The red eyes sparkle gratefully.

Between says, "We do know stuff from when you were little, back in the Inst.i.tute. You're a success, Sarah. The only one who ended up crazy and out of there. We lost Dylan; we don't want to lose you."

Questions for which I lack words flutter into my throat and get trapped there. My hands rise to shake them free.

"Easy, Sarah." Professor Isabella has reemerged, wrapped in a towel. "Calm down."

I let my hands fall and the dragons look at each other, sighing simultaneously so that they blow up each other's noses. Unable to help myself, I giggle. Professor Isabella shakes her head with concern and retreats to dress. I realize that she too, is worried that I am losing control.

Between nods thoughtfully. "We can't explain it, Sarah. We're just us and the Inst.i.tute people weren't exactly chatty."

Betwixt interrupts. "You know the Bible quote? 'Eyes have they, but they see not. They have ears, but they hear not'? Someone wanted people who could hear and see what most people can't and that's you and that's Dylan and that's too much for any human."

I nod and hold up my hand, signaling "enough." I need to think, to reflect. Memories without words are rising up and I know if I do not carefully handle them, I will be drowned.

When Professor Isabella returns, coifed and wearing only one skirt and sweater, Abalone ignores her questions and keeps working. She does nod thanks when the professor supplies her with cocoa from a vending machine. Then the two of us withdraw to a corner and Professor begins to read to me from the collected works of Mark Twain.

We are both so immersed in the essay she is reading that when Abalone lets out a long whistle of amazement, we both jump.

"Found something?" Professor Isabella asks, flipping off the portable library screen that Abalone had bought soon after our first meeting.

"And something," Abalone confirms, rumpling her unrumpleable hair. "The outer programs were a breeze. I could have gotten through them when I...I got through them easily. When I started on the records for this latest 'purge' and some Dr. Haas who was in charge of Sarah's case, well..."

She shakes her head in amazement.

"So you didn't learn anything?" Professor Isabella asks.

Abalone raises her eyebrows indignantly, "I didn't say that. I just said it wasn't easy. C'mere.

"I didn't want to be too direct about this," Abalone begins once we have positioned ourselves so that we can see her screen. "If someone is really looking for Sarah, her files might be flagged so that unauthorized entry would be noticed. So I went on a less obvious tangent."

She pauses to sip her cocoa, grimacing when she finds it has grown cold.

"I knew about when Sarah appeared on the street, so I worked backward through the files, looking for when the orders came down. When I found them, I cross-checked by matching not only Sarah's name, but Ali and Francis, those two fellows Jerome mentioned. Then, when I was sure I had the right group I checked who the controlling authorities were. There were three physicians or psychiatrists, Doctors Davidoff, N'goya, and Haas, who came in from outside. I found next that Haas had been the one who selected Sarah as one of those to be pitched into the cold cruel."

This time she looks at the cold cocoa before sipping.

"Let me go pee. Will you get refills, Sarah? Maybe some chips or other junk?"

She tosses me a credit slip and I head out, proud that I can do this without panicking. Behind me, Betwixt and Between call for me to remember a treat for them.

When I return, Abalone is back in her perch on the bed. I am pleased that the story has waited for me. Once we are settled with cocoa and cake and chips and the rest of my loot from the vending machines, Abalone continues her report.

"Well, the next jump was a leap of faith. I still didn't want to try Sarah's file or code a search with her specs, not until I knew more. Then it occurred to me. Someone may want Sarah back-it may be a private individual even, but whoever it is is using the Home. This is where the faith came in-what if someone screwed up letting Sarah out? I decided that made sense, since that would clear up why someone was trying to get her back. Well, the candidate for prime screwup was this Dr. Haas, who cleared Sarah to go."

Abalone pauses, swigs, and hits an icon on her screen. The screen shifts, but the pattern of numbers and letters remains unintelligible to me. Professor Isabella leans forward, though, scans and grunts.

"Bingo, Abalone. Bingo!"

Beaming, Abalone continues, "With the Haas name as a tracer, I did some more snooping. Not only does she have permission to readmit Sarah if she's found, but she was the one who had Ali and Francis dragged in. I bet they were questioned and then junked when they couldn't say where our friend here was."

"Did you ever go after Sarah's files?" Professor Isabella asks, her hand clasped tight around her drink.

"Yep, I couldn't give up, not when things were going so well. Something might have made it tougher for me later."

"Pshaw," Professor Isabella chuckles.

I giggle.

"All right, I'm curious. This gets weirder the more I look. I expected to find either that Peep was exaggerating or that a simple recall had been issued. I find neither one nor the other, a mixture of both."

She touches a few icons and this time I recognize my face up in one corner of the screen. The words mean nothing, but I remember the computer in the outpatient processing center reciting: "Sarah. No surname. No precise date of birth. Admitted from Ivy Green Inst.i.tute, a private sanatorium."

I tense, waiting for the flashing lights, the warning "Cla.s.sified!"

Nothing happens and slowly I let my muscles unknot, realizing that Abalone has failed to alert the warning.

"Ivy Green Inst.i.tute," Professor Isabella muses. "Yes, that's where Sarah was brought from. I remember hearing something about it. Did you check them out?"

"Not yet. I wanted to see if I could get into Sarah's file at the Home. I avoided a Cla.s.sified flag-it was pretty plain, meant to keep out peeping staff grunts."

"What did you find?"

Abalone's smile vanishes. "It's been rewritten, look."

The screen flickers. The same picture is there, but in the swimming characters is information that makes Professor Isabella gasp.

"To be ignorant of one's ignorance is the malady of the ignorant," I hint, tired of being ignored.

"Sorry, Sarah," Professor Isabella apologizes. "Ignorance may be bliss, here. Abalone's right, the file describes a young woman of about your age and appearance, but nothing else is the same. The woman is not listed as a possible autistic, but as a probably dangerous paranoid. Your little identifying traits-like speaking in quotes-are completely missing."

I look with puzzlement at Abalone and she wrinkles her brow. "I don't know, Sarah, but I got out of that file as fast as I could. I checked the recall on Ali and Francis-not much help there except that Dr. Haas issued it. I think she's behind the search for you-well, at least involved with it."

Professor Isabella is still looking at the altered file.

"This frightens me, girls. The woman depicted here is dangerous-if she was 'accidentally' killed or, worse, doped to the gills, there aren't many who would question the wisdom of the action. By then, she could not defend herself."

"Wolf's Heart!" Abalone cries, kicking a chair leg. "Can Sarah, anyhow? You really need to listen to follow her as it is. She could be dragged off before anyone could understand her and decide to step in."

"That he is mad"-I point to myself-"'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity; And pity 'tis 'tis true."

"Sarah, honey"-Professor Isabella pats my hand-"there is a method to your madness but Abalone is right, not many will take time to find it. Abalone, how long until they find she is in the Jungle?"

"Peep says Edelweiss knows someone wants Sarah. That means others do, too. My guess is until Sarah gets more time with Head Wolf than the others like. The Law doesn't forbid Pack members to fight, just demands that the fight is 'alone and afar.'"

"'Lest others take part in the quarrel and the Pack be diminished by war," I finish, remembering with a pounding heart the conversation Betwixt and Between had reported.

"We may not have much time." Professor Isabella looks sharply at Abalone. "I may be asking too much, but Sarah needs to be taken away from this area. The city is large. We can lose ourselves easily and yet keep tabs on the search. When the interest dies down..."

"We can move back into our old hunting grounds." Abalone nods. "I'm with you. She's my Cub still, even if she has won her wolf. I'm not leaving her now, but will she go with us?"

"Ask her," Betwixt and Between hiss together, unheard as always.

Professor Isabella looks at me.

"You've heard all of this, Sarah. Will you leave the Jungle and come with us to a safer place?"

Memories of the musky Jungle, warm even in winter's chill, of swinging free above the Pack, of Head Wolf's hands and dark mad eyes engulf me, but I know that the Jungle is no longer a safe lair for me. I know, too, that a search there may threaten the Pack and provide an excuse for our enemies.

I square my shoulders and manage a smile. "Elysium is as far as to the nearest room, if in that room a friend await felicity or doom."

"Brave words." Abalone smiles. "Head Wolf needs to know this, but it is best we move quickly and without alerting the Pack. Leave it to me. You two rest. I'll be back."

She flees before we can protest. Reluctantly, I wait, pacing the confines of walls that did not bind until this moment.

Seven.

THE APARTMENT IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE. ABALONE HAS DISCARDED the sky-reaching metroplexes as too inst.i.tutional and has chosen instead a refurbished older building. We each have our own bedroom and share a living room and kitchen. There are even two bathrooms. the sky-reaching metroplexes as too inst.i.tutional and has chosen instead a refurbished older building. We each have our own bedroom and share a living room and kitchen. There are even two bathrooms.

Despite the lovely old brick walls that whisper to me as I relax into sleep, the building has modern computer security. As an added measure against our standing out from our new neighbors, Abalone no longer paints her lips blue and has let the flame-tone of her hair fade somewhat. Without her paint, she is changed. I cannot tell if she looks older or younger, but she looks sadder-a spring flower wilted and bleached by a late frost.

Professor Isabella does not ask how the rent is being paid but once. Abalone meets the inquiry with silence and then walks out.

I touch Professor Isabella's arm. "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?"

"And would we want her to?" Professor Isabella replies. "No, as long as she is careful. Sarah, that girl is nearly as great a mystery as you and, yet, perhaps none at all."

She shakes herself and straightens the neat skirt and blouse that have replaced her ragged layers. I like her better this way; she smells sweet, like roses, but she radiates tension.

I remember that, like me, she has been insane. I wonder if the retreat from the streets and relief from the daily battle for food and heat have left her with too much to reflect upon.

"He who can, does. He who cannot, teaches," I say, balancing Betwixt and Between on the window ledge so that they can see the sparrows eating bread crumbs on the crusty snow below.

"Are you twigging me, Sarah?" Professor Isabella looks astonished, then amused. "You have become sharp. Fine, if Abalone is going to support us, I will teach you-and her if she wishes. Perhaps if I get enough into your pretty head, we'll have the monkeys, typewriters, and Shakespeare."

I puzzle over the last, but do not worry about references. Professor Isabella is happily opening her worn poetry anthology and the crisis is over for now.

Later, when she has nodded off over the book and Abalone has vanished out into the night, I lie on the floor with my dragons on my stomach.

Head Wolf had come with Abalone when she had returned to our hideout in the motel. He bowed to Professor Isabella and embraced me. Strangely, I wanted to weep. There was little discussion, nor did he seem angry.

"The Law says 'For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.'"

I nodded, wishing never to leave those arms.

"Do you want to go, Sarah?"

The dark eyes overwhelmed me. The ache I felt was loneliness, love, and l.u.s.t. His skin smelled of cinnamon and salt. Hurting, I managed to nod. Then I pushed myself away.

"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly," I managed, fighting tears.

"Well, then." He hugged Abalone, bowed again. "Good Hunting!"

The memory hurts no less now for having been reviewed a dozen times. I rock to my feet and pace from wall to wall, in and out of my room, the kitchen, each of the bathrooms, and around again. When I am weary, I needlepoint a pattern I am making for Professor Isabella. Abalone has promised me that she will take me hunting again soon.

I drift off and dream of sharks with golden hair and hard, green eyes. They smile with pearly teeth and sing a deadly requiem.

Some days later, the weather turns with one of those warm spells that January brings, teasing with forty degrees and sunshine as a stripper tosses away a thigh-high stocking. Not even Blake, who has delighted me until now, can keep my attention. Abalone is asleep and so I whine like a puppy at Professor Isabella.

"Well, I suppose we could go walking in the Park, perhaps over to one of the museums. Would that suit you?"

I nod, clapping my hands. Then I dart off for my shoulder bag and winter coat. Neither Abalone nor Professor Isabella seem to mind Betwixt and Between as much if I keep the dragon covered.

Professor Isabella takes longer to get ready, pausing to write Abalone a note. When we are out in the fresh air, she perks up and trots next to me.

Pointing across the grey-brown lacework of barren treetops, she says, "We'll walk that way, take a look at the museum, and then be rested to come back."

Although the walk invigorates me, the museum overwhelms me. From the moment we walk through one of the vast doors that empty into a cathedral-like hall, I hear voices whispering to me. I must remind myself that I am insane, that nothing is wrong.

This first visit, we go into a central gallery that smells of spice and dust. The exhibit is a Christmas tree decorated with angels in flight, their draperies fluttering with unfelt winds, their serene faces strangely pa.s.sionate. Although they seem small against the spreading evergreen's boughs, I realize that each is larger than Betwixt and Between.

Professor Isabella draws my gaze downward to the figures at the base of the tree. Animals and people, exotic and so ordinary that they seem to be people I have seen, all travel to visit an infant Jesus who beams beatifically from his manger, sheltered beneath the prayerful gaze of his parents.

"The museum will leave the creche up until after the Feast of the Three Kings," she notes. "Aren't the little people wonderful? Look at the detail of Mary's face."

I nod agreement. The Holy Family is beautifully done, but I find myself drawn to the ordinary figures: the almost too-whimsical donkey, the dog who pauses to sniff a shrub, the group of men drinking by a ruined fountain.

If I try, I can hear the song they are singing, not a carol, something l.u.s.tier.

My mouth moves, shaping the words, trying to sing with the infectious melody. One of the men is leaning to hand me his wineskin, his dark eyes glint with mirth and more. I reach...

A sharp sting breaks the sound of the singing. Bewildered, I find myself in the gallery beside the Christmas tree. Professor Isabella is shaking me, her face creased with worry; her cheeks flushed with embarra.s.sment. A few of the other patrons are staring at me. A security guard has halted his step forward, seeing Professor Isabella has quieted me.

We walk outside. I am trembling with embarra.s.sment and the lingering sensation that I have been torn from another world. Afraid to look at Professor Isabella, I shuffle along, my hands buried in my pockets, my eyes fixed on the grey pavement in front of my feet.

"Sarah?"

I do not answer.

"Sarah, are you all right?"

Daring to look, I see that her expression shows only concern. Biting my upper lip, I try for words. There are none-no eloquent apologies lurk in my memory waiting to be recycled by a sincere heart.