Olympus: It's Not Just a Game

Chapter 25

Mr. Huber woke up completely disoriented. He blinked and stared around him at the clean but tiny kitchen. His left arm was numb; his head must have pinched a nerve. He stood up and cautiously looked about.

It was the cup that clued him in. Coffee! That's right. He had dropped off the boy at his house and that woman had offered him coffee. For one irrational moment he suspected he'd been drugged. Frantically, he clutched at his wallet. Then he relaxed. It was still there. He must have just fallen asleep. And she had been too tenderhearted to wake him.

He stepped into the adjoining room and saw an empty wheelchair. The boy was curled up on the couch, sleeping hard. "Poor kid," Mr. Huber thought. Just looking at him made him sleepy all over again.

He went back into the kitchen and peered at the coffee cup. "There must be a microwave around here somewhere," he thought. The woman might be poor, but she couldn't be that destitute. The microwave, when he found it, was ancient, but still serviceable. It took him a while to figure out the controls, and when it had finished zapping his coffee, it unleashed a "ding!" that could wake the dead.

It certainly woke up Wheeler. "Hello! Who's that?" the boy called. He hauled himself upright. "Mr. Huber? Is that you?"

The adult came around the corner of the kitchen, carefully balancing the hot cup. "Sorry to wake you up. I was just heating some coffee."

"Heat some up for me, too!" the boy yawned. He winced. "Ow. I feel like I got run over by a truck." He laughed, bitterly. "And I should know."

"Was that how your legs got like that? A truck?" Mr. Huber asked.

Wheeler immediately became defensive. "That's none of your business."

"Sure. Fine," Mr. Huber answered. "It's your problem. I've got enough troubles of my own. I've got to catch my fool of a son."

"Why did he run away?" the boy asked.

"That's none of your business," Mr. Huber snapped.

"Well, why run away to Olympus, of all places?" Wheeler persisted.

Mr. Huber sighed deeply. "Olympus," he echoed bitterly. "I hate that name."

"Yeah, so does Mom," the boy replied.

Mr. Huber glanced at him quickly. "That's true—she mentioned that. Why doesn't she like it? You don't play it, do you?"

"I wish," Wheeler answered ruefully. "No, it isn't me that turned her off. It's my Dad."

"Your father?" Mr. Huber looked around the barren apartment. "I should have known. I've told Karl again and again that this game will bankrupt him. Your father spends all his time and money playing, doesn't he? That's why you're so poor."

"Shut up!" Wheeler snarled. "Who are you to call me a cripple? Who are you to come in here and call us poor? What do you know about us? What do you know about anything?"

Mr. Huber was tough, and proud of it. He glared at the boy. "Look, kid, I know poor. And if your dad is spending all his time and all your money playing that fool game, it's no wonder you're broke."

"You are so wrong," Wheeler laughed bitterly. Dad does spend all his time in Olympus—but he's a millionaire!" Mr. Huber stared at him in utter disbelief. "That's right," Wheeler insisted. "Dad's rich—but he left us."