Skeleton Key

Skeleton Key is available at, or may be ordered from, most book stores and online sources. It may also be ordered from Orchard House Press.

DESCRIPTION (from back cover):

Thirteen-year-old Jarett Ross has been no more than a ghost for months, crying alone in the darkness where no one can hear him. A drug-dealer put the moves on his mom, got her addicted to heroin, and now rules their small apartment in a rotting Victorian house. Jarett's only refuge from the man's brutality has been his tiny room, its door locked by a skeleton key, Then, late one rainy night, even that protection fails him.

After a nightmare of cause-and-effect, Jarett is battered, near death, and running from the police. He finds himself at the iron gates of an ancient graveyard where he waits to die, to be delivered from this world without hope. That's when Robbie, a homeless boy who lives in a crypt, arrives.

Hounded by the police that have never helped him, but driven by his desire to save his mother, Jarett is exhausted by life. Robbie encourages him to try to build a future from the bones of his past. But wouldn't it be easier to just stay in this peaceful place of the dead forever?

REVIEWS:

In Skeleton Key by Jess Mowry we meet Jarett Ross, a 13-year-old African-American boy in Oakland, California. Jarett has been living like a ghost for months, all alone in the darkness where no one can see or hear him. A drug-dealer put the moves on his mom, got her addicted to heroin, and now rules their small apartment in a rotting Victorian house. Jarett's only refuge from the man's brutality has been his tiny room, its door locked by a skeleton key. But, one rainy night, even that protection fails him when the man breaks down the door. Jarett fights for his life, and the man falls to his death down a stairwell. Jarett knows that he must run away because the cops will never believe that he acted in self-defense. Bleeding and almost dead himself from the fight, Jarett stumbles through the rainy streets of West Oakland only to find himself at the rusty iron gates of an ancient graveyard. Jarett sits down and waits to die. This seems like his only escape from a world without hope. But he is saved by a homeless boy named Robbie who lives alone in the graveyard in a vine-covered crypt. Robbie seems to have given up on life outside the graveyard's walls, but he encourages Jarett to try to build a future. The cops are after Jarett, who is questioned and kept under surveillance by a cynical white detective. But Jarett manages to get his mother into a rehab center, and with Robbie's help, Jarett begins to hope that he might live again. Meeting a girl named Martin Hawker also gives Jarett hope. Jarett finds that good people are all around, but only if you look for them. But the detective seems determined to bury Jarett in prison, and Jarett's life is not easy. He has to pay the rent and find enough to eat. But he can't legally work because he's only 13. The law won't let him work to make money, but he could always sell crack, which would make more money than any real job. On top of all his other problems he has to deal with that descision. Life for a poor black kid seems so hard. Why not just give up and join Robbie forever in a peaceful place of the dead?

This book begins with a violent scene of Jarett being attacked by a man and fighting for his life. But there are a lot of gentle scenes in this book, and Jarett learns how to love people. Learning to love can be hard when you haven't had much in your life. Jarett learns a lot of other things too. Like many black kids he hates cops, but he finds that not all cops are bad. There are many supernatural, spooky, and ghostly elements to this story. There is also a mysterious older boy who runs a funeral home.

NOTE: The novel as presented here was slightly revised in 2009.

Skeleton Key
© 2009 Jess Mowry

"Sleepin'? Don't talk to me about sleepin'! The only place that boy gonna be sleepin' is six feet under the ground!"

Jarett's eyes flew open. Had he been sleeping? It was hard to tell anymore. Half asleep or half awake, he only felt half alive.

"He's lyin'!" yelled the man from outside Jarett's door.

Yeah, thought Jarett, struggling into consciousness like a drowned body rising through dark murky water. I'm lyin' all right! Lyin' here tryin' to sleep, fool! But you never let me!

He rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. They burned with the desperate need for sleep. He was always tired, nodding in class, his teachers thought he was doing drugs. As if he had any money to buy them! Even drugs that could let him sleep.

The man's voice roared in the living room: "What you tellin' me, 'thirteen dollars?' Boy holdin' on me, what he doin'! He probably buried my money somewhere!"

Jarett squeezed his eyes tight shut, though they felt like they were packed full of sand. Wish I could bury YOU! he thought. Wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight. He came close to praying. I wish he was dead! I wish he was dead in a dirty old grave!

Then came his mother's voice: "Leave him alone. ...Please. Why can't you leave him alone for one night? He got school in the mornin'. My boy need to rest."

Her tone sounded gentle, even loving. Once upon a time, Jarett believed that her love could protect him. Just like the moms in those fairytale stories she used to read by his bed at night. But now he knew that her words, like those stories, were nothing but make-believe. Only the needle she stuck in her arm was on the real anymore.

"School!?!" yelled the man. "Don't give me no shit about school! Boy got no time for no stupid-ass school! Boy gotta work for a livin'!"

Work! thought Jarett, scowling in darkness. He would have worked like a slave for his mom, but he had to sell crack for the man. He wished he could lie down in peace, pull the old blanket over his face and go to sleep forever. His body was so tired it hurt. He remembered something he'd heard on TV: that it "shouldn't hurt to be a kid." But that was shit from Sesame Street, made for kids in a fantasy world, over the rainbow, behind the glass, in the make-believe land of a picture tube.

His mother's voice again: "That's what he gave me. Every last penny, I swear it to God."

The man blew out a snort of disgust. "Thirteen dollars, my ass! If that really all he made today, he gonna be real unlucky tonight!"

Jarett stared up at the shadowy ceiling. Thirteen dollars. One no-account dollar for every year he'd been alive. Almost worthless. Like the pennies they put on dead people's eyes. He winced despite his weariness when a wine bottle smashed on the door to his room. Were you ever too tired to be afraid?

He pushed off the blanket and slowly sat up. His movements were stiff like a zombie's as he lowered his feet to the bare, dusty floor. Except for his puff-coat lying nearby, he was dressed for the only world he knew in ragged jeans, battered sneaks, and a grimy white T-shirt that reached his knees. He hadn't been out of his clothes for a week, and his toes felt slimy in sweat-stiffened socks. The teacher's nose had wrinkled today when she'd shaken him awake in class. He probably smelled as dead as he felt.

Again came his mother's pleading voice: "Can't you let him rest for once?"

"No rest for the wicked on this earth, bitch! Ain't you never read that in the Bible?"

Jarett crept to the door. A street lamp's glimmer seeped in through the window, bathing his room with a sick yellow glow. He saw himself in the chest of drawers mirror: shaggy dreadlocks smothered his shoulders, framing an angular V-jawed face with full, open lips and a wide snubby nose. He wore the long shirt like a funeral shroud that hid eveything but his face and forearms, though his chest muscles jutted like two small bricks in stark outlines beneath the old cotton. Was this how a wicked boy looked, he wondered?

Almost hidden under his hair were big haunted eyes that looked guilty of something. He moved like a panther he'd seen in a movie, wounded by a cowardly hunter who'd been too afraid to track down his prey and finish the job of killing it. The man's voice cursed him into a grave, yet the threats had lost most of their meaning because Jarett had heard them so often. Besides, you could only die once -- so he'd heard -- and he almost didn't care if he did.

The ancient West Oakland Victorian house had tall heavy doors with old-fashioned locks. The key was in Jarett's door now; a big brass thing called a skeleton key. Despite its spooky-sounding name, it had once been a favorite toy of Jarett's; a magical key to secret places with buried chests of treasure and jewels. Like in the stories his mom used to read. The key had seemed huge in those long-ago days, gleaming like gold in his little black fingers. But he'd only been a baby then, clueless enough to believe any lies, and small enough to lie peacefully down in the long bottom drawer of his battered old dresser... a solemn young Egyptian prince at rest in a golden sarcophagus.

"He gonna be gettin' his 'rest'!" yelled the man. "Down in a grave when I done with him!"

Jarett took hold of the key in the lock. Its smooth old shape felt familiar and warm. "Please," he whispered, and turned it softly. His mom used to scold him for locking the door. How could she save him if there was a fire? Maybe she could have saved him then, but now she couldn't even save herself.

He eased the key silently out of the lock and slipped it into his pocket, where it nestled beside his box-cutter knife. The man howled in fury when Jarett did this, but all he could do was pound and kick until he got tired or finally passed out, while Jarett shivered awake and in fear with the blanket pulled over his face.

Jarett picked up a model airplane from the top of the chest of drawers. It had once been a part of his little-kid dreams. But then he put it back down. He didn't need dreams, he just needed sleep! He gazed at the drawer that had once been his refuge, a safe place to hide from make-believe fears, like werewolves, vampires, and skeleton bones. He wished he could just crawl inside again and sleep where nothing bad could get him. The wounded panther had finally found peace: it had crept down into a dark secret place, and there it had quietly died.

The doorknob twisted viciously. The man's fist pounded the thick old wood. "Open this door, you lyin-ass punk! Where the rest of my money?"

The pounding continued. The kicking began. The heavy door shuddered and creaked in its frame. But, Jarett only walked to the window, turning his back on the cursing and rage, pressing his palms and nose to the glass like a little kid checking a toy shop. The outside was dusted with specks of glitter, more than mist but less than rain. They gleamed like gold in the street lamp's glow. Water drops clung to a spider's web, making a necklace of amber sparks. Two stories down and beyond the front yard, the sidewalk glistened like polished gunmetal. Dim lights shone in a few other houses here and there along the block, but only made the night seem darker and Jarett feel more alone. What good were other people around when no one would help you and nobody cared?

He watched as a car rolled slowly past, a long ancient car like a black station wagon and almost as big as a truck. A chill ran suddenly down his spine when he saw it was a hearse! The house next door was a funeral home, a rotting Victorian twin to his own. It looked like most of the other old houses, except for a small faded sign on its door. But, the place had been closed before Jarett was born, its windows boarded, its yard a jungle, its paint peeling off like a mummy's skin. There were childish rumors of worm-eaten corpses and skeletons lying on basement slabs, but no kid had ever been brave enough to bust the place and go inside.

The hearse swung into the funeral home's driveway, nosing through weeds and decades of trash as if Death had returned from a long vacation.

Jarett's door creaked as the man slammed against it. Mrs. Davis across the hall had a son who was nineteen and six feet of muscle. He had often come to Jarret's rescue like a knight in ebony armor. But he was in the Army now and fighting terror in other lands. Mrs. Davis herself didn't fear the man, and had ordered the landlord to call the cops whenever he tried to get at Jarett. But the cops wouldn't come anymore. They had finally said not to call them again... "unless the kid really got hurt."

Jarett studied the ancient hearse though the hazy curtain of drizzle and mist. A tall slender figure, dressed all in black, emerged and seemed to scope out the 'hood. It was too dark to see any details, but the shape was clad in a long leather coat and was almost too slim for its height. Jarett couldn't see a face, which must have been the color of night beneath an Afroish halo of hair. The shadowy movements were masculine, though graceful somehow and suggesting youth. Casually parting the waist-high weeds, the ebony figure walked to the house, climbed the steps to its sagging porch and vanished in the darkness.

Jarett remembered the funeral last year for his one real homey, his only true friend, a boy who'd been shot in the street for no reason. "Random violence," the cops had said. But they probably thought he'd deserved to die. The kid had looked so cool in his coffin, so peaceful and cared-for and clean... which wasn't at all how he'd looked when alive. He'd looked safely asleep in his very own box, soft satin-lined and just the right size to peacefully rest in forever.

Jarett shivered, still scanning the hearse while clutching the key in his pocket. His room smelled of dampness and ancient decay. A grave would probably smell like that. But, at least underground and asleep in a coffin, nobody was trying to kill you.

The man slammed a shoulder against the door. "Where's my money!"

Jarett spread helpless, long-fingered hands and turned to face the door. Trying to reason just made it worse, but he couldn't stay silent anymore. "I give it to mom, like always."

"Liar! You made more'n thirteen dollars today!"

Too tired to think, Jarett clenched his fists. His voice rose high before he could stop it. "That shit you make me sell! Who gonna buy it 'cept dumb little kids! What kind of money you figure they got?"

"You DEAD, boy!" roared the man.

Jarett's hand went to his pocket again, gripping the key in cold sweaty fingers. "Please," he whispered. "Somebody help me!"

But no one could hear him. Or cared if they did. He might as well have been in a grave and crying for help under six feet of dirt. The air in the room seemed to ripple with rage. The door panel cracked with a gunfire sound as the man crashed against it again. Jarett stared in sudden horror as a jagged gash like a lightning-bolt appeared in the age-blackened wood.

"Dead boy!"

Jarett spun back to the window. Grabbing the handles, he struggled to raise it, but a week of wet weather had swollen it shut! Sweat broke out on his body while tears trickled hot down his cheeks. He battled the window with all his strength, but it wouldn't open! He shot another a look over his shoulder... ight leaked in through the battered door. He heard the man stagger to ram it again. Jarett swung a desperate fist and smashed the gold-speckled glass, but shards ripped his arm when he jerked it back. For a second he stared at his own dripping blood while steam wavered pale in the cold. Then he lifted his eyes to the hole in the glass and the razor-edged daggers still stuck in the frame. Should he throw himself through like they did in movies? But, what if he cut his throat?

At his back came a crash as the door burst open! Dim yellow light fanned into the room, and a shadow stretched over the dusty floor, lurching in Jarett's direction. What did it matter now? he thought. Throwing an arm in front of his face, he poised to leap through the window.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. "Dead boy!"

TWO

Jarett struggled savagely like something wild in a trap. The man aimed a kick between Jarett's legs, and the sickening pain seemed to suck out his strength. The man's grip loosened little as if he thought he'd won, but Jarett had expected that. He tore himself free and scrambled away. The man caught a handful of Jarett's shirt. Jarett fought like a panther, kicking, scratching, trying to bite. The old cotton ripped, and again he was free! He dashed for the doorway, his shoulder bleeding, clawed by the man's fingernails.

His mother sat on the living room couch, seemingly lost in the TV screen... he caught a glimpse of kids at McDonalds begging their parents for Happy Meals. He didn't waste time by running to her; she couldn't help him anymore. He darted past to the hallway door and fought with the three heavy bolts. One slid back, but he heard the man coming. Then he got the second bolt open. He saw his mother turn to him.

"Don't forget your jacket, honey."

The last bolt slid back. Jarett flung the door open, but a hand shot out and slammed it again! Jarett leaped sideways and dug in his pocket, grabbing his box-cutter knife. The man swung a fist but Jarett ducked, then whipped out his blade and slashed the man's arm. The man roared in pain but drunkenly dodged as Jarett tried to cut him again, his own wounded arm spraying bright ruby drops. Jarett retreated, yanked the door open, and dashed down the hall to the staircase. The man burst out to clumsily follow, stumbling, staggering, slamming the walls. Jarett slipped at the top of the stairs and grabbed the rickety banister post. The man's fist caught him square in the back, knocking him down in a cart-wheeling tumble of wildly flying arms and legs to slam the wall of the landing below.

His head hit hard, scattering chunks of ancient plaster that clattered like brittle old bones. Sparks exploded somewhere in his skull. The box-knife slipped from his bloody fingers. For a moment he was lost in darkness. But he fought his eyes into focus again, gritted his teeth and rolled on his back. His wounded arm was pouring blood, smearing the floor as he sprawled in the corner.

In the hallway above the man swayed on his feet, almost falling himself. He lurched against the banister and grabbed the post, tearing it loose. Jarett lay panting, gasping for breath, trying to make his body work, to force it up and run.

The man slowly hefted the long wooden post. "You a dead boy tonight!"

A light bulb silhouetted the man as he stalked unsteadily down the stairs. Jarett struggled to rise, but something was wrong... it hurt like fire to move his left foot! Sobbing, he managed to get on his knees. He searched for his knife in the shadows... there! He grabbed it and tried to crawl down the steps, but a hand clutched his sneaker, dragging him back. He heard the hiss of the club cutting air, and frantically flung himself aside. The club missed his head but grazed his arm, bringing a new shock of pain. He lashed out hard with his other foot. The man yelled a curse and let go.

Jarett tried to dive down the stairs, but the man grabbed the ragged remains of his shirt and whipped back the club to hit him again. Jarett curled up, protecting his head, but the club hit the wall and plaster rained down. Jarett crawled into the corner, huddling there as the club swung again but missed by an inch. He slashed out blind with his razor knife, feeling flesh rip across the man's thigh. The man dropped the club and clutched his leg, stumbling against the banister. Rotten wood splintered. The man let out a terrified scream and toppled into the stairwell.

The crash seemed to take forever in coming. Jarett collapsed in the corner, gasping, crying, fighting for breath. His shirt was in shreds like zombie rags, and the boards beneath him were slick with his blood. His ribs felt like the banister looked, matching the pain between his legs, while his ankle burned with bolts of fire. He heard the club roll down the stairs, thudding slowly one at a time like a severed head in an old horror movie. A minute passed while he fought to breathe. Finally, he got to his hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the landing. Dimly seen in the darkness below, the man lay sprawled on his back.

"Please," Jarett whispered, not sure what he meant. The man moved a little and moaned. His fingers clutched empty space like a baby's. Then, Jarett heard Mrs. Davis above furiously pounding the landlord's door:

"Call 'em!" she yelled. "...I don't care what they said! Tell 'em he's killin' the boy this time!"

There were other voices below, confused, angry, wakened from sleep, afraid to open their own locked doors to help a wicked and worthless kid.

Forgetting his knife, Jarett gripped the remains of the banister and pulled himself to his feet. He almost screamed from the pain in his ankle, but clenched his teeth and made it support him. He started down, dragging a shoulder along the wall and leaving a bloody smear. More blood from his arm dripped a glistening trail.

The man's eyes were open, but smoky and glazed in the glow of a feeble light bulb. Like his fingers, they seemed to be searching for something, but they didn't seem to see Jarett as he reached the foot of the stairs. Jarett stood for a moment, panting for breath, a hand unconsciously shielding himself from a half-expected kick. He scanned the man's face; the empty eyes seemed to look right through him.

He became aware of voices again, fading in and out on the edge of hearing like a distant radio station at night. Strange-looking shadows moved on the walls. Jarett was too tired to be much afraid, yet he knew he had to get out of here. The man was dying -- Jarett knew that without knowing how -- and he was the killer! The cops wouldn't care about anything else; he was just another ghetto-boy to catch and lock up in a cage! He stumbled away, dragging his foot, struggling toward the house's front door. Then he was out in the drizzly night. The cold and dampness burned his wounds. The door clicked shut and locked behind him, but that was better than being locked in.

He almost fell, but caught the porch rail. He clung there a minute, panting. His jeans had slipped low on his blood-slicked hips, and his half-naked body was chilled by the night. His rasping breath made smoky puffs that floated like ghosts in front of his face, while steam curled up from his bleeding arm. He wondered if the thickening mist was incoming fog, or just in his mind. The street lamps were dim and eerily pale. A siren sounded somewhere in the distance, echoing hollowly in his ears.

Jarett scanned the deserted street as best he could with his fading sight. The mist was rising up the stairs like a silent river in flood. Then it crept icily over him, blurring his eyes, choking his lungs, making it even harder to breathe. But the siren was coming closer! His bloody hand went to his pocket, gripping the friendly old shape of the key. It felt warm to his touch... the only warm thing in the world. New tears burned his eyes again as he limped down the rickety steps.

The houses around him were tottering shapes that seemed to lean over, about to fall. The street lamps were nothing but yellowish blurs. Jarett fled from the oncoming siren, along the broken and weedy sidewalk, a hand groping out like a blind boy lost. He slammed into something; a big looming shadow of night-colored steel, beaded with droplets of drizzle and fog. He saw it was the ancient hearse and lurched away in horror. He would have run if he'd had the strength, but could only stumble on.

An alley gaped like a black empty mouth. The siren sound had faded away, but someone was probably after him. He staggered into the alley. Rotting garbage slid underfoot. Rats scuttled squeaking unseen in the dark. He stopped at a Dumpster, clutching its coldness, pressing his chest to the wet rusty iron. He wondered if he could hide in there like trash among trash. But, something about those double lids was like a ghostly memory and terrified him as much as the hearse. The alley's far end was a pale shade of black, and he limped toward the light, faint as it was.

Out on another shadowy street. Why were all the lights so dim? He could hardly see the sidewalk. A car went by in a mumbling blur. Its headlights seemed no brighter than candles, but left the night darker when they had passed. He wondered why he wasn't cold -- his dreadlocks wetly framed his face, and his shirt was no more than a sodden rag -- and yet he only felt tired. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he stumbled on from nothing to nowhere.

Something smashed into his face! Staggering back, he crashed to the ground. The man's words echoed again in his ears: dead boy!

Too tired to care, he closed his eyes and quietly lay on the cold concrete like a corpse on a slab in a morgue.

THREE

Time crept by like coffin worms eating away at a corpse. It might have been hours or could have been years, but nothing hit Jarett again. Maybe he actually slept for a while. But at last, and almost reluctantly, he finally opened his eyes. His vision came slowly into focus like the opening scene of a movie. For a minute he lay there flat on his back in the pale glow of a dim street lamp on a drunkenly leaning telephone pole. He heard the sputtering buzz of wet wires and the soft liquid sound of trickling water. He became aware of pain again -- his ankle, his arm, between his legs -- as he raised his head to look around.

He was sprawled on a sidewalk that was buckled and cracked. The slabs were tilted at crazy angles by the roots of tall and twisted weeds, and the cold was seeping into his bones. He realized that no one had hit him; he'd only walked blindly into the pole. He grasped its mossy rotting wood and dragged himself to his feet. His ankle burned with needles of fire, but he tried to ignore the pain. He checked his arm, which only seemed to be oozing a little, then scanned around again. A stab of panic shot through him when he found he didn't know where he was.

The street was in no better shape than the sidewalk, its pavement a jagged jumble of cracks that told of long neglect. The gutters were choked with years of trash, and the weeds had grown unchallenged. It was an empty, dead-end street; and a new chill suddenly traced his spine when he saw where it dead-ended at...

The tall iron gates of a graveyard!

The place was ancient and looked forgotten in a dark, deserted neighborhood of boarded-up houses and factory buildings. Beyond the cone of the street lamp's glow were the massive, rusted, wrought-iron gates. They were set in a seven-foot wall of brick, covered with moss and slowly collapsing but still defending the dead. Jarett limped painfully up to the gates and grasped the cold bars to look in. The place was small and a tangle of weeds, grass gone wild, and blackberry vines. Tilted tombstones reared up through the weeds like crooked fangs in an animal skull. Scattered among them were tottering statues mostly clad in stony robes. Jarett supposed they were meant to be angels, but none looked very friendly. A pond glimmered back in the shadows, with another small statue set in its center. The trickle of water echoed, and except for the crackle of wires overhead it seemed to be the only sound. Among the leaning monuments stood little stone houses of various shapes. They didn't seem to have any windows... but no one inside would need look out. And yet they seemed to offer safety, protected by walls and defended by gates. One little building way in the back even had a tiny front porch.

Jarett gazed in through the cold iron bars and suddenly wished he could go to that house, to sleep among people who couldn't hurt him. He studied the gates as he thought about that, but he was too weak to climb over, and they were held shut by a massive old chain secured with a huge padlock.

Jarett sank down with his back to the bars. Wherever he was, he'd come too far and there was nowhere else to go. He drew the skeleton key from his pocket, not knowing why except it felt warm, the only warm thing in the world.

"Yo!" called a voice in the darkness.

Jarett jerked with a new stab of fear. But his moment of panic passed away when he realized the voice was a kid's. He turned around and peered through the gates. A chubby boy sat on a mossy tombstone.

Trying to fight the pain in his ankle, Jarett pulled himself to his feet. The street lamp's glow didn't reach very far, and the boy sat in shadow cast by the wall, but he didn't look older than Jarett.

Jarett stood there gripping the bars, not even sure if the boy was real or something called up by his own battered mind. "Um... S'up, man?" he finally asked.

The boy smiled and opened a palm toward the sky. "Moon, stars, an' us right now."

Jarett stared at the chubby kid sitting so casually cool on the tombstone, then looked up to see only darkness. "It's kinda rainy tonight."

"Moon an' stars always up there, bro, even if you can't always see 'em."

Jarett tried to smile back, which seemed to take every bit of his strength. He wished he wasn't hurting so much so his smile could be more on the real. His voice sounded hollow and strange in his ears, as if he was talking from far away and only hearing an echo. "Well... um... guess there's some things you don't gotta see. But they there anyhow, like you said."

"Maybe like God?" asked the boy.

Jarett shrugged, though it hurt like hell. "He ain't never believed in me, so why should I believe in Him? ...Do you?"

"Sometimes," said the boy. "But I ain't very religious."

Jarett forced another smile. He knew he looked like a bloody corpse, and he didn't want to scare the kid. "Um... I be in somebody's ground? I guess I'm kinda lost."

Far from being freaked by Jarett, the boy only smiled again, as if talking to bloody, beat-up kids was something he did every night. He glanced around the misty graveyard. "Ain't nobody here in this ol' ground gonna cap your ass for trespassin', dawg."

Jarett felt the boy's friendliness like a warm breath of breeze in the night. "Guess not, huh. ...So, how you know I was out here?"

"Seen you from my window."

"...Oh." Jarett scanned the deserted street, where the only car was a burned-out corpse. He checked the handful of boarded-up houses among the tumbledown factory buildings. No lights shone anywhere in the 'hood except for the one feeble street lamp, and none of the houses suggested life, but he'd met a few people who'd cribbed in worse places.

The boy hopped down from the moss-covered stone and sauntered casually up to the gates. He looked somewhere between twelve and fourteen, with skin of honey-bronze. He wasn't exactly fat, but calling him chubby was being kind. He had that wobbly shapeless shape of baby-fat draped on a small skeleton, and his boy-breasts bobbed like melons of Jell-O. His belly hung out of a tattered black T-shirt, displaying the funnel-like cave of a navel. He wore ragged jeans with one ripped knee, tightly outgrown, mostly unbuttoned, and baring the brassy round moons of his butt. His feet looked cartoonish in huge ancient sneaks that seemed to be falling apart and were wrapped with electrical tape on the toes. His hair was a natural bush of curls that shadowed a cheerfully chubby-cheeked face with a wide button nose and full pouty lips.

Jarett thought of a fat lion cub, though he tagged the kid as a solo street-rat who didn't belong to anyone's posse. Still, it was safer to ask: "Are you in a gang?"

The chubby boy leaned against the gates and rested an arm on the big rusty chain. He had gold-tinted eyes that now seemed to sadden. "Used to be. But, not no more. Shit happens, y'know."

Jarett nodded. Hurt as he was, it still felt good to have someone to talk to. "Got that right, man."

The boy studied Jarett. "Looks like you got in some serious shit. How y'all doin', doggie-bro?"

Jarett felt his nose crinkle. He fought back tears, not wanting to cry and look like a wuss. "I'm alone, man. Know what I sayin'?"

The chubby boy nodded. "Down with that, dawg. ...Um, it cool if you wanna cry. I still do sometimes."

"Nah," sighed Jarett. "Seem like a waste of salt or somethin'. ...So, you got a crib around here?"

The boy aimed a thumb over his shoulder. "That little stone house with the porch. See, what it is, I'm alone, too."

Jarett peered into the graveyard. In spite of his thoughts of safety and peace, a skeleton finger ran down his spine. "You sayin' you live in there?"

The boy giggled. "Ain't much of a goin'-on neighborhood, huh?"

"Well..." said Jarett. "'Least nobody beatin' on you in there." He shivered again, and his teeth almost rattled. Then he felt a flicker of hope. "Could I come in an' spend the night? I don't got nowhere else to go."

The boy checked Jarett out once more, and a sad look crossed his face. "This might not be the coolest place for somebody in the shape you in. Hate to say it, doggie-bro, but I can almost see right through ya."

Jarett didn't know what that meant, but he didn't like the sound of it. He glanced down at himself, seeing the ribbon-like rags of his shirt, his jeans wet and bloody, about to fall off. "I probably look like a zombie, huh?"

"I seen scarier things than you," said the boy. "But if I was you I'd find me some help."

"There ain't no help for me," said Jarett. "I come too far an' I'm lost, man. Let me come in with you. ...Please?"

"I help you all I can," said the boy. "But, how you gonna get in?"

"Well," said Jarett. "How'd you get in?"

"I don't think you're up for that tonight."

Jarett studied the gates once more, knowing he couldn't climb over with his wounded arm and twisted ankle. "Can you help me?"

The boy spread his hands cartoonishly. "I said I would, but how?"

"Well... could you come out an' give me a boost?"

"I don't think I can do that."

"Why not?" asked Jarett.

"I ain't very physical, dawg, see?" The boy struck a body-builder pose, flexing chubby arms. His shirt climbed high above his belly and now looked a bit like a bra.

Jarett would have laughed if he could, but it seemed to get harder to make his voice work, and it sounded even more like an echo. "Please, man!"

"Why don't you try that?" asked the boy and pointed.

"Huh?" Jarett looked down at the big brass key still gripped in his slim bloody fingers. "This? It only open the door to my room."

"But, it's a skeleton key," said the boy. "You never know what they can open."

Jarett studied the huge padlock, brass like his key but green with age. The keyhole did seem about the right size. He slipped his key in, surprised when it fit, but paused before trying to turn it. "Um... so it's cool, man?" he asked. "Me comin' in if this key really works?"

"I can't think of nothin' else you can do. Hate to say it, doggie-bro, but you probably gonna die tonight if you stay out there all wet an' cold."

Jarett shrugged, still holding the key but making no move to turn it. "Maybe that's better. My life wasn't much to begin with."

The chubby boy's face turned sad again. "I used to think dyin' was a way out, too. When I was all alone by myself."

A tear slid coldly down Jarett's cheek. He suddenly blurted, "I killed somebody tonight, man! It was a accident, swear to God! But the cops gonna call it murder!"

The chubby boy didn't seem surprised. "I figured it was somethin' like that. You got a haunted look, dawg."

Jarett let go of the key, leaving it in the lock. He turned away and shrugged again. "Maybe I should just sit down an' die." He looked over his shoulder and scowled. "You gonna watch?"

The chubby boy shrugged. "Guess there's nothin' else I can do. If that's what you really want, man. I seen some other kids die before, an' I couldn't do nothin' about that either."

"So, what if my key don't work?"

The chubby boy shrugged again. "Then you done all you can, I guess. But it's stupid if you don't try it, man, 'cause you don't look no older than me."

"What difference that make?" asked Jarett.

"How can you think about dyin' when you don't really know about livin' yet?"

Jarett spit on the sidewalk. "I know livin' hurts, an' I'm tired of hurtin'. I call that knowin' enough, aight? Guess I'm just wicked, is all. Maybe dyin's the only way I can rest."

"You don't look wicked to me, doggie-bro."

"Aw, leave me the hell alone, man! Let me die in peace at least."

"If that's what you want..." The boy returned to the tombstone and perched his rolly shape on top. He pulled out a crumpled pack of Kools and fired one with a wooden match. The flame lit his face like a study in bronze. He puffed a ghost of smoke at the sky, then spread his arms to take in the graveyard. "A lot of these people never found out what their keys could open when they was alive."

Jarett sighed. "Now what you babblin' about?"

The boy aimed his cigarette ember at Jarett. "Did you have a choice of where you was born?"

"You wack or somethin'?" said Jarett. "'Course I didn't! Who in hell does?"

"An' who your folks was? An' where you come up?"

Jarett snorted. "An' what color I wanted to be?"

The chubby boy giggled. "Well, give that brother a big cee-gar."

"Oh, shut up, man!"

"But you gots a key an' you ain't even tried it."

"You crazy, man!" Jarett suddenly yelled. "Talkin' 'bout keys an' cigars an' shit when I'm dyin' out here an' you won't even help!"

"This is me tryin' to help, doggie-bro. But I can't throw your dumb ass over them gates! Check yourself, man. Standin' out there with a key in your hand an' cryin' you ready to die!"

"I ain't cryin', fool!"

The boy shook his head. "Mark-ass like you don't deserve any rest! 'Wicked'? My ass! Y'all just a snotnose baby, man! You just like them dope-frontin', G-rappin fools! Bitchin' you got it so hard in life but not doin' nothin' to change it!"

"I can't change it, fool, 'cause I'm dyin', goddammit!"

The boy blew a smoke ring, pale in the dark. "Where there's life, there's always hope."

"Aw, that's just an' old sayin'."

"Just 'cause somethin's old don't mean it ain't true."

Jarett shivered. It seemed stupid to be dying and arguing about it. He grabbed the key and turned it. The lock fell suddenly open. The chain clanked loose against the bars. The chubby boy plopped down from the tombstone and came to the gates with a smile on his face.

"What you waitin' for now, dawg? You think these stone angels gonna sing?"

Jarett shoved on the rusty bars, and the gates swung slowly inward with a gritty scream that echoed for blocks. The chubby boy giggled again. "Keep it down, man, you'll wake up the dead."

FOUR

Jarett stumbled into the graveyard, lurching like a wounded zombie. The chubby boy steadied him, gripping his shoulders until the wave of dizziness passed. "Better lock up them gates again. People just dyin' to get in."

Jarett managed the ghost of a smile and pushed the gates creakingly shut. He linked the lock through the chain once more and held it closed while turning the key.

The chubby boy offered a hand. "I'm Robby."

"Jarett," said Jarett, doing the brother-shake with Robby, whose hand felt as warm as the skeleton key.

"Here, Jarett," said Robby. "Lean on me."

Jarett's ankle was throbbing with pain, but with an arm over Robby's shoulder he managed a slow limping walk. They moved up a path in the drifting mist through knee-high grass and waist-high weeds, past crumbling tombs and monuments, to the little stone house at the back of the grounds. Robby helped Jarett climb to the porch, which was heavily shrouded by blackberry vines. Jarett imagined how it might look on a warm and sunny afternoon, a peaceful place of leafy shade; but he saw no backpack or sleeping bag to show where Robby slept.

"Where you crib, man?" Jarett asked.

"Inside."

"Huh?" Jarett stared at the ancient crypt. He'd been wrong about windows, the place had one, small and set in a heavy iron door. It might have been made of colored glass like something he'd seen in a church but he couldn't be sure in the dark. "You tellin' me you sleep inthere?"

Robby smiled. "Felt my lips move when I said it."

"But, that's a grave, man! ...Sorta."

"Well, give that boy another cee-gar."

"But, it's all full of dead people, man!"

Robby rolled his eyes. "They prefer the term, 'living impaired.' An', 'case you ain't noticed, there's nothin' but dead folk in this location. What difference it make if you sleep outside or snuggle up close? If you don't get out them wet ol' rags an' warm your ass up real soon, you gonna be sleepin' with skeleton bones till all the stars go out."

Jarett shivered. "But, I can't, man! It's scary!"

Robby shrugged. "Life can be scary, like I'm sure you noticed. But nothin' in there's gonna hurt you."

Jarett grasped the door handle. The hinges were rusted almost solid, and it took nearly every bit of his strength to pull the door open a little. Then it seemed to jam with a clank. "Yo, Robby," he panted. "There's a chain on it, man."

"They used to do that in the ol' days," said Robby. "So the door would stay open a little but grave-robbers couldn't get in."

"Why would they wanna leave the door open?"

"So if someone got buried alive they could scream."

"Maaaaan!"

"Stop messin' around an' get inside before you take the nap that rots."

The heavy chain was stiff with rust, but Jarett managed to loosen it by yanking the door a few times. Then he turned sideways and wiggled through, his chest skinning moss from the iron door frame. The crypt was totally dark inside and he couldn't see a thing. He sniffed the air uneasily, not sure what he expected to smell, but there was only the dry scent of dust. He whispered to Robby, almost afraid that he'd wake something up by talking too loud. "Got a match?"

Robby giggled from out on the porch. "Not since Superman died."

"Yo, c'mon," said Jarett. "This ain't no time for clownin'."

"Sorry, dawg." said Robby. "There's a candle back in the corner. Hang on an' I light it for you."

Jarett took a few steps with his hands stretched out, then stood in the darkness, waiting. He couldn't see Robby slip past him, though he felt a small sensation of warmth and scented boy-sweat for a moment. There was a soft scratching sound, then a feeble blue spark and a curse.

"Damn ol' matches!" said Robby.

Jarett moved toward Robby's voice. "I got some... aw shit, they all wet!"

Robby giggled again, friendly echoes that mocked the silence. Jarett was starting to like that sound; it was somehow free and alive. Homeless kids didn't laugh very much.

"Now what's funny?" asked Jarett.

"I forgot," said Robby.

"Forgot what?"

"I got other matches right here in my pocket."

A yellow flare scattered the shadows, lighting Robby's chubby face as he crouched in a cobwebby corner. He touched the flame to a candle stub that was stuck in a forty-ounce bottle. The wick resisted a second or two, then a golden glow spread though the tomb. Jarett saw long marble slabs on the walls, each with handles like drawers on a dresser. Bracketed between the slabs were little brass vases with mummified flowers that looked as old as the pyramids.

The candle flame dazzled Jarett's eyes after so many hours in darkness, but the light brought a feeling of safety and peace. He limped to the door and dragged it shut. He noticed a keyhole and pulled out his key, feeling relieved when it fit. The works turned with a squeak and locked like a bite.

Robby had stayed by the candle, his palms held out to the tiny flame as if it could really provide any warmth. "Feel safe now, Jarett?"

Jarett looked around. "Kinda funny, man. Like, here I am in a grave... sorta, but this the first time I felt safe in a long time." He met Robby's eyes, gold in the light. "Thanks for lettin' me come in with you."

Robby giggled. "This is the part where I take off my skin."

"What?" yelped Jarett, flinching back.

"Just a little graveyard joke."

"C'mon, man, stop messin' with me."

"Sorry, dawg."

Jarett looked down at himself, his T-shirt in shreds, his blood-spattered jeans, the gash on his arm still oozing red drops. "So, you don't think I'm gonna die?"

"Someday for sure, but not tonight maybe. 'Least not if we get you warm an' dry. An' you look hella strong with all them muscles, so you oughta be able to fight Mr. D."

"Mr. D? ...Oh." Jarett glanced down at the bricks of his chest, then shrugged his arms with their baseball-sized biceps. "I don't feel very strong right now. More like a dog that got run over."

"Think strong thoughts an' get out them wet rags."

Jarett saw blankets in a corner. There was also a stack of dusty comics, along with some books that were massive and old. He stripped off the sodden remains of his shirt, then sat on the floor to untie his sneaks. He found his body was painfully stiff as he tried to reach his feet.

"Yo," said Robby. "Let me do that."

Robby removed Jarett's shoes and socks, then helped Jarett off with his jeans. Jarett's ebony skin made a stark contrast to the pale white stone all around. Robby wrapped Jarett up in a blanket, then spread another out on the floor.

"Lay down," said Robby. "Let's check out your foot."

Jarett's ankle still hurt like fire, but Robby clasped it in both chubby hands and the pain subsided a little. Robby's fingers moved expertly, pressing, massaging here and there. "It might not be too bad," he said. "Really ain't swollen a lot."

Jarett sighed. "It feel a lot better with you doin' that."

"My mom done that for me," said Robby. "I twisted my ankle skateboardin'."

"My mom used to do stuff like that," said Jarett, relaxing against a slab.

"Used to?" asked Robby.

"She... a junkie now, man. She don't do nothin' no more."

"Oh," said Robby. "Sorry, dawg. ...What about your dad?"

"He got killed in the Army. Fightin' the war on terror."

"Sorry, dawg," said Robby again. "Your life ain't been easy, huh?"

Jarett shrugged. "It wasn't so bad a year ago. But then some shit-slangin' punk come around an' put the moves on my mom. ...He's the one I killed tonight. It was an accident, like I said, but the cops gonna call it murder."

"Don't worry about that now," said Robby. "Wish I had somethin' to clean your arm, but it ain't bleedin' much anymore."

"I probably don't got a lot of blood left."

Robby giggled. "Yeah, dawg, you white as a ghost."

The blanket on stone felt as soft as feathers as Jarett lay down and relaxed. "But, where you gonna sleep, Robby? I can't take both your blankets."

"Don't worry about it, I'm used to the cold."

"Those your books an' comics?" asked Jarett.

"Nah. They belong to a homey of mine. Name's Eric. He's cool."

"He collect comics?" asked Jarett. "That a classic ol' Tales From The Crypt."

"Yeah," said Robby. "He like spooky stuff. He used to spend the nights with me. Read ghost stories or told 'em himself, an' give me the haps with the rest of the crew."

"You mean the gang you was in?"

Robby seemed to think for a moment. "It was more like a gang that wasn't. Really just friends, what I sayin'."

"Don't Eric come an' see you no more?"

Robby looked at the iron door. "Not for a while. But, he's gonna come back pretty soon."

"You think so?" asked Jarett, also glancing toward the door as if expecting a knock. "Gotta be way past midnight."

"He always come real late like this. Sometimes I wait by the gates."

"Oh," said Jarett. "I kinda wondered what you was doin', sittin' out there in the dark."

"Seen you from my window, dawg. I thought I said that already."

"You did."

Robby shrugged. "I forget stuff. Like, things I said, an' when I said 'em. An' sometimes who I said 'em to."

"You smoke a lotta weed?"

"Nah. Forgettin' for me is a natural thing."

"You mean you done it all your life?"

Robby smiled. "I forgot if I did. But, I mighta got dropped on my head once. Like when I was little. My skull's a little flat on top but I guess you can't see that now."

"You think somethin' happened to Eric?"

"Nah, not Eric. He'd never get capped. Like, he was into magic an' stuff. Could feel bad things before they happened. Besides, he never went lookin' for shit."

"I didn't either," said Jarett. "But it found me anyhow."

"Well," said Robby. "If you ever meet Eric you'll know what I mean. He'll probably scare you at first but he's cool."

Jarett was getting sleepy, but he was also curious about this chubby homeless boy. "What you mean by magic, Robby? Like, pullin' rabbits out hats?"

"He never done that," said Robby. "I mean, he could if he wanted to. But he was more into African magic. Like in that Voodoo book over there." Robby giggled again. "An', the hell you gonna do with a rabbit once it come out the hat?"

"Don't it go back in again?" asked Jarett.

"You ever see one go back in the hat?

Jarett considered. "Guess not, huh? Like, the magician just pulls 'em out an' gives 'em to his helper or somethin'."

Robby nodded. "There's lots of things that never go back after you pulled 'em out."

Jarett closed his eyes for a moment. The blanket on stone felt so soft. "I know it ain't cool to axe, Robby, but what about your parents?"

Robby sat with his back to a slab, one of twelve that lined the tomb. There were probably skeletons rotting inside, but Jarett didn't care anymore.

"The usual shit," said Robby. "The kind that happen all the time till it finally happen to you. My dad couldn't find any work, an' he finally give up lookin' an' left. My mom worked two jobs."

"So did mine," sighed Jarett. "Before... you know... the usual shit."

"I ain't forgot," said Robby. "But, my mom got tired of life, I guess."

"What you mean?"

"She died."

"...Oh. Sorry, man."

Robby went on, "The cops locked me up for awhile. That was so they could help me 'adjust.' Then I was gonna get put in a home. But nothin's a home when they lock you inside."

"What happened?" asked Jarett.

"They didn't lock me in good enough."

"You like livin' in a graveyard better than a home?"

Robby smiled. "Gives me a lot of time to read."

"I used to read a lot," said Jarett. "But then I didn't have time no more."

"Speakin' of time," said Robby. "You better get some sleep, dawg. There's lots of time tomorrow."

Jarett wanted to listen to Robby, the first friendly voice he'd heard in months. But he seemed to be floating on cottony clouds and his eyes were slowly closing.

FIVE

Jarett awoke to a rainbow. Blinking his eyes in wonder, he raised up on his elbows and looked around. For a moment he felt a flash of fear, finding himself surrounded by stone in a space the size of a prison cell, but then he remembered where he was.

Sunlight shone in through the colored-glass window, and dust motes danced in the rainbowy beams. It seemed funny to think that he'd slept in a grave and rested in peace. He sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes, almost surprised that they didn't feel scratchy. His naked body was stiff and sore, his ankle and ribs still hurt when he moved, but he'd been hurt many times in his life and knew the pain would pass. He checked his arm, a mess of dried blood. It probably should have had stitches, but he couldn't go to a hospital. But there probably weren't any germs in here with nothing alive to live on. He noticed that his bloody jeans and the ragged remains of his tattered T-shirt had been hung on one of the little brass vases. Then he suddenly stared around.

"Robby?" His voice echoed back from silent stone. He turned to the corner behind him... just the old comics, the big dusty books, and the candle stub in the forty-ounce bottle. Shoving off the blanket, he scrambled stiffly to his feet. His ankle throbbed as if stuck with needles, but seemed strong enough to support him. "Robby?" he called again, foolishly, because it was clear that Robby was gone.

He felt a little dizzy. He swayed, and put a hand on the wall. His fingers found a cold brass handle -- like a pull on his chest of drawers at home -- and he jerked his hand away. That was probably stupid; those slabs were sealed up tight with cement, and there wasn't much chance he could open one for an unwanted peep at a skeleton!

He noticed the dusty letters and numbers carved in the blue-veined marble; the meaningless names and birth and death dates of people long-dead and likely forgotten. It was strange to think that the bones in here had all been kids a long time ago.

After a minute the dizziness passed and he saw that his key was still in the lock. Taking care because of his ankle, he limped a few steps to the door. The thick iron plates were warm from the sun. He unlocked the lock, then, straining against the rusty hinges, he pushed the heavy door open. He felt another moment of fear when the door seemed to jam and wouldn't budge, but then he remembered the chain. Twisting his body sideways, he wiggled through into the light.

Just as he'd imagined last night, the crypt's little front porch was peacefully lit by a soft green glow through the blackberry vines. He stood for a time on a carpet of leaves to savor the fresh morning air. It was almost a new experience. Then he returned to the dusty chamber, his chest skinning moss from the rusty door frame. The shreds of his shirt were beyond any use, but his blood-stained jeans were fairly dry. He pulled them on, then, toting his shoes and worn out socks, he went to the door and squeezed outside. He slipped the key in his pocket and descended the single stone step. He paused once more to stand in the sunlight, enjoying its warmth on his ebony skin like something he hardly remembered. Water drops gleamed in the shade of gravestones, and the air smelled of spring and young growing things. Bees hovered over the pretty wild-flowers and lavender-tinted blackberry blossoms while making a drowsy droning sound. The liquid music of trickling water came from the lily-filled pond. The big dirty city was lurking out there beyond the crumbling, mossy-bricked walls, but its outlines seemed hazy and slightly unreal. He could hear urban sounds if he listened -- the rumble of traffic, the scream of sirens -- but around him were only the buzzing of bees, the music of water, the chirping of birds. He brushed back his blood-matted dreadlocks, then, shading his eyes with a hand, he searched among the tombstones.

"Robby!" he called.

"Yo." Robby stepped from the shadows of blackberry vines that thickly shrouded the crypt. Seen in sunlight, his skin seemed to glow, and his eyes held a bright gleam of gold. His rolly chest jiggled with every step, and a boy-breast bobbed through a big ragged hole in the front of his faded black T-shirt. He grinned as he came up to Jarett. "Guess you decided not to die."

Jarett smiled. "I didn't think I had a choice. But you were there to help me live."

Robby looked thoughtful. "Hate to say it, doggie-bro, but there for awhile I wasn't sure. I watched you after you fell asleep."

Jarett smiled again: in some other place it might have seemed strange for another dude to watch over him, but here it felt totally natural. He stretched in the golden sunlight, wincing a bit from the pain in his ribs, but nothing seemed to be broken. "I probably would of been worm-food, man, if you hadn't let me come in last night."

"Cool you decided to try your key. That was a pretty good choice." Robby plopped down on the slab of a tomb. "So, what ya gonna do now?"

Jarett's smile died on his lips: he'd felt so good just being alive that he'd almost forgotten what waited outside. "I... don't know." Something rumbled softly, like the sleepy growl of a jungle cat. He patted his stone-muscled stomach. "I think I'm kinda hungry."

Robby giggled. "Ain't nothin' much to dig up in here, unless you feel like ribs."

Jarett made a face. "Another graveyard joke?"

"Don't take much to amuse the dead."

Jarett sat down next to Robby. The weathered old granite was comfortably warm, and the sun felt good on his panther-black skin. He gently poked Robby's belly chub. "Looks like you livin' large, man. How you been gettin' by?"

"I always been fat," said Robby. "Wouldn't be me if I wasn't."

"But, how you manage to stay fat? Homeless kids are bags of bones."

"Well," said Robby. "After I run away, I hooked up with Eric an' some other dudes."

"The gang that wasn't?" asked Jarett.

"Yeah. I was eatin' big-time at Donny's." Robby seemed to think for a moment. "Yeah, Donny. Now I remember. His mom worked at a bakery shop an' brung home all kinda pies an' cakes."

"You look cool bein' chubby."

Robby grinned and spread his arms. "My mom used to say there was more to love. But, too bad you never met Donny, man. He was the fattest kid in the world! But I always thought he looked cool that way. Like, maybe God wanted him to be fat so he could be... well..."

"What?" asked Jarett.

"Himself, I guess. Like, he read all the time an' knew a lot. An' fat kids don't usually get in trouble."

Jarett looked down at his lean-muscled body. "Maybe you right about that. Did Donny come here an' see you like Eric?"

"He wanted to, but he was too fat to climb over the gates."

Jarett pulled up a wild-flower and started to pick off the petals. "I like this place, man. You was smart comin' here. But, why you decide to live in a graveyard? Sure it be peaceful an' safe an' all, but don't it get lonely sometimes?"

Robby looked up at the sun. "Remember what I said last night? About seein' kids die? ...I did say that, didn't I?"

"Yeah."

Robby gazed at the sun and his golden eyes saddened. "I killed a kid, man. ...I didn't want to, but I don't think I had any choice."

"...Oh."

Robby faced the hazy city. "It gets hard to remember stuff from out there. Maybe that happens when you're all alone. You start forgettin' who you was, an' nothin' you done seem important no more. ...The kid was a dealer. Only sixteen. He was gonna kill us. Our gang that wasn't. 'Cause we wouldn't slang rocks for him. Or, maybe 'cause we didn't respect him." Robby looked up at the sun once more. "Seems stupid now... like, your life can't be much if you gotta kill people just 'cause they don't respect you. But he made a choice... like, pulled the wrong rabbit out of a hat... a big nasty rabbit. An' maybe I did, too."

Jarett glanced up, but the sun was too bright for his eyes. "Sorry I axed. But, I wish I had homies like yours. My best friend got capped last summer. Now I got nobody."

"You still gots your mom."

Jarett tore the last petal off the flower and threw the stem away. "Not no more. Not since that crack-slangin' punk moved in an' got her addicted to shit!" Then he paused, almost surprised. "I almost forgot, I killed him last night!" He turned uneasily toward the gates and the hazy shapes of the city. "Now the cops be lookin' for me."

"So, how did you kill him?" asked Robby.

Jarett described what had happened, and Robby listened thoughtfully. Finally he said, when Jarett finished: "Sound more like a accident, dawg. Besides, he was tryin' to kill you, wasn't he? So, what other choice did you have?"

Jarett dropped his chin to his hands. "No choice at all, but what's that matter? Cops don't listen to kids like me. To them we're all wicked."

"I think we shall tire of that word fairly soon," said Robby as if reciting something. He lay on his back on the sun-warmed slab, his chubby arms crossed beneath his head, his ragged shirt baring his soft bronze belly. He gazed at the sky for a minute or two, then shifted his eyes back to Jarett. "I know it sound kinda preachy, man, but the truth gots a way of comin' out. Like, pushin' right up through the bullshit an' lies, like these flowers be bustin' the stones in here. ...You still love your mom, don't you?"

Jarett sighed. "'Course I do. An' she loved me. But, it's gotta be hard to love anybody when you're hurtin' yourself all the time."

"Maybe you could help her stop hurtin'."

"How I do that?"

"Well, maybe you could go back home. Tell her you love her."

"I don't know, man..."

"Don't know what?" demanded Robby. "You gotta be able to say you love her."

"I mean take the chance of goin' back there after what happen last night."

"Ain't there been times when she helped you?"

"Most of my life, but..."

"Then maybe it's time you helped her."

Jarett was quiet for several minutes, listening to bees and the gentle bird song, lulled by the peaceful trickle of water. Part of him wanted to stay in this place, to rest in the sun and forget his old life. He glanced to the rusty gates again. "But, if I can't do nothin' out there, can I come back here an' stay with you?"

Robby smiled. "I be here, dawg." He wiggled out of his dusty shirt. "You can't wear that bloody ol' rag of yours. People think you a walkin' kid-corpse."

Jarett looked down at himself again, his arm still a mess, dried blood everywhere. "Guess I do look a little bit dead."

"Only on the outside. You can wash in the pond."

The pond was small, about thirty feet wide, and set like a chubby kid's belly button in a soft round tummy of tall green grass. Maybe there had been goldfish once, but they'd probably died of old-age. In the middle of the pool stood a fat naked boy. He was made of bronze, his toes in the water, and holding a vase in his arms. Maybe he was supposed to be Greek, but his hair looked more like an Afro. He and Robby were about the same color... except for some green on the statue. Water trickled out of the vase, like the boy had a job to keep the pond full. Jarett wouldn't have minded that job, here in this place of sunlight and peace. He knelt in the grass at the water's edge to wash his face and wounded arm, then slipped into Robby's old shirt. A jutting chest muscle thrust out through a hole.

"Thanks, Robby," said Jarett. "I bring it back."

Robby stretched in the clear morning light, almost losing his jeans. "Take your time, dawg." He laughed and spread his arms to the sky. "Maybe I catch me a tan."

Jarett smiled. Robby had sort of a lion-cub look, cuddly under his bushy black mane like an oversized toy for a little kid's bed; a look that invited a hug. Jarett studied his own reflection, mirrored below in the water. His hard-muscled body looked menacing, and nobody hugged a panther. He got up and walked to the gates with Robby, unlocked the lock then shook Robby's hand. "I'ma be back tonight, man. Whatever happen out there."

"Don't forget your key," said Robby.

SIX

Jarett closed the gates behind him, then locked the padlock and chain. Robby had perched on the mossy tombstone after snagging a book from the tall grass below. He flipped through the pages, finding his place, then flashed the peace sign with two chubby fingers. "Later, dawg."

Jarett raised a hand in return, then headed up the broken sidewalk, passing the rows of abandoned houses and boarded-up factory buildings. He stopped at a corner to get his bearings, surprised he'd come so far last night. The street sign was rusty and couldn't be read, but he recognized a water tower looming off in the distance. His ribs ached a bit, and his wounded arm hurt. His ankle was throbbing again. He paused to tighten his shoelace, which seemed to help a little.

A few blocks away from the graveyard his stomach let out a rumbling growl when he smelled the aroma of new-born bread. Up the street was a big bakery, a brand that was advertised on TV as being "homemade on the farm every morning." Jarett didn't see any cows, but delivery vans were coming and going, passing through a gate in a fence. Stacked on a platform in front of the building were so many loaves, pastries and cakes that it took a forklift to move them. Jarett's last meal had been half a sandwich given to him by a kid at school.

Waiting until a truck arrived and its driver went into the building, Jarett crept in through the entrance gate and up to the long loading dock. He grabbed a box of donuts and ran! His ankle was throbbing in pain once more when he finally stopped a block away, but no one seemed to be after him. The donuts tasted like angel food as he limped along the sidewalk.

He passed a little scrap yard, where rusty metal and corpses of cars towered like jagged mountains of junk behind a sagging chain-link fence. A battered old crane like an iron dinosaur was busily feeding a roaring machine that seemed to be able to swallow whole cars and grind them into football-size chunks. It would have been cool to watch awhile, a normal kid-thing to do, but Jarett was checking the street for cops.

Then a black-and-tan demon came flying at him!

Jarett leaped into the trash-filled gutter as a huge dog slammed against the fence, white razor-teeth and hot yellow eyes. The dog continued to snarl and snap as Jarett slowly backed away. Then came a bellow of laughter:

"Eat 'em up, Duke!"

Jarett saw a burly white man clad in greasy overalls. The man laughed again as the dog raged at Jarett, snarling, snapping, dripping drool. It kept lunging against the rusty fence and almost busting through in places where the mesh was patched with coat-hanger wire. The man could see that Jarett was scared, and the dog could probably smell it.

Then, someone jumped down from the beat-up old crane... a shaggy-haired white boy, maybe eighteen, in boots with steel showing through on the toes. He was shirtless in jeans so soaked with oil they looked like biker leathers. His sun-tanned body was streaked with grime, and his bushy blond hair tumbled over his shoulders beneath a dented hard-hat. He cursed the dog and gave it a kick. The animal yelped and turned on him, but another dude came running. He was sooty black, also shirtless in jeans, and packing a long piece of pipe. The dog tucked-tail and fled from the boys, who flung bits of junk at its butt. The man muttered something like "just having fun," but the boys didn't look amused. The blond boy turned and smiled at Jarett, joined by his sooty companion.

"The boss is a jerk, but he can't help it."

The black boy grinned and added. "Guess his mama done her best."

The blond boy laughed and high-fived his friend. "An' a dog takes after its master."

The boys were about the same age and build -- lanky, lean-muscled, and equal in height -- and strange as it seemed they might have been twins. This seemed to show most in their faces, as if they shared the same thoughts.

"Um, thanks, dudes," said Jarett, whose heart seemed to hammer his aching ribs. "But I hope you don't get in trouble."

The black boy laughed and twirled the pipe like an oversize iron baton. "The man ain't gonna find no other fools to work for the chump-change he pay."

"You cool, little bro?" asked the blond boy.

"Yeah," said the black. "You look like you been through the shredder."

"I'm all right," said Jarett. "Um, thanks again." He hurried away before the dudes could really check him out. The cops were probably looking for him... a dark boy with dreads who'd been beaten up.

Finally nearing his own neighborhood, he cautiously scanned the streets and alleys, hiding whenever a car approached. The morning sun seemed to mock his fear, as if nothing bad could ever happen beneath its friendly golden glow. He stopped a block away from his house in what must have been the narrow alley he'd stumbled through the night before. There was only a handful of cars up the street, and all were too old and shabby for cops'.

Then he noticed the ancient hearse in the funeral home's weedy driveway. It looked more funny than frightening now, with its bulbous fenders, tons of chrome, and narrow, old-fashioned whitewall tires.

Someone was cutting the weeds in the yard; a slashing shadow as dark as death who swung a savage machete. It was a boy around nineteen, willowy slender and gracefully tall. He wore only jeans and big battered sneaks, his long body shining with silvery sweat as if someone had polished a midnight. Despite his slimness his muscles were hard, though more gently sculpted than starkly defined, and he would have looked fragile if not so tall. His face was almost more pretty than handsome, with high cheekbones, a small snub nose, and full lips at rest in an half-open pout. His hair was an ebony dandelion-puff, while his hands and feet looked cartoonishly large, though there was nothing awkward about him. He moved like a stalking cat or a dancer, reaping a harvest of dead yellow thistles with every bright sweep of his dangerous blade. He was clearly the long-coated leather-clad shape who'd arrived in the hearse last night.

If not for the trouble Jarett was in, he might have gone over to meet the boy and ask what was up with the old funeral home. Was it going to open for business again? There wasn't a shortage of customers with all the Gs and thuggers around, killing each other to "keep it real," and plenty of rappers encouraging them. The boy seemed too young for an undertaker, but Jarett didn't have time for questions.

The boy glanced up as Jarett passed. Their eyes met briefly, black to black; but Jarett was too distracted to smile.

Jarett stopped near his house. The 'hood was almost too quiet. The whispering slash of the slender boy's blade seemed to be the only sound. Maybe this was a trap? The cops could be up in his crib right now. He recalled again the safety and peace of Robby's sunny graveyard. Maybe he should go back there?

Then, Mrs. Davis came out of the house, dressed in her nurse's uniform. She wouldn't betray him, he'd take the chance.

Mrs. Davis was big and fearless, yet her eyes went wide when Jarett appeared as if she was seeing a ghost. But then she gathered him into her arms, and tears trickled bright down her cheeks.

"Thank God you're alive, son! ...All that blood! ...Nobody knew what happened to you!" She gripped Jarett's shoulders and studied him. "Lord, you look like you come out the grave! ...We best get you to the hospital."

But, Jarett wiggled free. "No. I'm cool. Is my mom all right?"

"Yes, son. She's upstairs... alone. I gave her somethin' to help her rest."

"What about... him?" Jarett asked.

Mrs. Davis's face went hard. "He won't be causin' you trouble no more. Or anyone else this side of the grave."

An icy shiver ran down Jarett's spine, even though he'd already known. "I killed him, didn't I?"

Mrs. Davis took Jarett's shoulders again and carefully searched his eyes. "No you didn't. Listen to me. I saw the whole thing from the top of the stairs. You were defendin' yourself, that's all. Man twice your size! You didn't push him, Jarett, he fell. His death was no doin' of yours, son. That's God's honest truth, an' I told the cops." Her eyes returned to his wounded arm. "I think y'all better come with me."

"No... thanks, Miz Davis. I'ma go up to my mom."

Mrs. Davis hesitated, but finally let go of Jarett. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out the box-cutter knife. "No reason the cops should have found this. Was enough splintered wood to done the damage. An' I doubt there be much of an inquest... not for the likes of him. He probably be in the ground by tomorrow."

Mrs. Davis gave Jarett the blade, then glanced at her watch. "Lord, I gotta get goin', son... 'bout to miss my bus." She started down the squeaky steps, but paused and turned around. "I work at a rehab center in the evenin's. Here's the address." She pulled a card from her pocket. "You get your mom to come... yes you do. We got nice beds an' comfortable rooms, an' she can stay there 'till she back on her feet."

Jarett took the card. "Thanks, Miz Davis." He limped into the house and up the hall, then stopped at the foot of the stairs. On the floor was an outline in pale white chalk, a childish cartoon of a dead black man. Jarett had seen them before on the streets. Somehow they always seemed smaller than life, the way a dead spider looked tiny and harmless compared to its frightening shape when alive. What had the man been like as a kid? Had he ever used his key? A key like Robby had talked about?

Jarett felt cold gazing down at the sketch, though the air had been warm when he'd entered the house. The chill seemed to follow him up the stairs as he passed his own blood still bright on the landing. He paused again to study the stains, almost amazed at all he'd lost. But that seemed a little unreal now, like a nightmare remembered in morning sunlight.

Climbing the stairs seemed to warm him again. The apartment door was open. His mother sat on the ragged couch, clad in a bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers, her eyes seeking refuge in daytime TV. She turned as Jarett came in; and he saw that her face was the face he recalled from a long time ago in the past... the mother who'd read those fairytale stories and tucked him into bed at night. He ran to her, awkward because of his ankle, and they hugged for the first time in almost a year.

He sat down beside her and held her hand as the TV babbled its own fairytale in a Neverland world of make-believe people who solved all their problems between commercials for wireless phones and shiny new cars. But, nothing had really changed; the door to his room hung splintered and broken; a needle and packet of dirty brown powder were only half hidden beneath magazines. The cops must have see it, but probably hadn't wanted to bother. Dust to dust, as the preacher had said when they'd buried Jarett's homey. All went back to dust when it died.

Yet he'd also said, sure and certain hope.

But what was certain about hope, Jarett wondered?

"Mom," he murmured at last. "Miz Davis work at a rehab center." He took out the card. "It just a few blocks from here."

Fear flickered over his mother's face. "Jarett... honey. You don't understand. It ain't that easy..."

Jarett let go of his mother's hand. He picked up the needle. He wanted to throw it on the floor and grind it to dust with his shoe. Instead he put it back again, watching his mother's eyes follow. "Dyin' is easy," he said. "I wanna help you live, mom. But, you gotta go to that rehab place."

His mother's eyes only looked more frightened. "But, if I went there you'd be all alone."

Jarett shook his head. "I been alone, mom. A long time already." He saw the pain his words had caused, and pressed his mother's hand once more. "Got a new friend. Met him last night. Name's Robby. He's cool. So I won't be alone."

"But, you got school. ...An' there's rent to pay."

Jarett felt tears trying to start, but he fought them back and stood up. "You only makin' excuses, mom. You gotta go to the rehab place. It like... well... like, you got a key. A key that can let you get out of here... like, out this bad place you got in. But, you gotta use it." He hesitated, still battling tears, then hardened his voice. "I ain't gonna stay here an' watch you die. That be the wickedest thing I could do." He held out his hand. "C'mon. Get ready."

His mother's eyes seemed to clear a little. "Oh, God, son! What happen to you?"

Jarett knew how dead he looked. "I'm alive, mom. An' so are you. An' we gotta help each other live." He took her hand with a strength that surprised him and helped her to her feet.

SEVEN

The rehab center looked haunted, like a mansion in a storybook or the Munsters' house on the old TV show; a big wooden building with turrets and towers and many odd angles and slants to its roof. Its shingles were patched with pieces of tin and its paint was weathered and peeling, but a hand-painted sign in the corner doorway said WELCOME in bright yellow letters.

Mrs. Davis's smile was just as bright as she bustled across the large front room like a tugboat coming to rescue a ship. Jarett kept hold of his mother's hand, not wanting Mrs. Davis to tow her away. He scanned around as they walked to a staircase across a worn but well-polished floor. He hadn't known what to expect coming here, maybe something like an emergency room of hostile plastic, threatening metal, and painfully glaring lights. But, despite its shabby outside, the place seemed friendly within. The ancient woodwork was freshly varnished, and the paint on the walls looked almost new. The building might once have been a hotel, which Jarett supposed was logical because it was only a few blocks away from the old West Oakland railroad station. The lofty-ceilinged lobby was furnished with couches and chairs. There were tables with books and magazines; and a TV was tuned to an evening talk show about the war on terrorism. The handful of people sitting around all looked normal in regular clothes instead of bathrobes or hospital gowns.

To Jarett, his mom looked brave and cool in a dress she had once worn to church on Sundays, though her hand trembled slightly in his. They climbed the stairs to a hallway, and Mrs. Davis continued on as if she was giving a tour. The passage was lit by candle-shaped bulbs in antique brackets along the walls; they reminded Jarett of the flower vases in Robby's graveyard house. The rooms were small but newly painted, each with a bed, a chair and a dresser. None of the pieces of furniture matched, but all was well-kept, or at least well-repaired.

Mrs. Davis showed them a room where sunlight streamed in through a west-facing window. Jarett had carried his mother's things in a little overnight bag. He set it atop the dresser then kissed his mom goodbye.

"I'ma come see you tomorrow," he said, then hesitated, wondering why it seemed so hard to say those three simple words. "I love you," he added.

His mom drew him close in a hug. "I love you, too," she whispered. "My big strong son."

Jarett didn't feel big or strong, just confused and a little afraid. Back in the hall with Mrs. Davis, he pulled out the rag-wrapped needle and the packet of dirty brown powder. "I brung this stuff. Maybe I shoulda flushed it?"

"Pity the toilet." Mrs. Davis took the things with the kind of professional indifference she'd probably give to a bedpan. "You done fine, Jarett. We got a furnace take care of this. Send it straight back to hell where it came from."

"Um," Jarett added. "She wasn't on it real bad. Besides, it ain't very good."

Mrs. Davis patted his shoulder. "She gonna be all right, Jarret. She got you, an' sheknow she got you. That's more important than anything else."

"Um, it is all right, ain't it? Me comin' back tomorrow? ...I seen her hurtin' before."

"Of course you come back tomorrow, son. We can help her deal with the physical pain, but what's really important is showin' you love her. Bein' there, an' givin' her hope."

Jarett sighed. "I don't think I'm very good at that. If I was, she wouldn't be here."

"You done all you could with what you had, so don't go blamin' yourself, son. You can't change the past, what's done is done forever, but you can change the future."

"How I do that?"

Mrs. Davis smiled. "The future's kinda like a bus, it's comin' whether you want it or not. You can get on board an' go where you want. Or, you just can stand there an' let it go by... in which case you ain't goin' nowhere."

Jarett considered that. "Buses don't always go where you wanna go."

"They can usually get you close. ...Now, y'all come with me an' I fix up that arm." Mrs. Davis examined it. "Should have had stitches. Gonna leave a big scar."

Jarett shrugged. "Ain't gonna show much, I'm way too black."

"Well, you a fast healer, I give you that. Just like my boy Randy. Always fallin' off that skateboard of his."

"Randy used to skate?" asked Jarett. That seemed a little hard to believe, recalling the six-foot mass of muscle who'd rescued him from several beatings.

"'Course, I ain't no fool," Mrs. Davis went on. "Some of his wounds didn't come from skatin', but I always knew he'd beat the streets, an' he's goin' to college after the Army."

"Guess you worry about him a lot, over there fightin' terrorists?"

"Yes I do, son, an' I pray every night. But terror ain't nothin' new to him. He got a good head on his shoulders, an' he know when to keep it down." Mrs. Davis led Jarett downstairs. Then they walked along a high-ceilinged hall where cooking aromas flavored the air, making Jarett's stomach growl. They passed a doorway and he glanced in, seeing a sort of restaurant kitchen with a huge ancient stove, a big metal sink, and a wooden cold-box with shiny brass handles that looked like something out of a morgue. Light bulbs dangled from wires overhead, while pots and pans hung from long iron racks. A big covered kettle of what smelled like gumbo was simmering slow on the stovetop.

Then he saw Robby washing dishes! He stopped at the doorway, but then realized he was seeing a girl. She stood at the sink, her back to Jarett, busily scrubbing a big frying pan. She wore faded jeans, beat-up sneaks, and a T-shirt that didn't quite cover her middle. The combination of chubbiness, honey-bronze skin and Afroish hair made her look a lot like Robby.

Mrs. Davis led Jarett on, and they came to a room like a doctor's office. There was a glass-fronted cabinet with various medicine bottles and jars, and an antique examination table of nickel-plate and worn black leather. Mrs. Davis told Jarett to take off his shirt and climb on the table, then she bent close to check out his ribs. His midnight skin didn't easily bruise, but she seemed to know where to look for damage.

"Ow!" he said as she prodded him gently, then clasped her hands to his lean-muscled sides.

"Take a deep breath for me, son. That hurt?"

"Just... a little."

"More than a little, I'm thinkin'. But, nothin' seems to be busted in there. How's that ankle? I seen you limpin'."

"S'cool."

"Uh-huh." Mrs. Davis removed Jarett's shoe and wiggled his foot back and forth.

"Ow, dammit!" said Jarett. "...Sorry." He noticed his sock was full of holes and a toe stuck out cartoonishly.

Mrs. Davis smiled. "I heard a lot worse... seen worse, too." She went to the medical cabinet and took out a big brown bottle.

Jarett cocked his head. "What's that?"

"Ol' Doc Tindle's Horse Liniment. This'll take care of your trotters."

"...Oh."

"Take off your sock. This gonna burn a little at first, but it start feelin' better right after."

"Ow!"

Mrs. Davis massaged the thick brown liquid into Jarett's ankle. It smelled like gasoline, burned like hell, and he squirmed on the slippery leather. "That shi... that stuff really for horses?"

"Them, too. Now let's see that arm."

Jarett jerked his arm away. "You ain't puttin' that nasty ol' stuff on my arm!"

Mrs. Davis chuckled. "Got some dog disinfectant for that."

Jarett rolled his eyes. "Oh, cool."

Mrs. Davis examined Jarett's arm. "There's still a few pieces of glass in there. I'll have to pick 'em out."

Jarett tried to maintain his cool as Mrs. Davis armed herself with what looked like an ice-pick and oversize tweezers. He tried to think of something else -- the tall green grass in the quiet graveyard, the sweet smell of flowers and buzzing of bees -- as Mrs. Davis went to work. She knew what she was all about, and it didn't hurt too much, though Jarett winced when she probed with the ice-pick. Then he glanced to the hallway door, saw the girl, and bit back an "ow."

It wasn't surprising he'd thought of Robby, seeing the girl in the kitchen. She was rolly-poly chubby like Robby and also about thirteen. Her face was cheerful and button-nosed, with chipmunk cheeks and rosebud lips. Her long-lashed eyes held a hint of gold, and her forehead was shadowed by bushy curls. Her faded black T-shirt was tightly too small and clung to the well-rounded shapes of her breasts, while her tummy lapped over the top of her jeans and the shirt bared the soft oval cave of her navel.

Jarett forgot about his arm and whatever Mrs. Davis was doing... sawing it off for all he knew. The girl had been peeping him out. For a second he swore he could feel her eyes. It was almost the same sensation he got when waiting at home for the bathtub to fill, feeling the feathery fingers of steam carressing his naked body. Then the girl said:

"You don't look like a crackhead. Too many muscles."

Mrs. Davis plucked a long shard of glass from Jarett's captive arm.

"Ow, DAMMIT! ...I ain't no crackhead!"

The girl smiled. "Maybe that's why you don't look like one."

"Ya think?" said Jarett. The girl was cute, but he found himself feeling annoyed by her 'tude.

Mrs. Davis glanced at the girl. "Now there's some down-to-earth logic for you." Then she smiled at Jarett. "This is Martin Hawker. Her mother does most of the cookin' for us, an' Martin helps out here an' there. Martin, this is Jarett. His mom is stayin' with us for a while."

Jarett watched the girl's face, alert for a smirk, but her eyes seemed more kind than anything else. She came in from the hallway and offered her hand. It was warm and soft from washing dishes, but also felt strong for a girl's. She wore what looked like a homemade bracelet, a sort of African-looking thing woven from strips of colored leather. Her gold-tinted eyes were curious now; they lingered a moment on Jarett's chest, then shifted away to his arm. "Can I help, Mrs. Davis?" she asked.

Mrs. Davis smiled at Jarett again. "Martin's gonna be a doctor." She turned to the girl. "'Spect your hands be clean enough. An' 'lemony-fresh' like they say on TV. Y'all go ahead an' finish him up. I got the glass out. Just swab it good an' wrap a loose bandage."

Jarett found himself tensing a bit as the girl took his arm like an object of interest and gave it a critical scoping. "Shouldn't this get stitches?" she asked, with an eagerness that made him uneasy. "I need the practice," she added.

Jarett jerked his arm free. "You ain't gonna practice no stitchin' on me!"

Martin grabbed his arm again as if they were playing with something. "But, check it out, Jarett. It's all opened up. I can see right down through your Cutis Vera."

"So, quit lookin' at my... cutie very."

"You also have a beautifully pigmented Rete Mucosum."

"Yeah, I bet."

Mrs. Davis chuckled. "Remember your beside manner, Martin." Then, to Jarett's astonishment, she up and left the room, leaving him alone with the girl, who petted his shoulder soothingly. "There, there."

"Oh shu... hush," growled Jarett. "Think you Nancy Nurse?"

"That's chauvinistic. Think you a big, bad thugger-boy?"

"That's stereotypical," Jarett snapped. "Besides, I seen enough of that shit to last me the rest of my life."

"So have I," said Martin. "Quit wigglin' around like a maggot an' let me get to work."

"S'pose if Miz Davis trust you, you ain't gonna kill me."

"You look half dead already."

"Bedside manner," Jarett muttered.

"But you'd make a very handsome corpse."

"Stitchin' ain't all you need practice on." Jarett relaxed a little. Martin did seem to know about doctoring things. She dabbed at some blood with a cotton swab. "I suppose you don't like fat girls?" she asked.

"Huh?" said Jarett. "...I never give it much thought." He paused to study the girl again. "I wouldn't call you fat."

"Anorexically-challenged?"

"Huh?" he said again, feeling stupid.

"A rose by any other name..."

"The hell you talkin' about?" he demanded.

Martin only rolled her eyes. "I guess you're a typical G. Readin' gives you a headache, huh?"

"I ain't no stupid-ass, dope-frontin' G! An' I read a few books. Fact is, that rose thing be Shakespeare."

Martin gave Jarett a new look of interest. "Well, give that boy a big cigar. But, I bet you learned it from TV."

"Well... yeah. But, I still know who said it."

"So, why's your mom stayin' with us?"

"Um, she was on shi... you know. But, not too bad."

"Mmm," said Martin thoughtfully, still concentrating on Jarett's arm. "So, who messed you up?"

"I done it myself. Tryin' to jump out a window."

Martin shifted her golden gaze to Jarett's midnight eyes. "Should I axe why?"

Jarett shrugged. "Don't matter now. It all done an' buried... 'leastways I hope. What's important be my mom."

Martin finished cleaning the wound, then got a bandage out of the cabinet. She glanced at the box and giggled a little.

"What's funny?" asked Jarett.

"It says flesh-colored on here."

"Oh. Guess some people don't got as 'richly pigmented a Reet Moo-cow-scum' as me." Jarett smiled. "Some Band-Aid boxes say that, too. An' I had a box of crayons..."

"Yeah," said Martin. "I had them, too. I used to think peaches were flesh-colored."

Jarett laughed. "I used to think white people were peach-colored."

Martin glanced at the cabinet. "Most of this medical stuff is old. The hospital threw it away. New bandages are politically-correct."

Jarett shrugged. "Politically-correct don't fix nothin', it just makes bad shit sound better." Then he added as Martin bandaged his arm, "Um, so, you work here?"

"After school and on weekends. Mostly I help my mom in the kitchen. This is really her second job 'cause she cooks the graveyard shift at Dennys." Martin did a last wrap on the bandage and taped it gently in place. "I'm not supposed to be doing this. It's 'hazardous work' and against the law."

"If the law say that, then the law is a ass." Jarett puffed his chest a bit. "That from a Charles Dickens book."

"We had to read that one in school," said Martin. "Here, let me put on your shoe. ..Your ankle's kinda swollen."

"Miz Davis put some horse shi... stuff, on it."

"Smells like shit, don't it?"

"Maybe shit smell different to a horse. Um... so, I guess I should put on my shirt now?"

Martin smiled. "Seems like a shame. Like puttin' pajamas on a panther."

Jarett shrugged. "Clothes supposed to be who you are. Or 'least what you want other people to think."

"That's kinda profound. Like what you said about bein' politically-correct."

"Aw, I just thought it up." Jarett slipped into his T-shirt, and Martin helped with his bandaged arm.

"Well," she said. "You don't seem to believe in dress to impress. Is that blood on your jeans... yes it is. An' that shirt's just a rotten ol' rag."

Jarett frowned. "A friend of mine just gimmie this shirt, an' now he don't even got one. ...An', you ain't exactly the queen of cool threads."

"Why bother? I'm fat."

"I think we shall tire of that word fairly soon."

Martin cocked her head at that. "I'm savin' my money for stuff that matters. Like college an' medical school. Why should I dress to impress ghetto fools?"

"That what you think I am?"

"No. Besides, you're not dressed like one. You look like my dad goin' to work. He drives a bulldozer at the dump." She seemed to wait for Jarett's reaction.

Jarett only shrugged. "I be savin' my green for important stuff, too. Like helpin' my mom get back on her feet."

Martin smiled. "Nope, you ain't a fool."

Then Jarett sighed. "I be savin' if I had any green. ...Um, so you work here every day?"

"Just about. It's against the law, too."

"Oh, hell, what ain't?" said Jarett. "My mom used to say they get more an' more laws an' less an' less justice every day."

"That's kinda profound."

"Maybe the truth only sound profound 'cause people are used to hearin' lies."

"That's pretty profound by itself."

"Aw, I just thought it up," said Jarett, then added, "I'ma come back tomorrow, to see my mom, y'know. ...Um, maybe I see you, too?"

Martin smiled. "I'll be here."