Chương 66: Incidental Contact (11/15/1984 | 04:38 PM)

DATE: Thursday, November 15, 1984 LOCATION: Burbank, California | Warner Bros. Studios | The Commissary LOCAL TIME: 04: 38 PM Between the brutal daylight hours on Stage 12 and the grueling night shoots on Stage 16, there was exactly a forty-five-minute window where I was allowed to consume calories. The studio commissary was a loud, echoing cavern of clattering silverware and frantic industry networking. I sat in a booth near the back, isolated by design.

Evelyn sat one booth over, fielding calls on her bulky satellite phone, maintaining my perimeter. I was eating a clinically measured bowl of steamed chicken, spinach, and a powder supplement rich in Type II collagen and magnesium. It tasted like damp cardboard, but it provided the exact amino acid profile required to repair the micro-fractures in my cartilage.

"Is that actually food?" I looked up. Standing on the other side of the laminate table was a girl with striking, pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She wore a denim jacket and a polite, curious smile. Even without the static of a television screen, her face was instantly recognizable to anyone who had lived through the 1980s. Heather O'Rourke. In late 1984, she was preparing to shoot the sequel to Poltergeist. She was eight years old—just a few months younger than my body currently is.

"It's fuel," I said, putting my fork down.

"Not food. Food is supposed to taste good." She laughed, a bright, genuine sound that cut through the cynical drone of the commissary, and slid into the booth across from me.

"I'm Heather."

"Chad," I replied, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin.

"You're shooting on the lot today?"

"Just wardrobe fittings," she said, swinging her legs under the table. Her eyes danced with the kind of unburdened, innocent excitement I hadn't felt in decades.

"We're getting ready to shoot the sequel to Poltergeist. They have me trying on all these oversized sweaters and pajamas. It's going to be so spooky. Craig T. Nelson plays my dad, and he's super tall in real life." She paused, her gaze dropping to the dark bruising creeping up the side of my neck from the urethane impacts.

"You're the kid playing the sidekick, right? The acrobat."

"Something like that," I said.

"You live up here in LA?"

"No, we drive up," Heather said, resting her chin in her hands.

"I'm from San Diego. Santee, actually. Do you know where that is?" The geographical connection hit me with a strange, sudden warmth. Santee was just a short drive inland from Carlsbad. In a room full of studio executives, agents, and transplants, we were the only two locals. Two kids from the same sunny, sprawling county, thrust into the same high-pressure machine.

"I do," I said, a real smile finally breaking through the executive mask.

"I'm from Carlsbad." Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"No way!" Her eyes lit up.

"My family goes to the beach down there sometimes. We take the dogs and have bonfires. It's way better than the beaches up here. The water in LA always smells funny."

"It does," I agreed.

"If your family likes bonfires, you should tell them to check out La Jolla Shores. The fire pits are right on the sand, and the water is a lot cleaner."

"La Jolla?" Her eyes widened with recognition.

"Is that near the beach with all the sea lions? The one with the big concrete wall?"

"The Children's Pool," I nodded.

"Yeah, it's just a few minutes south of the Shores. You can hear them barking from the street."

"I love that place," she beamed. For a brief, suspended moment, I wasn't the Architect of a shadow empire. I was just talking to a girl from my hometown about the ocean. But then Heather shifted in the booth, wincing. Her bright smile faltered as she pressed a hand against her lower abdomen, right below her ribs, and let out a quiet, uncomfortable breath.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice dropping.

"Yeah," she sighed, rubbing her stomach.

"Just a tummy ache. I get them a lot lately. Mom says it's probably just a bug, or maybe giardia from the well water at home. The doctors say I just have a sensitive stomach." The nostalgic warmth evaporated, replaced by a sharp, protective dread. My memory was a vault, and seeing her face had tripped the lock. The file on Heather O'Rourke slammed open in my mind. In the original timeline, those "tummy aches" would eventually be misdiagnosed as Crohn's disease.

They would pump her full of cortisone, swelling her face, before finally discovering the true biological mechanical failure in 1988: a congenital intestinal stenosis. A severe narrowing of the bowel that would lead to fatal septic shock. She didn't have a bug. She had a ticking biological time bomb. And the medical technology of the mid-1980s was going to miss it until it was too late.

"Studio food is terrible," I said smoothly, masking the frantic calculation behind my eyes.

"But hey, my family actually owns a big company down in San Diego. We have doctors on staff who check us out all the time for sports and stunts. The best guys at Scripps. Let me have my assistant give your mom a card." Heather smiled, looking relieved.

"Thanks, Chad. That's really nice of you."

"We San Diego kids have to stick together," I said. A production assistant poked his head into the commissary, scanning the booths before spotting her.

"Heather! Wardrobe is ready for the second looks!"

"Coming!" she called out. She slid out of the booth and gave me a small wave.

"See you around, Chad. Don't break any bones."

"I'll try not to." I watched her walk out of the commissary. The second the double doors swung shut, I turned my head.

"Evelyn," I said sharply. My handler was at my table in three seconds, clipboard in hand.

"Yes, Chad?"

"That was Heather O'Rourke," I stated, my voice dropping back into the cold, absolute register of the CEO.

"I want you to call John Patterson immediately. Have Archstone Capital establish a blind medical trust today." Evelyn's pen hovered over the paper. She didn't ask why.

"Parameters?"

"Reach out to her mother's representation," I instructed.

"Offer a fully funded, comprehensive pediatric gastrointestinal workup at Scripps Memorial in La Jolla, courtesy of the studio's 'child wellness initiative.' I want a barium enema X-ray and a full bowel series." I locked eyes with Evelyn, emphasizing the gravity of the directive.

"They are specifically looking for a congenital intestinal stenosis. A bowel obstruction. Do not let them stop testing until they find it and surgically correct it. Pay whatever it costs to get the best pediatric surgeon in the state, and make sure our name is never attached to the check." Evelyn nodded once, her expression perfectly serious.

"I'll have Patterson draft the paperwork and make the calls within the hour. It will be handled."

"Make sure it is," I said, standing up and adjusting the heavy Kevlar-weave suit beneath my jacket. I had altered the corporate landscape and manipulated the stock market, but protecting a child with raw, preemptive data was the only thing that made the sheer, crushing isolation of this human suit bearable.

"My daylight shift is over," I said to Evelyn, turning toward the exit.

"Have Marcus meet me on Stage 16 for the night shoot."