The sign said RUST and it was rusty. Ahead was a bridge that was also rusty and looked about a hundred years old. Bilal wondered if the rusty sign was a warning about the rusty old bridge. It was a drawbridge, he noticed; there were two towers, one at each end, with huge iron wheels on top, and the whole center section was raised by cables. On the nearest tower, just above where the road went through, a traffic light was glowing green. Bilal supposed it would change to red when the bridge was being opened, and a wooden bar would probably close, maybe like a railroad crossing.

If the rusty sign was a warning, the driver didn't seem to care; the bus rolled on without slowing down. Another sign said STEEL DECK. Another said TRAFFIC STOP HERE. A fourth rusty sign on the nearest tower said something about 14 DAYS. The deck was made of steel mesh so the bus almost seemed to be driving on air. The water below was sun-shimmered green like a jungle lagoon in a swamp-creature movie. Bilal thought of something he'd read in a book... burning your bridges behind you. He supposed it meant that, if you did, you could never go home again. The bus had crossed a lot of bridges since pulling out of Oakland, bridges big and bridges small, bridges high and bridges low, but now, by crossing this rusty old bridge, a bridge of mostly empty space, a bridge that could open and cut off the road, it seemed like a bond had been broken somehow between his old life and what lay ahead.

The bus rumbled under the second tower and slowed to enter a tiny town. It had had already stopped in a dozen such towns since wandering into a mostly flat land of big open fields and small groves of trees under empty blue sky and a hot yellow sun. The towns had mostly looked shabby and old, like parts of West Oakland scattered around by the monster tornado from Oz, though here and there were new Quick-Marts, a modern gas station and sometimes McDonalds. But this town had none of those things. The biggest building was made of brick and might have once been a saloon or hotel back in the day when people rode horses. Now it was the Channel Market. Next door was an old-fashioned gas station with a rusty sign that said Flying Horse. There was also a hardware and tractor supply, a little cafe called The Hungry Catfish, a tiny post office that looked like a jail, and a few other stores that were closed or abandoned with boards nailed over their windows.

Bilal smiled at Devon's picture, then shut down and cased the computer. The bus came to a stop with a whisper of brakes near the high front porch of the Channel Market. A small rusty sign had the Greyhound graphic. "Rust," said the driver's voice through speakers. Like in the other little towns he didn't shut off the engine. Bilal shouldered his pack and tugged up his jeans. The driver was a big black man who looked like he'd seen everything twice and didn't want to see it again, but now he looked up as Bilal walked by.

"Runnin' away from somethin', son?"

"Huh?" said Bilal. "...No. My cousin lives here."

The driver's face was carefully kind. "Y'all sure, son? If this is as far as you could afford, I can take you on to Sacramento. Our church has a shelter."

"...Oh," said Bilal. "Thanks. But I really do got a cousin here."

"Well, enjoy your stay," said the man. He chuckled and added, "An' thanks for goin' Greyhound."

Bilal paused in the doorway, looking out at the town. The air was hot and dry. It smelled like weeds in a vacant lot with a hint of swampy water. A car and a pickup were at the cafe, but there were no people in sight. "Is there another bus today?"

"Back to Oaktown?" asked the driver. "Comes though about seven-thirty. ...Sure you don't wanna checkout our shelter?"

"I'm cool," said Bilal. "But thanks."

Bilal stepped down to hot asphalt, broken and buckled by patches of weeds. The bus's door closed behind him. The engine wound up and the bus rolled away, leaving a cloud of diesel smoke that hung in the sweltering air. Bilal watched until the bus disappeared up the shimmering ribbon of road. Its engine sound faded and left only silence. Bilal had never heard nothing before: even at three in the morning there were semi-trucks on the 880 freeway, the rumble of trains, a siren's scream, and almost always gunshots. He realized he was standing, stupidly in a parking lot, and probably looked like a runaway kid. There was a bench on the market's front porch. He climbed stone steps to sit in the shade and pull out his cousin's address... 13 Channel Road. That couldn't be far in a town this small. He glanced at the tiny post office: this place was lucky to have a zip code. He thought about buying a Coke in the store and maybe something to eat, but he only had twenty dollars.

An elderly man came out of the store. He was white and carried a broom. Bilal had a stupid thought; the man would chase him off with the broom! But the man only smiled.

"Need any help?"

"...Um," said Bilal. "I'm lookin' for Channel Road."

The man aimed his broom at the rusty drawbridge. "Right back there, this side of the channel. Goes east two miles past the cemetery, then dead-ends at the Wainwright farm. ...Used to be the Wainwright farm, till they sold out to the Japanese like most of the other small farms. ...Guess they won the war after all but I still won't buy a Toyota!" He shifted his broom. "Goin' west is the church. Saint Thaddeus." He broke into a cackle. "All the kids call it Saint Toads. ...School after that. Nearly a mile. Then the Moonview. Mostly big farms after that. Till you get down to Saunders Ferry." His wrinkled face turned sour. "Got a Wal-Mart there. 'Bout put this town in the graveyard!" He aimed his broom across the street at several boarded-up buildings. "Mason's Variety went first, then Kelly's Shoes an' Benson's Rexall. Smith's Hardware will probably go next. ...Barely hangin' on myself." He paused to spit off the porch. "If Wal-Mart is 'American,' then so are all them moose-lems!"

"...Oh," said Bilal. He wondered what the "moonview" was. He almost asked about his cousin -- there probably weren't many black people here -- but Akeem had warned him to stay on the low. "Thanks," he said. "Thank you, sir."

The man looked curious, like he wanted to ask a million questions. But then a phone rang in the store, the old-fashioned kind with a bell. Bilal waited until the man went inside, then tugged up his pack and walked toward the bridge. Maybe he should go to the school? His cousin would probably be there, and he had to register anyway.

Bilal was in pretty good shape he supposed, despite doing nothing about it, but he'd never walked very far in his life -- that's what busses and BART were for -- especially under a searing sun and without any breakfast or lunch. Like the man had said, Channel Road followed the slow green river. Or was it a channel? The highway hugged the other side but there wasn't much traffic on either road; a few big trucks and old pickups, along with a dusty car or two. His shirt was growing wet with sweat as he trudged along the weedy shoulder. He saw a big brown snake in the grass. It didn't rattle or hiss at him, but he made a wide detour around it. He passed a weathered wooden church with a rusty bell in its tower. He remembered an H.P. Lovecraft poem... "Beware the cracked chimes of Saint Toads." A sign announced a pancake breakfast after Sunday service. Thinking of pancakes with butter and syrup made his stomach growl. He wished he'd bought a Coke at the store, and a candy bar to go with it. Again, he noticed how quiet it was. The sun was hot, the sky was clear, and the only sounds were the few trucks and cars on the other side of the channel.

Up ahead was an old burger joint across the road on the riverbank. Bilal had seen a lot of them as the bus had rolled along. Some, like those in West Oakland, had once been Foster Freezes or A & W Root Beers, but McDees, The King, and Jack In The Box had put them in the graveyard. This place was called The Burger Barge but might have been a Tastee Freeze a million years ago. The building was made of cinderblocks, faded white and peeling paint. A rusty awning shaded the front, and there were a dozen wooden tables along with an ancient jukebox. The sign on a pole by the road was faded, but showed a barge with a giant cheeseburger. A puffing tugboat towed the barge and looked like Little Toot. Bilal first thought the place was closed, abandoned like the stores in town, but then he caught the scent of fries. Around the building were flowerbeds, and in the rear windows were curtains. In the riverbank reeds was a short wooden dock and a little boat with an outboard motor.

Bilal's stomach rumbled again as his nose was haunted by spirits of cheese and lingering ghosts of sizzling meat, but then he saw the school ahead. He should probably take care of business first and then come back for a burger.

The school looked like an old factory, two shabby stories of rust-colored brick, and stood in a weedy yellow field surrounded by a chain-link fence. On its roof was a tall iron smoke stack, maybe for an incinerator but adding to the factory look as if something was manufactured there instead of educated. Rusty earthquake-proofing bolts stuck out of the second-story walls, bleeding orange down the crumbling bricks and seemed to be holding the place together. Beside the building were two weathered courts with rusted poles and netless hoops. Behind was a dusty baseball diamond, a wooden backstop and rickety bleachers. A faded scoreboard across the field displayed the face of a snarling raccoon. RUST RACCOONS was painted above, and the mascot's name was, naturally, Rusty.

Boys were playing flag football while a beer-bellied coach yelled curses at them. The boys were maybe sixth-graders, one team shirts, the other skins, and all pouring sweat in the blazing sun. Their shirts were the color of old life-jackets, their shorts as green as the grass should have been... Freddie Krueger colors. Several boys were coppery brown, two long-haired like Indian dudes, but no one seemed to be black. A few were chubby or fat, including both the Indians who looked like shirtless girls. Two mega-fat boys were ambling laps around a dusty track, the only dudes besides the coach who weren't all shiny with sweat. A girl's class played on a basketball court with a coach who looked like a woman truck driver and sounded about the same. The girls were white or brown like the boys. Except for the P.E. classes, a line of battered bikes in a rack, and pickups and cars in a dirt parking lot, the school looked as dead as the town.

Bilal came up the cracked sidewalk, the underarms of his T-shirt soaked and trickles of sweat on his face. Chiseled in brick above the doors was THEODORE RUST MEMORIAL SCHOOL, 1923. That seemed to explain the name of the town and everything rusty about it. The iron door handles were half worn away from being grasped by a million small hands, and the hinges made a Munsters sound. It was hotter inside than out in the sun. There was no guard or metal detector. The air smelled of dust, old wood, and kid sweat. A hall ran the length of the building, and sun glared in through open back doors. The hall was higher than it was wide; its walls were painted a nasty green like demon puke in The Exorcist. It was lined with rows of lockers, olive-green like Army Jeeps. The classroom door windows had wire in the glass, their numbers old-fashioned and painted in gold. Dusty light fixtures the color of milk dangled on chains from the ceiling, but none were on and the hall was dark except for the patch of sun at the end. To the right was a three-faucet drinking fountain, chipped, yellowed, and streaked with rust. To the left was a staircase, its treads worn in hollows. The floor was gray linoleum, also worn in traffic lanes. Beyond the stairs were vending machines with candy bars, chips, cookies and Coke... the newest-looking things in the house. The usual stuff was tacked to the walls; drawings in crayon and waterpaint, most with Halloween themes, and anti-alcohol, drug, tobacco, gang, and obesity warnings. There were two posters for DARE. McGruff advised, "Take A Bite Out Of Crime." A skinny cartoon kid was telling a fat one, "It's Cool To Be A Loser." There was another poster of a stereotypical cartoon bully, a big blubber-boy with a pit-bullish face. His belly hung out of a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front, but his arms were around two smaller boys as if they were homies in Leave It To Beaver. STOP SCHOOL BULLYING was printed above, but didn't explain how that could be done.

Bilal considered the Coke machine but went to the drinking fountain instead. The water was warm and tasted like tin but at least it was wet and capped his thirst. He splashed a little on his face and dried it with his shirt. Up the hall a little way was a sign on chains that said OFFICE. From behind closed doors came the murmur of kids and the sleepy drone of teachers. Bilal wondered if anyone else was black besides himself and his cousin, but the classroom windows were frosty white so he couldn't see inside. The only other sound was a clatter of computer keys that came from the open office door. He stopped by a case of trophys. All were tarnished and dusty, many were shrouded with spiderwebs. The newest was from a baseball game in 1995. If it was cool to be a loser, the Rust Raccoons were freezerburn.

He wondered if he should wait and register on Monday; meet his cousin, check out his new crib. But that would mean walking back through town and trying to find his cousin's house; and what if nobody was home? Plus, there was the gun in his pack: it didn't seem cool to be cruising around, young, black, and toting steel. He tugged up his pack and walked into the office.

The ceiling was high like the hallway, and milk-white fixtures dangled from chains. A fat pink woman who might have been fifty sat behind an Army-green desk that matched a row of file cabinets. Her computer was an ancient Mac, its keyboard as yellow as zombie teeth. A sign on the desk said Mrs. Wicket. A black iron fan rattled papers but didn't make anything cooler. The woman peered up over steel half-glasses, and the look on her face, mostly surprise, seemed to confirm Bilal's suspicion that black kids were as rare in rust as white kids in West Oakland. She probably would have looked annoyed, bothered by any other kid, but seemed a little uncertain. Her eyes flicked to a purse on her desk.

"...Yes?"

"Um," said Bilal, and tried Devon's smile. "I need to register. For eighth grade."

The woman looked surprised again, but then recovered and frowned. "You can't register yourself. Your parents or guardian have to do it."

Bilal pulled out the envelope. "I'm supposed to give this to the principal."

The woman gave him a curious look, realized that, morphed back to a frown, then glanced at a door behind her. PRINCIPAL was painted in gold across its frosted window. "Give it to me. ...Sit down over there." She pointed to a wooden bench where a million little squirming butts had probably waited for punishment. The woman took the envelope as if it might be anthrax. She got to her feet, hesitated, then put her purse in a drawer. Then she knocked on the principal's door, waited a moment and finally went in, leaving it open a little. Bilal glanced up at a fly-specked clock. It was almost three and he was starving. He should have stopped at the burger joint. More posters hung on the nasty green walls, mostly the same as in the hall, including the bully and friends. He noticed a faded painting of a big fat man in an old-fashioned suit who looked like Uncle Fester. On the picture frame was a tarnished tag: Theodore Worthington Rust. A minute later the woman returned, looking more curious than before. "Go in," she said.

The principal's office was even hotter, demon-puke green with a dangling light and reeking of old cigarette smoke. Another antique iron fan rattled papers like dry autumn leaves. Two tall windows were open, the sunlight filtered through rust-colored shades. From outside came the squeals of girls and the roars of the coach cursing boys. A bony white man who looked like the preacher in Poltergeist II, or maybe Cripty The Keeper, sat behind another green desk. His face was skullish with long gleaming teeth behind lips that didn't seem able to close. His white dress shirt looked old and yellowed like something dug up from a grave, or maybe it was only the light. He was tightening his tie as Bilal came in, his hands like twitching corpse's claws. On his desk was a butt-filled ashtray, and a haze of smoke still hung in the air despite the rattling fan. He studied Bilal from deep-set eyes that looked like empty holes. It was hard for a skull to look curious -- or much of anything else -- but this one didn't look happy. The bony hands gripped Bilal's letter, open on the desktop. A hollow voice said, "Close the door, Mr. Graves." A long finger pointed. "Please sit down. My name is Mr. Craw."

"Hi." Bilal shut the door behind him, glimpsing the woman, who looked disappointed. Then he sat down on a hard wooden chair that seemed to resent his ass.

Mr. Craw scanned the letter, then cleared his throat with a death-rattle sound. "I've already gotten a letter from the principal of your former school. He said you've been a good student." The empty eye-sockets studied Bilal as if trying to X-ray his oversize shirt. "Though your grades in physical-fitness leave a lot to be desired. I would have thought you were overweight. Still, I'm impressed by your other grades, though your school may have lower standards." He looked a little uncomfortable... pretty hard for a skull to do. "You've been in trouble with the law?"

"No, sir," said Bilal. "I got in trouble because of the law." He smiled like Devon again. "I tried to take a bite out of crime, but it bit me back."

The skull didn't smile in return. "I hope you don't have an attitude problem."

"I'm hopin' to go to college."

"...Good," said the man. "Then you realize the importance of studying hard and applying yourself. ...And staying of out trouble."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Craw opened a drawer and took out another letter. This had several pages, along with various forms. He ruffled through them, reading quickly. "Your transfer seems in order, although this is unusual. At least in this school district. We don't have these kinds of... problems here. And we certainly don't want them."

"I didn't want 'em myself," said Bilal.

The skull seemed to listen for attitude, then maybe decide it hadn't heard any. "Your principal didn't go into detail about the nature of your... problem... but I understand the police were involved?"

"Yes, sir," said Bilal. "But I'm not supposed to talk about it. I guess you could call OPD."

"Who?" asked Mr. Craw.

"Oakland Police Department."

"I have." The skull looked annoyed. "They weren't very helpful. But I assume it's for your safety." The skull looked uncomfortable again. "You're a Muslim?" he asked, pronouncing it moose-lem.

"Sorta," said Bilal.

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Craw.

"...Well..." Bilal said carefully. "Are you a Christian, sir?"

The skull pondered that for a moment. "I don’t attend church, but I do believe in a... higher power. But I thought your religion was... a bit more strict."

Bilal smiled. "Like, 'Anyone who works on the sabbath day must be put to death'?"

The skull looked startled. "Is that in the Koran?"

"The Bible."

"...I may see your point," said Mr. Craw. "But, your religion has nothing to do with... your problem?"

"No," said Bilal. "Unless it was tryin' to do the right thing."

Mr. Craw looked past Bilal, where a shadow had darkened the door's frosted glass. He flicked a switch on an old intercom that looked like something from Frankenstein's lab. "Mrs. Wicket? Will you get me a cup of coffee, please?" He waited until the woman replied, then faced Bilal again. "By state and federal regulations we shouldn't be talking about religion. If you'd rather not I understand."

"That's coo... okay," said Bilal.

"Good. But this is a small rural school in a small and rural community where people generally get along. As you may have noticed it's mostly white, though many farm workers are Hispanic. There is also a small reservation of Native-American families. I'm not prejudiced, Mr. Graves -- of religion or of race -- and I want you to know you can trust me." He put both letters in a drawer and locked it with a small brass key, which seemed a bit dramatic. "I don't want to know what your problem was. And no one else here will know, either." He looked uncomfortable again. "And, no one has to know..." He cleared his throat. "Not that I'm suggesting..." The skull looked very unhappy now. "You don't openly practice... er, Muslimism?"

"No," said Bilal. "Which makes my grandfather sad."

The skull looked relieved. "My mother was religious. ...Not fanatical, of course. But she may have felt like your grandfather does when I stopped attending church in my teens."

"I think I understand," said Bilal.

"Your last name doesn't sound... er..."

"Islamic?" said Bilal. "My dad's name was Taimur. That's Sudanese. But he got killed in Iraq. ...On our side."

"Oh," said Mr. Craw. "I'm sorry."

Bilal shrugged. "I was only five. My mom got married again. Two years later. I could have kept my real dad's name. They axed me if I wanted to, but my new dad was cool."

"I see," said Mr. Craw. "But, Mr. Graves was also a Muslim?"

"No, but he respected my mom, an' what she believed."

"So, you were raised a Muslim?"

"Sorta," said Bilal. "But not fanatic or nothin'."

"And your grandfather?" asked Mr. Craw.

"He never tried to shove it on me."

"Are you... questioning?" asked Mr. Craw.

"I guess I am," said Bilal. "But a lot of other things, too."

"That's perfectly normal at your age. ...But, you don't object to Christmas? We have a tree, and a manger scene."

Bilal smiled. "I always gave my best friend a present, just like he always gave me one."

"He was a Christian?" asked Mr. Craw.

"He was... just a good dude." Bilal shrugged. "That kind of stuff makes people happy. Only a hater would hate it."

"That's true," said Mr. Craw. "And I'm very happy to hear it. But, religious beliefs aside, you're our first African-American student. And that, of course, is obvious."

Now it was Bilal who looked startled. He almost asked about his cousin... but maybe it was best to stay cool?

"As I said," Mr. Craw went on, "I'm not in the least prejudiced. But neither am I a Pollyanna. ...Do you know what that means?"

"Um," said Bilal. "Somebody who thinks, like, the world is all cool an' everybody's basically good?"

"Good, Mr. Graves." The skull almost smiled, though Bilal was glad it didn't. "I doubt if many students here would know the definition." Mr. Craw frowned as the boys' coach yelled, "Move it, you fat little blanket-ass!" ...Whatever that meant. Then he studied Bilal again. "You seem like an intelligent young man, so I won't put a candy coating on this. Problems often follow your people. ...African-Americans, I mean." Mr. Craw rose and went to the windows, his thin shape stark against the sun as he raised a shade and looked out. "Rust may not be a pretty town, at least aesthetically. ...Do you know what that means?"

"How it looks?" asked Bilal, thinking about candy and wishing he'd bought some.

"Good," said Mr. Craw. "But, while we have a few minor problems... underage drinking, a bit of weed... there is no gang violence or crack in this school. Many people in town still don't lock their doors, and the last major crime was a burglary in 1997. ...The thief was apprehended by our deputy sheriff. The people here may seem a bit slow compared to those you're used to... maybe not very 'hip' or 'down with what's up'... but they all have eyes in their heads, and they notice anything different. ...Such as drugs or crime." He dropped the shade and faced Bilal. "Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," said Mr. Craw, returning to his desk. "I'll have Mrs. Wicket type your schedule and give you a copy of our rules." He scanned Bilal's jeans. "Which include a dress code... no looser or lower than that."

"Yes, sir."

"No graphic T-shirts with violent, obscene, or suggestive motifs, including drugs or alcohol."

"Yes, sir."

"Graffiti is an instant suspension."

"Yes, sir."

"No wireless phones on campus."

"Yes, sir."

"The standard lunch is three dollars a day, though assistance is available."

"That's coo... okay," said Bilal.

"We... sometimes serve pork, or pork by-products."

"That's okay," said Bilal.

"Good. And there are vending machines in the hall. This is a closed campus." Mr. Craw smiled like a nightmare. "No sneaking out to the Burger Barge... but the Tugboat Triple 'rocks'."

"Yes, sir."

In the distance, down the road, a hoarse iron bell rang three times. Beware the cracked chimes of Saint Toad's, thought Bilal.

Mr. Craw glanced at his Timex. "Since we're halfway through last period, it might be more convenient for you to start on Monday."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, Mr. Graves." The man extended a grisly hand. "Welcome to Theodore Rust Memorial."

Bilal took the hand, which felt like bones in a paper towel. "Thank you, sir."

"By the way," said Mr. Craw as Bilal turned to leave. "I'm sure Coach Swaggart would welcome you on our basketball team."

"I'm not very good at sports," said Bilal.

The skull looked disappointed.

Also choose words that fit the context of your story as well as the POV. In the example above, 13-year-old Bilal is basically telling the story so he can't use words and descriptions that most boys his age wouldn't use. Likewise, you, the narrator, shouldn't use words that don't fit. Bilal would more likely "piss" in the weeds by the side of the road than "urinate."

Don't use "big words" unless you understand what they mean, know how to use them properly, and are sure they fit the context of your story. For example, Bilal would be a lot more likely to "check a cool ride" than to "examine an expensive automobile." Likewise, he'd probably "think about scoring a forty," rather than "cogitate upon the purchase of a malt beverage."

Never use big words just to prove you know them. Your readers aren't interested in you, they're interested in the story.

Below is a chapter from one of my novels, When All Goes Bright. This might give you a few more examples of the things we've talked about: the POV is Nicole's stream-of consciousness; there are descriptions, dialog, and hopefully the right words to give the reader the feel I wanted to give. This may also illustrate how the mood and pace of a story can be changed by a sudden shift from long descriptive sentences to short action sentences...

"It looks like Thomas The Tank Engine, mom."

Nicole regarded the ancient train, which was clearly of antique British design. In the U.S. it might have been put on display in a children's park or a railroad museum, but here it stood panting, sweating and leaking, presumably going somewhere. Behind the engine were six flatcars. Two carried lengths of iron pipe, possibly for a water project. That, at least, seemed hopeful for a primitive African country. Three other cars were loaded with lumber, sacks of cement and building supplies -- wheelbarrows, shovels, picks and hoes -- which also suggested progress. The sixth flatcar held steel drums that were probably filled with diesel fuel, gasoline or motor oil... all had flammable warnings. Last in line was a passenger car, another shabby Victorian relic without any glass in its windows. It didn't seem especially safe behind the flammable liquids, but maybe the fuel or oil was safer away from the spark-throwing engine.

Zack had been checking the locomotive: all young boys liked trains. The thing looked about to explode any moment, a hissing, spurting, tea-kettle on wheels; but neither the engineer or the fireman -- sooty, soot-colored, shirtless men -- seemed concerned about the leaks as they lubricated various things with long-nosed copper oil cans. Resisting the urge to pull Zack away, Nicole lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Like you said the other day, they don't have all the new things we do. But they take good care of their old things, which is something that most Americans don't."

"Like, they recycle better than us?"

Nicole glanced again at the panting relic. "That's a good way of putting it. ...Maybe we should get on board." She gently took his chubby hand and led him away from the dangerous engine. "This is the only train for a week so we wouldn't want to miss it."

"Yeah," said Zack, who was holding a Coke he'd bought from a station machine. As always, his jeans were about to fall off, their tumble of cuffs dragging over his feet and hiding all but the toes of his boots. White didn't stay white very long in the bush, and today he was wearing a tan T-shirt and one of the khaki boonie hats that Nicole had brought for the trip. Nicole was wearing the other hat, along with the practical shirt and skirt she had worn on their Hillbrow safari. Zack's forearms and face had darkened to gold despite her warnings to use sunscreen. His body was also lightly tanned from an afternoon spent in the hotel pool, comfortably sprawled on a floating lounge chair, where he'd punished Nicole's expense account by ordering tons of overpriced snacks. He gulped from the can and wiped sweat from his face. "Too bad we couldn't find a plane, but ridin' this train should be cool."

The little border station was only a shack of rusty tin. The sun beat down on its wooden platform, while heat shimmered up from the tracks. It was only about nine in the morning, but already close to ninety degrees. Nicole eyed the windowless passenger car, thinking this trip would be far from cool. "They said a plane was coming today that usually went to Kiwanja. I know how much you like airplanes."

"Cool airplanes," corrected Zack. "Passenger planes are boring, mom. Like gettin' stuffed in a big metal tube an' nothin' happens between here an' there, unless you get hijacked or somethin'."

"Bush planes are usually more interesting. What did you think of Selinda?"

Zack took another gulp of Coke and politely half-smothered a burp. "The hippos were cool, but there weren't any lions. I wish we coulda seen some lions eatin' them big fat hippos."

"Those hippos, Zack."

"Sorry."

"I wish we could have stayed longer. But this is a business trip."

"I know," said Zack. "But, maybe we can come back someday."

"Do you like Africa?" asked Nicole.

Zack pulled a Nestle bar from his pocket. "The food's real good, an' the people are nice."

"Remember we've stayed in hotels so far." Nicole had a vision of facing Meg Tanner and justifying all her receipts. "Dammed expensive hotels."

"Yeah," said Zack. "I guess when you're rich then everything's nice."

"What did you think of Hillbrow?"

Zack considered while munching chocolate. "I guess there's like ghettoes all over the world. An' a lot of poor people who have to live there."

"But, you knew that already, didn't you?"

Zack licked his his fingers. "Kinda. But it's different when you really see it. Makes you sorta sad."

Nicole smiled. "I'm sure we'll see lions in Kiwanja."

"Hey!" said Zack. "Are those, like, African Boy-Scouts? ...They get to carry M-16s?"

Nicole tensed a bit as a dozen boys, ranging from ten to maybe fifteen, rolled up in a dusty army truck. All were clad in sand-and-tan that matched the vehicle's camouflage paint but didn't quite work in this lion-colored land. Captain Keto's ambers and golds would have blended in much better here. But, now it was suddenly clear to Nicole why most of the Barrymore uniforms being sent to Kiwanja were small. There was something a little ironic about it; a company making toy soldiers also making soldier suits for real soldiers of toylike size. As if kids were the ultimate war toys. The boys and their uniforms may have been small, but all were packing big black guns. Like Zack had said, they were M-16s... Defenders Of Democracy genuine accessories. Or, as Tom had said, leftover junk from the Vietnam War.

Could Tom have known about this, she wondered? No, she decided, he couldn't have known: he surely would have told her. Countries that forced their children to fight were usually suffering civil wars, and sometimes ethnic cleansing. She watched the boys clamber out of the truck, raising more dust as they hit the ground, then realized Zack was waiting for answers.

"They're Kiwanji soldiers, Zack."

"But they're only kids like me."

"Remember what we talked about? Different cultures..."

"Yeah, I know," said Zack. "But, they have kids in their army?"

"Many nations do, Zack. And not just in Africa."

"Those kids fight wars an' kill people, mom?"

"Kiwanja isn't at war, Zack, or I wouldn't have brought you along."

"So why do they need to have kids in their army? Like, where are all the men?"

Nicole scanned the camouflaged, gun-toting boys, who looked rather grim for their ages. Or maybe they were tired. There was no horseplay or childish chatter. What words they exchanged were in Swahili, the same archaic dialect of the boys who'd shared their taxi. "It might be just... community service."

Zack raised an eyebrow. "You mean if you're bad... like get busted for beer or smokin' weed... you get put the army in Africa instead of just pickin' up trash?"

Nicole felt as if she was pitching product she didn't really believe in. This hadn't been in her job description: she'd agreed to go look for some bootmakers, not to plunge herself and Zack in the boiling pot of some little war. She thought of the locator-phone in her tote, a direct line to Tom for a few direct questions. Or maybe some revelations for him. Tom wouldn't blame her for backing out now...

Then she pictured herself facing Dwane Barrymore in another boardroom meeting; explaining to him and the rest of the gang why she had failed her mission. Aaron Steele would likely be there, and would probably drop the biggest bombs... maybe taking her son had been a mistake? Understandable, of course. A woman did have maternal feelings. Really no more than a slight handicap. ...But in this case a little expensive.

Of course, she would pay for Zackary's trip, but still she would have accomplished nothing and wasted her company's money. It would take more than a few Captain Ketos to put her back in the glass-ceiling game.

She thought of Tom again... the alternative is Aaron Steele. Would Aaron have given up now, she wondered? Be frightened away by a few toy soldiers? She had already seen the risks he would take... assuming the rumors were true. And, even if they weren't true, he'd still put himself in real danger to possibly profit his company.

What had she done so far? Pressured her boss to pay her son's way on what should have been a business trip. Stayed in obscenely expensive hotels and wasted a day watching hippos. And now she was thinking of bailing her butt because she'd seen a few boys with guns. Jenny had probably seen a lot more, and not in a disciplined Army.

Nicole considered alternatives. She could send Zack home with her backup plan and keep to her company quest. But, what would he have learned? That, except for a glimpse of an urban slum, Africa was expensive hotels, smiling servants and lavish food. A banquet spread for the color of privilege. A land that begged to be exploited by light-skinned people just like him? He hadn't even seen a lion.

"We can talk about that on the train," she said.

"But, like, could they shoot us?"

"...Well," said Nicole. "So could a cop in America. Or all those guards in airports."

"But, those are adults," said Zack, finishing his candy bar and washing it down with Coke. "They're supposed to know who to kill."

Nicole remembered the letter she carried; a genuine U.S. Government letter direct to Kiwanja's President. She assumed at least some of those soldiers could read. "I'm sure these young men are well-trained."

"Yeah," said Zack after a moment. "I guess you wouldn't give kids guns unless they knew how to use 'em."

"Have you ever smoked weed?" asked Nicole.

"I checked it out, but I like beer better."

"Me too," said Nicole.

"How come they're not ridin' inside with us?"

The soldiers were boarding the freight cars. Two carried an olive-drab wooden box that might have contained ammunition. "It's probably for security."

"Do they have terrorists here, too?"

"The world has never been safe, Zack."

"Don't people have any right to be safe?"

"No one is going to be safe in this world until they start giving instead of taking."

"An' we're here to give them somethin', right? A chance to make money by sellin' their boots?"

"Yes," said Nicloe. "Do you feel okay?"

"About what?"

"You're not upset, are you? Or maybe a little scared?"