Текст книги "Nameless"

Автор книги: Sam Starbuck

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***

"Christopher, I've been thinking," Marjorie said, when I called to ask her about ordering the book for Lucas. "I keep planning to lure or berate you back to the city, but so far it hasn't worked and I'm beginning to blame myself for you moving away in the first place."

"Jeez, what brought that on?" I asked. "By the way, thirteen down, yesterday's paper – five letters, pounding tool."

"Anvil. Bad clue."

"Yeah," I said, copying it into the crossword.

"The thing is," she said, as I wrote, "I remember telling you that you should buy a bookstore because you'd only really be happy if you were around books."

"Pretty good advice," I said.

"I think so. But I guess it was some sort of chivalry, you didn't want to compete with me in the city, so you moved to the country."

I must have been busy gaping at the telephone, because she continued before I could reply.

"I know that's not the only reason, but don't you think three years is long enough? Not that I'm in total agreement with your friends, but still. I don't know why you're punishing yourself."

"Punishing myself, Marjorie? Does that sound like me?"

"I don't know, dear. Not normally, but maybe over how things were with your father, those last few years."

"We were okay. It's not like he disinherited me. I bought Dusk Books with the money he left me."

"Yes, I seem to recall him warning you not to spend it all in one place. Which, sullen child, you did."

"Not all of it. I still have some savings."

"Don't change the subject. You can't bury yourself in obscurity all your life, Christopher."

I gathered my wits about me and managed a startled laugh. "Marjorie, I'm not punishing myself! I'm happy here. I like the quiet life."

"I don't see how you can be. Don't you starve for stimulation?"

"I have books."

There was a sigh on the other end of the telephone line. "You are stubborn, Christopher. You fight life too much."

"Believe me," I said, setting the crossword aside, "fighting is the last thing on my mind."

"It seems like such a wasteland though."

"You'd be surprised. You should come to see me, Marjorie."

"I'm afraid I'll never leave Chicago," she said.

"Well, I'll have to come visit you then. In the meantime, I need a book."

There was an amused snort. "I don't know if I can help you with that, Christopher."

"Very funny. It's for a friend, so don't tease me about finally discovering the mystical in life."

"I wouldn't dream of it. What friend is this?"

"He just moved here, used to live in the city. I think you'd like him. He's sort of an odd duck."

"Oh?"

"He's good at hiding. Anyway, he asked if I'd dig up an out-of-print title. You ready?"

"Of course," she said, sounding mildly insulted.

"It's called Ancient Games. It's a book about folklore," I added, and gave her the author and publisher. "Plus he'd like recommendations – companion pieces, that kind of thing."

"I think I know who to call. I'll give you a call when everything's assembled. Is there anything else you'd like from the city? I don't think fast food would keep, but then you never know what preservatives they load it up with."

I considered for a moment. The city does have some comforts that one misses, having grown up there. Nightclubs at midnight, food stands at three am, and all my accompanying sins came back to haunt me. Loud music, dim bars, the elevated trains, the bitter cold canyon-effect where the winds cut through the gaps between high downtown buildings, chilling any exposed skin down to the bone. My apartment building, my office building. The hospital.

"No," I said. "There's nothing else I need."

"So long as you're sure. You only need to call, Christopher."

"Thank you, Marj. Save the receipts and send them on."

I could picture her smiling on the other end of the telephone. "You miss the ephemera. I see. Goodbye."

"Thanks again."

Marjorie had never failed to find a book, and I knew to expect the package in pretty short order. I had thought that would probably be the end of it, since the book Lucas had asked for didn't look particularly expensive. I imagined the next communication from her would be in the form of a letter, shoved inside a book so the post-office wouldn't notice it when it shipped media-mail.

Instead, I had a telephone call two days after I placed the order.

"Christopher, it's Marjorie," she said, the line crackling and popping behind her voice.

"Are you on a payphone?" I asked.

"Worse – my cellular."

"Oh, Marjorie."

"I know – I'm ashamed of me too, but I had to crack and get one. Anyway, this isn't the kind of thing I could borrow a phone for."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"Well, I've found a source for the book you're after, but she's...eccentric."

"God, no."

"Yep, one of those. The whole place reeks of cigarette smoke."

"I'm so sorry to send you there, Marj."

"Well, we all make sacrifices for literature. That isn't the problem. I assume your client can handle a little smell."

"He doesn't seem picky. What's the problem?"

"She won't sell unless she talks to you. She says she doesn't sell to just anyone and that she wants to see what you're made of first. I didn't tell her it was for a customer of yours."

"Thank you. Should I call her?"

"Well, I'm standing outside the shop now – I can put her on the phone with you."

"I'll owe you my soul."

"I don't want it second-hand from the devil, you'll have to owe me something else."

I laughed. "Go ahead, put her on."

There was a loud staticky sound, the slam of a door, and then a querulous voice on the other end of the line. "Who is this?"

"Ma'am, my name's Christopher Dusk. You've been speaking to my friend Marjorie, I'm the one who asked her for help. You have a copy of a title I'm looking for, I think?"

"I own it."

"So I'm told. I understand you have some reservations about selling?"

"I do! I do, young man," she said. Her voice rose and feel creakily. "What do you want this book for?"

"Well, ma'am, to be honest, I had it recommended to me."

"By who?"

I drummed my fingers on the counter. "An old friend of mine. If you'd rather not sell, I won't try to make you. It's just that they said it was a great book, and I wanted to read it myself. I'm a voracious reader – always looking for different sorts of things to read," I said, hoping I sounded convincing.

"Are you an artist?"

"A....what? No, ma'am, I'm – " I hesitated for only a split second before plunging ahead, "I'm a roofer, ma'am."

"A what?"

"A roofer – you know. Shingles, tar, that kind of thing."

She hemmed to herself thoughtfully, muh, muh, muh.

I thought of the way Lucas had phrased his request – ask if she has other volumes she'd recommend as companions. As if he knew the trouble I'd run into, and who I'd run into it with.

"If you're worried I can't afford it..." I left the words dangling in the air.

"Money on the spot," the woman said. "Cash."

"Of course – Marjorie will pay for it there and ship it to me. I live outside the city."

"Aha."

"You wouldn't happen to have any other books that you think would go well with it?"

There was another loud noise, and I was abruptly cut off. I stared down at the phone, then hung up and stared at it some more. It rang again five minutes later.

"Marjorie?" I asked, picking up the receiver.

"Well, whatever you said must have been the right thing – I have book in hand, or rather in bag."

"Did she put any other books in with it?"

"Not unless you count an incredibly aged and fragrant bookmark. You must be very fond of this young man."

"He's a customer, that's all."

"Huh. Christopher, this phone is giving me brain cancer as we speak. I'm going to hang up now."

"I'll look forward to that package," I said, and the line went dead for the second time.

Unfortunately for me and for Lucas, the first thunderstorm wasn't an isolated incident. That week there were three more, and I doubted he'd trekked out from The Pines in the rain just to get to my shop. Even if there hadn't been any lightning, the dirt roads outside of town saturated until they couldn't hold any more water. They turned into mud, then into a kind of filthy swamp, and then into quick-flooding murky pools. The field between The Pines and Low Ferry became a water meadow and soon enough the real roads began to wash out too. The mail was held up for a week solid. It was getting colder and it looked as though we would have snow for Halloween, as I'd thought.

When the mail finally did arrive, so did my package, damp on the outside but in relatively good condition. Charles brought it down from the post office, with Carmen on his heels – he'd sweet-talked her into helping him on her day off, while her boyfriend was watching Clara.

"Postmaster said I could play mailman," he said, as he deposited the damp box and sodden letters on my counter. "Thought I'd save him from lugging it around this afternoon."

"He'll have enough trouble when people see things like this," I said, holding up the bundle of wet paper. I carefully cut off the rubber band and peeled it apart page by page – advertisement, bank statement, advertisement, advertisement, credit-card offer, advertisement.

"Vital affairs of state?" he asked, as I picked up a wrinkled free-coupon booklet by one corner.

"I could save twenty cents on three boxes of pasta," I said, tilting my head at it. "If I took the train to Chicago and bought them there, anyway. I think I'll pass. You both look like you've been through the wars," I added, indicating his wet coat and her muddy shoes. "Can I get you something hot to drink?"

"Charles is going to buy me something at the cafe for helping him out," Carmen replied. "But I wanted to see you first. Did you hear about Jacob?"

"No, what about him?" I asked, dropping the worst of the wet mail into the trash.

"Skidded out on the road trying to get into town," Charles said.

"What?" I blinked at them. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine, Kirchner patched him up. Startled more than anything, I think," Charles said. "Nothing broken, but his truck's in the shop. Might be there for a while, cars aren't cheap to fix."

"Passing the plate on Sunday for him?" I asked, opening the cash register. Charles nodded, and I handed him what I could spare.

"He'll be all right," Carmen said. "Moneywise, I mean, in a few months. His oldest is sending some back from the city. But," she added, grinning at me, "he had to borrow Michael's pickup until his is fixed up."

"Don't tell me he found nudie photos of Sandra," I rolled my eyes.

"Carmen," Charles said disapprovingly.

"Come on! Know what he found?" she asked me, ignoring his disapproving look. "He found a coat he swears belongs to Nolan's sister."

"It's not our business," Charles scolded.

"Hang on, how does he know it belongs to Nolan's sister?" I asked. Carmen gave me a dry, cynical look. "Oh my. I'll have to get out that diagram I was working on."

"Carmen, I think it's time we went and got that drink," Charles said.

"Fine, fine. You can catch me up later," she said, following Charles to the door.

"Have a good day. I'll let you know if I hear anything about it," I called after them.

When they were gone, I turned to the box they'd brought, slitting the packing tape and pulling the flaps up. Inside, between layers of tissue paper and packing peanuts, I found a whole host of treasures.

In addition to receipts for purchase and postage, Marjorie had included a couple of handbills for interesting Chicago events, a letter full of literary talk, a bar of toffee chocolate from Vosges, and a bag of biscotti from a little bakery we used to visit when I was her customer instead of her protégé. I thought of calling her and joking that the biscotti had gone stale, but instead I unpacked her gifts and sorted through the handful of books she'd sent. She'd thoughtfully wrapped Lucas's book in plastic to keep the smell off the other books, and stuffed sage and bay leaves between the pages to try and de-smoke it a little. It helped, in a way – now the book smelled like herbs and cigarette smoke.

The other two books had post-it notes on them: one said Thought you'd like this and the other Want your opinion. I set them aside, however, and picked up the book Lucas had requested, Ancient Games. It could use a good airing, and there's a certain guilty pleasure in reading books that someone else bought.

It didn't seem like anything special. Another book about myths and superstitions, probably inaccurate considering the date on the imprint was 1944. The art inside was good, though, only slightly faded color plates of Egyptian tomb frescoes of hunters, black-and-white photographs of old mosaics (opus vermiculatum, very delicate work) depicting mock battles, and Roman paintings of women playing some kind of ball game. I could see why an artist would be attracted to them – even if he'd said he wasn't an artist, hands don't lie.

The chapters were divided with scholarly neatness: games for play and games in earnest, one on witchcraft and one on "charms". I turned to "games in earnest", but it still seemed vaguely silly to me, the idea of reading serious mythological consequence into dead games. Of course you learn a lot from the games a culture plays, but only about the culture itself. If there is a hidden world beyond ours, old myths and games and playacting are not the likely key to it.

At least, that was what I thought before the winter came.

Chapter FOUR

Most of the roads were still flooded when our mail made it through, and the walk out to The Pines that day would have been truly dangerous – there was slippery mud and the possibility of sinkholes, and even a little quicksand wasn't unknown in the wilder flatlands around Low Ferry. I wanted to walk out and deliver Lucas's book personally, but I decided to give it a day first. If the sun stayed out, the road would probably be safe, if not enjoyable, by the following day.

The boy came by that afternoon and confirmed my suspicions. He'd tried to make it out to The Pines for his tutoring, and turned back when the water got over the axles of his bicycle wheels.

"Why're you going there, anyway?" the boy asked, popping gum and leaning on my counter. I held out a tissue and he rolled his eyes and spat into it.

"Lucas ordered a book, and it arrived with the mail. I hadn't seen him in a while," I said, tossing the gum out.

"Yeah, he's been stuck up there. Phone must have gone out too."

"Oh?" I asked.

"Well, I called to see what he wanted me to study because I missed tutoring, and it just kept ringing," he said. "What's the book?"

"You'll have to ask him that, it's his business."

"Maybe he'll show me if I show him all the stuff I've done," he continued. "Got an A on my history paper."

"Oh yeah? Good for you. I'm sure he'll be pleased," I said, and the boy beamed. "You buying, or just kibitzing?"

"What's that?"

"Making small talk."

"Kibitzing," he said, testing the word out, then grinned at me as he shouldered his backpack. "Thanks. I gotta go."

I spent that night restless, to be honest. In storm country you learn not to fret when someone's telephone has died or they are otherwise not where they ought to be, but most of the time you also know that they've survived other storms. Lucas, as far as I knew, might never have seen a field of unplowed snow before coming to Low Ferry. Living out in the wilds, with a disconnected phone and no car, no understanding of the need to run his taps to keep the pipes from bursting or knock the icicles off the eaves to keep them from falling around his ears, he was not necessarily safe.

I woke early, not that I'd slept very soundly to begin with – it was more that I finally gave up, around six in the morning, on getting back to sleep. I washed and made myself some breakfast, keeping one eye on the clock; if I was efficient and the roads were safe, I could be at The Pines at a reasonable hour.

After I ate, I sorted out the paperwork from Marjorie, stapling the receipts together and tucking them inside the book next to a flattened bay leaf. After a second's consideration, I wrapped up the book in brown paper and tied it with twine.

Book and papers securely tucked in my backpack, I let myself out the back of the store and smiled cheerfully in the cold. There might be snow on the walk home. I liked a walk in winter, with the air sharp and the snow crunching under my boots.

It was easy enough going, as long as I stayed on the pavement or the asphalt. Once I reached the dirt road out to The Pines I stuck to the edges, where the ground was firmer and the raised ridges kept me out of puddles that would be dangerous ice by nightfall.

I didn't stray into the field itself, however, until the cottage's kitchen door was well in sight and the road would have forced me around the hill before I reached the house. Spattered with mud to mid-calf, my boots crusted and my spirits high, I knocked on the door in the optimistic hope that there would be hot chocolate and a warm kitchen awaiting me. There was no reply. I tried the door, but it was locked.

It was past time most people would be awake, though he could have been sleeping. Still, I wanted to be sure before I tried the front door or had to walk back with the book still in my bag. I knocked again, and this time I heard a faint yell from elsewhere in the house. I waited while the lock clicked back in its mount and the door opened.

"Jesus," I said, "Did you die or something?"

Lucas smiled tiredly at me and rubbed his raw, chafed nose with the sharp angle of his wrist. "I know," he said. "Come in."

I used the door-jamb to knock the worst of the mud off my boots and left them on a mat inside.

"Try the living room – there's a fire," he said, gesturing to the tightly-shut door as he lit a burner on the stove.

"Is there a reason your kitchen is subzero?" I asked, taking the bag off my shoulder. Lucas picked up a carton of milk sitting on the windowsill and poured some into a pan, setting it on the burner.

"Power's out, heater's not working," he answered. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes. "It's all right – the living room's small and the fireplace puts out enough heat."

"Your heater's gas," I replied. "They all are in this part of the country. If your stove works, your heater should."

"Try it for yourself. It doesn't," he said, waving his hand at the metal grate set into the kitchen wall. I pulled the grate away and examined the mechanism.

"That's because your pilot light's out."

"Is that why?" he asked, intrigued. The look I gave him was probably more pity at his clear lack of common sense than anything else. He frowned. "I didn't know. I was going to ask next time I was in town. I've been sick, that's all."

"Yes, so I see," I answered. His skin was an unhealthy gray, eyes red-rimmed and nose a mass of chapped, irritated cracks. He coughed. "How long has your heat been out?"

"Only two days," he answered.

"And the power too? I'll have to look at your breaker next," I muttered.

"My what?"

"You'd better give me those matches," I said, holding out my hand for them. It didn't take long to re-light the pilot, though I was nervous about blowing something up the entire time. With a whoosh, the heater roared to life. Warmth poured into the chilly room from two vents in the floor, and I replaced the grating.

"That ought to take care of the rest of the house," I said, locating a small metal door in the opposite wall, the access hatch to the circuit box. When I opened the door, three of the switches were in the wrong position. I flipped them and the kitchen lights went on.

"That's all that was wrong? Those great big light switches?" he asked.

"Haven't you overloaded a circuit before?" I said. "You plug one thing in and the power goes out to the whole room?"

"No," he replied, looking vaguely guilty.

"Well, now you know," I said.

"Does one of those switches control the phone too?"

"No – your line's probably down, that's just bad luck," I replied. "I should have come to see you earlier – I knew you'd need help out here alone."

"Oh, is that why you're here?" he asked, and I realized that I had barged in without explaining why I was there in the first place. "I didn't realize there was so much involved in just keeping the power on."

"Actually, I came to bring you the book you ordered," I said, a little embarrassed. "You know how to shingle a roof but not how to work a circuit box?"

"The home-repair book didn't cover that," he said. "Or, well, it probably does, but I didn't think to look. It's in my desk somewhere."

The milk was beginning to steam in the pan. I washed my hands in frigid tap-water and shed my coat while he made the hot chocolate.

"What on earth were you doing that you blew out three circuit-breakers and your pilot light?" I asked.

"Come into the living room," he said, carrying the mugs. "It's warmer in there."

"Fine, but I'm still curious," I answered. I picked up my backpack and held the door, gesturing for him to go first since his hands were full. That was why, the first time I saw his workshop, it was with Lucas standing in the middle of it. His back was to me as he set one of the mugs down on a bare space on one table.

There was a bed in the corner, probably moved there when the heat went out. Next to the bed stood a grandfather clock that had, like most of the furniture, come with the house. A desk sat under one of the windows, the only one that wasn't covered with heavy drapes to keep the cold out. On the desk was the window-box from the kitchen, the sprouts looking weedy but still alive.

The sofa had been pushed back against a wall, and two wing-chairs as well. They'd been moved to make room for the tables – a long workbench on rickety sawhorses, several small round end-tables, probably brought in from all over the house, and two folding card tables draped with drop-cloths. None of this was what struck me silent, though.

Jumbled on the bookshelves, piled on one chair, laying around on the tables and hanging from long ropes hooked over the ceiling beams were dozens of masks. Enormous beaked bird-faces, small beaded half-masks on sticks, pale ovals covered with ribbons, garish children's masks shaped like animals and monsters. Incomplete versions sat on molds on the workbenches or in puddles of dried paint on the smaller tables. Blocks of clay, piles of rag fabric, cases of plaster-powder and heaps of ribbon sat in piles amid bottles of paint and glue. The fire, flickering in the hearth, threw shadows on the walls and made the nearest ones look as if they were subtly alive.

Lucas, who hadn't turned around, reached out and switched on a lamp, which killed the shadows. He blew out a pair of fat candles burning on one table, then three more on the desk.

"At least if the power actually goes out, I'll know what to do," I heard him say, but I was still looking at the masks. Lucas turned to see why I was silent and gave a scratchy, hoarse laugh.

"It sometimes takes people that way," he said. "I should have warned you. I forgot you hadn't seen my workshop yet."

"Did you make all of these?" I asked.

"Most. A few are models I bought."

"You said you weren't an artist," I said, still distracted. He reached up to a cluster of masks tied to a rope and untied one, offering it to me to examine.

"I'm not, really," he said. "More like...a blacksmith, in my own way. I make tools."

"Tools for what?" I asked, stroking the silk ribbon tied through a hole punched in stiff painted leather. The face that looked up at me was narrow and studious, with high cheekbones and a thin nose. Perched on the nose were false glasses made from thin copper wire.

"Dottore," he said, pointing at the mask. "It's Italian. The educated fool."

I grinned and held it up to my face. He took it out of my hands before I could fit it over my nose completely. I picked up another one, a wide-mouthed, smiling face.

"Is this how you make your living?" I asked.

"It isn't really a living," he said, looking down at Dottore. "I had a job in the city. I used to sell the masks before I came here, but just to keep them from piling up. It wasn't a career or anything."

"They seem to have started piling," I said. He coughed into his sleeve before replying.

"Yes," he answered, looking up and away at a cluster of masks hanging on another rope, all of which looked very similar – snoutish black grotesques decorated in a variety of ways, some made of what looked like painted leather, some made of velvet or stiffened paper on wire frames. "But I don't think Low Ferry is really the place to sell masks, do you?"

"Halloween is nearly here."

He nodded absently.

"They're wonderful," I continued, looking around. "You have real skill. How long have you been making them?"

"Since I was fifteen," he said. He sat on the bed and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, watching me. "Most people find them frightening. The first time the boy came out to the cottage he looked in here and then hid in the bathroom. He thought they were looking at him. He still won't study in here."

"Well, children, you know. Still enjoying tutoring?" I asked.

"I suppose. He isn't interested in history, not the kind he's being taught, but he doesn't like me to disapprove of him, so he studies. Sometimes he's frustrating, but...I think he likes me."

"He talks to me about you."

"Does he?" Lucas looked pleased.

"He says you think differently than his schoolteachers do."

"Oh." His look of pleasure vanished. "I don't want to cause trouble with his teachers."

"I doubt you will. They have a whole herd of children to care about. He doesn't seem the type to inspire a rebellion. Besides, this is still civilization. We don't burn people at the stake for having new ideas."

"Really? Seems like that's exactly where people do that," he said. "But it doesn't matter. The one you're holding..." he said, indicating the mask in my hands. "I'm calling him Socrates. He's not finished yet. I'm waiting for the plants to finish growing."

I looked over at the window box. "The plants?" I asked, setting Socrates down and walking to the window. The green stalks swayed gently.

"Please don't – they're poisonous," he said, as I reached out to touch one. "It's hemlock. Most people mistake it for parsley."

"Ah," I said, looking back at Socrates. The real Socrates had been executed by the state, ordered to drink a cup of brewed hemlock. "Yes, I see."

"I thought I'd decorate him with it. It's interesting to try growing it, anyway."

I opened my mouth to ask him if these masks were why he wanted the book, and then I caught sight of the ceiling.

"How the hell did you do that?" I asked, looking up at a charred spot in the plaster about three feet wide, spreading across one of the beams as well.

"I..." he glanced up. "Little accident. I thought when I was feeling better I'd replaster it. Plaster, I'm good with," he said, gesturing at the worktables. "You said you brought my book?" he added, stuttering a little over the words.

"Here," I said, setting my backpack down in a clear space on one table and digging out the package. "A friend of mine in the city found it."

"Wrapped and everything," he said with a smile, picking at the twine. "You didn't have to come all the way out here."

"The boy said your telephone was dead, and you're not used to living in these conditions – it's just as well I did," I answered, rubbing the back of my head and looking up at the dark spot on the ceiling. "At least now you'll know how to fix a flipped circuit."

He looked embarrassed and my own scorn made me uncomfortable. I picked up another mask, toying with the beaded decoration around the edge as Lucas eagerly opened his book. He took out one of the bay leaves Marjorie had stuffed it with, brow furrowing.

"Amazing she's stayed in business, smoking around the books like that," I said casually.

"Yeah, I think she bleaches her teeth too – " he stopped mid-speech and looked up at me.

"I assume that her reluctance to sell to an artist is your fault," I continued. "I told her I was a roofer. What a roofer would want with a book on classical history I couldn't say, but she swallowed it all right."

He was quiet for a while. I wasn't sure what I even wanted. Not a confession or an apology, certainly. Acknowledgment, maybe. I don't know.

"She wouldn't sell to me. She thinks it's a dangerous book," he said finally. "I wish I'd just stolen the copy from the library."

"Why didn't you?"

"Didn't want to go back into the city, and stealing from libraries is pathetic." He snuffled and turned his head to cough, away from the book.

"You knew I'd find her copy."

"I thought so. I offered her twice what it's worth, she still wouldn't sell." He put the bay leaf back and closed the book, pressing his hand flat over the cover.

"It's not exactly top-secret," I said. "I don't see how it could be dangerous."

"No, of course not. Maybe she just didn't like the look of my face. I'm sorry I lied," he said. "What do I owe you? I – I won't bother trying to buy your respect, but you should have something above the price and postage. You dragged up here through the mud and fixed my home."

"We don't charge extra for delivery," I said with a small grin. "It's all right, really, Lucas. You wanted the book, she wouldn't sell it to you. I know how it is when you want a book you can't get."

"Well, I'm still sorry."

"Lucas, really," I said, and he looked up at me again. There was a little color coming into his cheeks from the heat of the fire. "It's fine."

He seemed to consider, then nodded. Probably didn't want to press his luck, now that he had his book.

"Do you want lunch, at least?" he asked. "The kitchen'll be warm enough to cook in, pretty soon."

"What've you been doing in the meantime, roasting things over the fire?"

"Haven't been very hungry, but that's a pretty good idea. I've never had a fireplace before."

"Really?" I asked. "Never?"

He shrugged, tucking his knees up against his chest so he could wrap the corners of the blanket around his feet. "Always lived in apartments. Central heating. Super took care of...the big light switches and stuff."

"Circuit breakers."

"Those."

"You got the fire going, though."

"The boy sold me some starter-logs when I bought the wood."