and followed his foster father to the front along with the lawyer, a greasy-looking man in a green suit with food stains on its sleeves.
    â€œMelinda Johnson?” The bailiff craned his neck and Harrison turned his head, also scanning the room. “Ms. Johnson? Melinda Johnson?”
    Mr. Constable spoke to the lawyer under his breath. “All this fuss and she’s too drunk to show up.”
    The lawyer nodded as if it was just another expected part of his job.
    Harrison’s heart sank.
    â€œIs Melinda Johnson here, or counsel for Ms. Johnson?” The judge looked up over the top of his glasses and glared out across the room, clenching his teeth until the cords pulsed in his neck. “I see. Mr. Constable, will you approach the bench with your ward and counsel, please?”
    The judge looked at Harrison with distaste before turning his attention to the lawyer. “Mr. Denny, do you have the paperwork for this boy’s adoption?”
    The lawyer fumbled with his briefcase, nodding and winking until he came up with a thick packet of