The boy shook his head.

"Not just now," he said.

Michael looked about the room, at the huge shelf of picture books, at the unopened erector set. When he looked back at Dan, he saw that the boy was rubbing his wrist.

"Hurt your hand?" he asked.

"Uh-uh. It just sort of throbs--the mark--sometimes."

"How often?"

"Whenever--something like that--happens."

He gestured toward the door and the entire external world.

"It's going away now," he added.

He took hold of the boy's wrist, examined the dark dragon-shape upon it.

"The doctor said it was nothing to worry about--no chance of it ever turning into anything bad...."

"It's all right now."

Michael continued to stare for several moments. Finally, he squeezed the hand, lowered it and smiled.

"Anything you want, Dan?" he asked.

"No. Uh... Well--some books."

Michael laughed.

"That's one thing you like, isn't it? Okay, maybe we can stop by a bookstore later and see what they've got."

Dan finally smiled.

"Thank you."

Michael punched his shoulder lightly and rose.

"... And I'll stay out of your office, Dad."

He squeezed his shoulder again and left him there on the bed. As he headed back toward his office, he heard a soft, rapid strumming begin.

When the boy was twelve years old he built a horse. It stood two hands high and was moved by a spring-powered clockwork mechanism. He had worked after hours at the smithy forging the parts, and on his own time in the shed he had built behind his parents' place, measuring, grinding and polishing gears. Now it pranced on the floor of that shed, for him and his audience of one--Nora Vail, a nine-year-old neighbor girl.

She clapped her hands as it slowly turned its head, as if to regard them.

"It's beautiful, Mark! It's beautiful!" she said. "There's never been anything like it--except in the old days."