“My grandmother. I made a promise to my grandmother.”
Kin readjusted his weight, his strength returning enough to try to hold the man down with meaningful purpose instead of dumb luck. “Who sent you?”
“My...” The man turned his head, dirt peppered on his cheek. “My grandmother. I made a promise to my grandmother.”
Kin’s grip on the man’s wrist loosened, and he looked over at Penny, whose expression changed from determination to shocked curiosity. “Your... grandmother?” she asked.
“I promised her. When I graduated med school, she asked me to do the strangest thing, but I promised her. She told me to remember four answers to four question. Kin Stewart. Point Davies. After sunset but before sunrise. Come alone but with emergency medical treatments.”
“Four questions...” Penny said, her voice barely audible.
The four questions.
“That was forty-two years ago,” the man said. Kin let him go and stumbled back onto his heels, only to have Penny catch him. The man pushed himself up to his feet and dusted himself off before kneeling back down to meet him face-to-face. “You are Kin Stewart?”
“Yeah.”
“She wanted to give you this.” He reached into his pocket, and it took several seconds for Kin’s eyes to adjust enough to clearly see what the man held up between his thumb and finger.
A coin.
Even in the dim light, he could see it. The bit of oxidation on Abraham Lincoln’s hair. The etched “1978” by Lincoln’s lapels. The scratch across the top half of the dull surface.
