They filed into the bedroom and blinked until their eyes adjusted to the murky light. Old d.i.c.k was propped up, his head resting on three feather pillows. He'd had difficulty sleeping and now he was more ill-tempered than usual.

"I didn't mean you," he said to Ginny. "I can see you anytime. I see you too much as it is."

"There you go," Ginny announced, before she went to the kitchen to fix tea. "He must be feeling better."

"You're so nasty," Robin said to her grandfather.

"My pie," he said.

Robin put the pie on the bureau and sliced it into pieces. "This is Stephen. A friend of ours," Robin told her grandfather as she handed Connor a plate of pie.

"What are you staring at?" Old d.i.c.k demanded.

Stephen was in the doorway, and just seeing him, Old d.i.c.k was reminded of a thousand things he'd been trying to forget. His hunger for his own youth left a terrible taste in his mouth. Old d.i.c.k didn't need facts to know that this man in the doorway had everything he wanted.

He could run for miles, he could f.u.c.k a woman all night, he could probably see the smallest newspaper print with no trouble at all.

"That's right!" Old d.i.c.k said. "I'm old. Take a good look at me."

"Grandpa!" Robin said. "That's enough."

Old d.i.c.k sat up as best he could, he was shaking from the exertion.

The newspaper he'd struggled to read fell into a pile on the floor.

"Come over here," Old d.i.c.k shouted at Stephen. "Look at me!""What's wrong with him?" Connor whispered to his mother.

Robin put her arm around Connor and drew him to her.

"Look at what I've become," Old d.i.c.k believed he was saying. But in fact, no words had been spoken. Old d.i.c.k had simply lost the ability to do what most people did every day of their lives. He couldn't pretend there was enough time. He was crying in front of them all, and it didn't seem to matter.

Stephen glanced at Robin, then approached the old man. He should have been hesitant, but he wasn't. As Old d.i.c.k wept, Stephen was remembering the most terrible winter he had known, with nights so cold he thought his blood would freeze. Day and night were both white, thick with falling snow, to get one drink he'd had to lap at the ice covering the green stream below the ridge. Deer were nothing more than hide and bone, owls were silent. And then, just when it seemed winter was over, and the bears had already emerged from their dens, there was a sudden earlyspring storm.

The black wolf, nearly crippled by arthritis in his legs and spine, froze to death half a mile from home.

When they found him, the big dog pulled at her own fur until she bled.

She paced back and forth in front of the black wolf's body until the ice cut the pads of her feet. She took off, by herself, and didn't come back till morning, though her new pups, now fatherless, whimpered in their den and went hungry. When the big dog returned, she seemed confused. Every evening at dusk she went off, they could hear her singing, but the song was so lonely no one dared to answer. For days she didn't eat or drink, but she continued to nurse the new pups, three silver males whose hunger was never satisfied. The big dog was old, though she was the same age as Stephen, her teeth were worn down to nubs and she limped.

After only a few months, when the air had turned blue and summer was at its height, she lay down in a patch of sunlight and stopped moving altogether.

That evening Stephen went off by himself. He climbed high on the ridgetop, and when his brothers down below called to him mournfully, begging him to return, he just climbed higher. He had never once cried, not when he was cut or hungry or sick, but he cried now and he could not stop. It did not seem possible for the world to exist without the big dog, and yet it did. He waited for the world to end, nearly starving, tearing out his hair, and in the morning he went back to his brothers.

Suffering did not stop the clouds from appearing in the east, it didn't change the sound of the wind in the trees, or the hunger you felt, or the thirst you would always have.

When Stephen reached the side of the bed, Old d.i.c.k covered his face with his hands. Stephen sat down anyway, in the chair beside the window. The gla.s.s was smudged, making it impossible to tell the true color of the leaves on the trees.

Stephen raised the window higher. At first the green leaves seemed tinted yellow, but it was only the bees, they could hear them now, a low constant hum. Ginny had rushed back to the bedroom. When she saw Old d.i.c.k crying, she threw her hands up.

"Look what you've done!" she said, but Robin motioned her to be quiet.A sparrow had come to the window ledge. Its song was so common that Robin had never listened before. She had never even heard it. Old d.i.c.k peeked out from behind his hands. Every breath he took was a shudder, every breath hurt. Stephen put his palm down flat on the ledge. The sparrow had flown the length of the island just that morning, its nest was in a cherry tree, in the tallest branches. If the sparrow knew that nothing lasted forever, would it still sing?

Would it still build its nest with the same exact pieces of twine and straw? Qld d.i.c.k, who could not read past the newspaper headlines, suddenly saw that there was salt on the bird's wings. Its beak was stained red from the cherries it had eaten only minutes before. The sparrow hopped onto the back of Stephen's hand, and then it flew away so quickly it was back in its nest, way on the north side of the island, before Robin had served her grandfather his first piece of pie.

People in town got used to the sight of him running. Every evening, as she walked home from the recreation center where she was a counselor in training, Jenny Altero waved to him as she turned the corner onto Cemetery Road, and he always waved back.

Dogs out in the backyards began to bark all at once, and their fierce echo could be heard across the island. How fast Stephen ran was a matter of debate. Boys on bicycles couldn't keep up with him. Cars stopped at red lights had no chance of overtaking him once he'd hit his stride. Roy often followed in his patrol car, close enough to keep an eye on him but not so close that Stephen would notice. But of course Stephen knew anyway, and he paced himself accordingly whenever Roy tailed him, never revealing his true speed. When Roy told his buddies Stephen wasn't nearly as good as everyone was saying, and practically limped after a quarter-mile, he thought he was telling the truth, and got white with anger when no one believed him.

Stephen had given up any hope of ever learning to drive. The last time he'd tried he'd plowed right into a parked car, denting the front end of Robin's truck. There were too many rules and regulations, but with running he could just let go. At first, the foot that had been shattered in the trap seemed to have trouble keeping up with the rest of him. The sneakers on his feet were uncomfortable and the asphalt was harder than dirt, but after a while these things didn't matter so much.

He concentrated on the road to Poorman's Point, where the trees were twisted by the wind. He listened to the sound of the gravel driveway as he pa.s.sed by the place where the tulips once grew.

Ginny left the door open for him, that way she didn't have to go up and down all those stairs. She often set out a snack on the dusty cherry-wood table that filled up the whole dining room, though she never would have admitted that the cookies or sh.e.l.led pecans were for Stephen.

Usually, Ginny was fast asleep in front of one of her programs at this hour, a pot of cold tea on the table beside her.

Stephen took off his shoes at the front door, so he wouldn't wake her or track mud inside. Sometimes the old man was asleep, too, and Stephen would sit in the chair by the window and read the newspaper until he woke up.

"What are you? A cat?" Old d.i.c.k would say when he opened his eyes to see Stephen's bowed head as he read editorials and comics.

"Don't you announce yourself? Don't you ask before you steal a man's newspaper?"

Stephen would fold the newspaper then, and pretend to put it away, until Old d.i.c.k suggested that since he was fiddling with the Tribune anyway,he might as well read it aloud. Old d.i.c.k, who could grumble about almost anyone and anything, never once criticized the halting way Stephen read. Birds often came to the window, as if to eavesdrop, but perhaps they were there only because Old d.i.c.k had taken to leaving crumbs along the sill. Old d.i.c.k had lived longer than anyone else on the island, he was the first to choose a place for himself in the cemetery, on the highest knoll, with a view of the north beach and the marshes.

More and more headstones were raised each year, and still Old d.i.c.k's piece of ground continued to wait for him, the gra.s.s there grew taller, wild asters bloomed. To Stephen, it didn't matter that Richard Aaron could no longer move from his bed or that he needed his food softened by boiling. Old d.i.c.k knew things someone younger couldn't begin to imagine. Every day, as the light began to fade and the shadows across the lawn grew longer, Stephen tried to ask him what it meant to be a man, and every day his tongue wrapped around itself so that he could not ask.

"What?" Old d.i.c.k sometimes said for no reason at all, when he drowsed off, then woke suddenly. "What is it?" he asked.

And still Stephen could not ask what he needed to know. Instead, he readjusted the old man's pillows and closed the window, to make certain the night air wouldn't chill him. "Don't think you have to come back here," Old d.i.c.k often called out when Ginny brought his dinner in on a tray and it was time for Stephen to leave.

"Pay no attention to him," Ginny whispered, even though it was clear that Stephen paid more attention to the old man than anyone had for years.

Stephen always took the same route back, but it was more difficult for him to pace himself on the way home, and he often ran flat-out. His plan was the same as it had always been, even now that he knew how great the distance was. With the use of a magnifying gla.s.s, he had found Cromley on a map, but Cromley was a town, with a hospital and a post office, and where exactly he'd come from he had no idea. His sense of direction was based not on miles or lines drawn on paper, but on the land itself: the rock in the shape of an eagle, the meadow bordered by streams, the place where the rabbits hid in late summer, where the brambles grew taller than a man.

He couldn't rush it, he knew that now. He had only just learned to look both ways before crossing a street, especially at night.

Last week, he'd narrowly missed being hit when he was running down the road and a set of blinding headlights had appeared before him. After that, he stayed close to the curb. He was so fast now that nothing could have stopped him if he had known the way back home. Or maybe he still would have taken the same old route to Robin's.

It was always dark by the time he reached Mansfield Terrace.

Marco Polo sat in his driveway and barked as Stephen ran past, and in spite of Stephen's natural dislike for dogs, he paid no attention. He pretended not to notice when Roy's car was parked on the corner, just waiting for him to make a mistake. He had no choice but to ignore every thing except the fact that he was almost there, running right into the moment he had been thinking about all day, when he walked through the door and saw her, and each time he did he could not believe that men could feel this way and act as though they felt nothing at all.

The birds began to avoid the Dixons' yard, they would light on theredwood fence or along the telephone wires, but they wouldn't go any farther. The bird feeder spilled over with millet and seeds that went untouched. The blueberries on the bushes at the rear of the house were never disturbed. Patty Dixon wondered if it was the weedkiller they'd used in the spring, strong stuff that Robin had advised against, because earlier in June, Patty had found five sparrows dead on the gra.s.s, and now the birds simply wouldn't come back, and the birdhouses her husband, Lou, had made in his workshop were all empty.

Patty was known for her cheerful att.i.tude, she was determined to look on the bright side. She conferred with Robin, then ordered bushes the birds wouldn't be able to resist: honeysuckle and winterberry, sweet raspberries and holly. One hot morning, when the birds in other people's yards had already set up a racket, Stephen dragged over the new bushes, their roots still wrapped in burlap. He dug holes all along the fence, adding lime and manure, pausing only to drink some of Patty Dixon's homemade lemonade.

Sitting out on her patio with Mich.e.l.le, Robin could hear him working in the Dixons' backyard.

"Stephen's all wrong for you," Mich.e.l.le said. Robin made a face pretending she didn't understand, but Mich.e.l.le waved her hand, as if clearing the air between them. "You're RE not going to tell me, so I might as well say it straight-out.

You're on the rebound--that's what's going on here."

"Nothing's going on here," Robin insisted.

"Remember who you're talking to. I know you."

"And you're acting as my guidance counselor?" Robin said.

"Look, I was never one of Roy's fans, but I think he's changed. "

"Please," Robin said.

"I mean it. He phoned me," Mich.e.l.le admitted. "It just didn't sound like the same old Roy. He's asked me to keep an eye on you."

"See," Robin told her. "He hasn't changed one bit. All he knows is how to sneak around."

"I think you'd be making a mistake. You'd get hurt."

"Stephen is living here," Robin said. "That's all."

"In other words, shut up."

"Shut up," Robin agreed.

She offered Mich.e.l.le more coffee, and Mich.e.l.le raised her cup.

"I can't give my advice away," Mich.e.l.le said. "Lydia barely speaks to me. Last Friday, she didn't come home till after two in the morning.

There was sand on her shoes."

"You sound like a detective," Robin said. "Now there's something Roy would do, check the soles of her shoes."

"I've thought about following her," Mich.e.l.le admitted.

"Well, don't. She would never forgive you.""Excuse me?" Mich.e.l.le said. "Whose side are you on?"

Robin took Mich.e.l.le's hand in hers. "Yours," she said. "Always. "

Mich.e.l.le laughed and drew her hand away. "Right. You never let me win at anything."

And it was true: since kindergarten, Robin had stubbornly made most of the rules. It was only recently, when she'd first found out Roy had been cheating on her, that she'd realized their friendship was not as one-sided as they pretended and that, if anything, she was the one who needed Mich.e.l.le.

"You can win now," Robin told her.

"I think it's a little late," Mich.e.l.le said. Still, she was cheered.

She threw back her head and actually laughed. The first time in weeks.

Robin held her coffee cup tightly, her fingers had begun to turn white.

She looked down at the patio that she had designed and built, with the Doctor's advice, when she and Roy first bought the house. Lately she hadn't allowed herself to think about what she was doing, let alone understand the reasons why. The first time, she told herself she forgot to lock his door. The second time it wasn't so easy to pretend.

She'd stood there in the hallway for several minutes, her heart racing, then turned and walked to her room.

"Just don't do anything stupid," Mich.e.l.le was saying to her now.

"Don't do anything you'll live to regret."

As he planted the first of the honeysuckle, Stephen could hear the women's voices, and the sound was soothing, a rhythm to which he worked.

When Matthew Dixon came out of the house, Stephen felt vaguely annoyed.

He didn't want to be interrupted, he was covered with dirt and sweat, but he knew enough to stop and nod a h.e.l.lo.

"Looks like you're doing a good job," Matthew said. He had spent the past month in his room, his complexion was pasty and he blinked in the sunlight.

"Yeah," Stephen grunted, as he shoveled dirt over the roots .

"I've been working on my programs. For my computer," Matthew added when Stephen looked blank.

"Don't know anything about it."

"Really?" Matthew said. In his shirt pocket he had two Mars bars that he was saving for later. "Computers can do anything you want them to do. If you're smart enough to handle them. I could find out anything you wanted me to, given the time and the access. I can do things people wouldn't believe."

In spite of his huge size, Matthew seemed less a college student than a little boy, one blown up with an air pump. He hadn't had much practice conversing with people, and maybe that was why he didn't take the hint when Stephen didn't answer and just kept on working, as though he were alone.

"People think they have privacy, but really, if you know how to tap intothe right networks, you can pretty much get any file you want."

Stephen figured he was stuck with Matthew, he nodded to the next bush.

"Oh," Matthew said, pleased. "Sure."

He brought the honeysuckle over, and together they fitted it into the hole, then Matthew stood back as Stephen filled the dirt back in. It was an easy enough job, but on the last shovelful of earth, Stephen felt the metal hit against something. Puzzled, he stopped and crouched down.

"What is it?" Matthew said.

Stephen put his hands into the dirt. Above them the sky was perfectly blue.

"Oh, brother." Matthew came closer.

A red-and-white cat had been buried in the dirt, its coat was matted, its jaws locked.

"That's the Simons' cat," Matthew said. "Reggie."

Stephen stood up and shoveled the corpse into the earth beside the honeysuckle. "It's as good a place as any."

"Right," Matthew said, backing away.

Stephen realized that he could no longer hear the women talking.