Autumn had blown fiercely into winter. Rain gusted through Berkeley's streets now, slicking asphalt and concrete to a gloomy sheen. Heavy fabrics in dark colors were back in fashion for those who could afford to care. Joby could not. His job interviews always seemed to go well, then-nothing-as if all his applications had simply vanished behind him. In October, he'd finally taken young Gypsy's advice and started dining here, at the Berkeley Public Meal Project, to conserve his dwindling funds. Dinner could be had each night for twenty-five cents in the basement of this Unitarian Church.

Standing in a cold drizzle amidst the smoky, milling throng waiting for the dining hall to open, he looked around for Gypsy. Joby's initial forays into Berkeley's street culture had been awkward at best. Having no idea how to behave around people he did not remotely understand, he had behaved badly at first. Had it not been for Gypsy's almost eager willingness to mediate between Joby and the others, he might never have been accepted here. As Gypsy had helped him discard his distorted preconceptions, however, Joby had come to enjoy the companionship of his new peers. Now dinner was the highlight of his day, and Gypsy was one of the best friends he'd made in years.

To Joby's disappointment, the boy was nowhere to be seen tonight. Across the parking lot, however, by a cluster of rumpled men drinking from paper bags beside the Dumpster, he saw "the little old yarn weaver," as he'd once thought of her. Joby smiled and raised a hand in greeting. She waved back with one hand, waving off a proffered bottle with the other. Their friendship had been born gracelessly as well.

As Joby had wandered the city that fall looking for employment, she had come to seem almost omnipresent in her mass of fraying skirts, weaving her little ornaments of brightly colored yarn. She'd never said a word to him, much less asked for money, but had often smiled when he passed, as if they were old friends. This strange attention had come to cause him such discomfort that he'd started turning corners at the sight of her. Not until Gypsy had finally introduced them at the Project, one clear October evening, had Joby learned her name. Mary, it turned out, was regarded by nearly everyone here as the unofficial queen of Berkeley's streets.

No one seemed quite sure where she had come from, or how long she'd been around, but all agreed it had been longer than most among this transient crowd. Nor could anyone say where she went at night. But there was no one easier to find by day, as Joby had already discovered, and once he'd quit avoiding her, he'd quickly come to appreciate her marvelous sense of humor and great trove of earthy wisdom.

"What are you doing here?" rasped a voice at Joby's shoulder.

Joby whirled to find a gaunt man of sickly gray complexion whose short pewter hair seemed more bitten off than cut, and stumbled back, as much from the reek of urine, sweat, and stale smoke as from surprise.

"I know what you're doing up there!" the man insisted in a rapid-fire staccato. "I hear you through the floor! I hear everything!" He wrung a knot of greasy rags nervously between his hands. "I know all about Nixon's daughter."

"Y-you've got the wrong guy," Joby stammered, struggling to conceal his alarm.

"Don't fuck with me!" the lunatic shouted. "I know where you've got me buried! I know where all of us are buried! I hear everything you do up there!"

"Silverjack! Down boy!"

Joby turned to find Sundog, the Project's self-appointed peacekeeper, coming toward them across the parking lot, his beefy hands held up in placation. Mary followed close behind, looking somber. Passing Joby by, the burly red-haired vet placed a hand gently on the maniac's shoulder and said, "Joby's okay. He's a friend of Mary's. See?" He turned to Joby, one hand still on Silverjack's shoulder. "Joby, this is Silverjack. He gets a little freaked around strangers."

"You know Mary?" Silverjack asked Joby suspiciously.

Joby nodded.

Silverjack looked past him at Mary. "You know him?"

"We're good friends, dearie," she assured him with one of her toothless smiles.

"He's okay?" Silverjack pressed.

"Would I be eatin' with 'im if he wasn't?" she asked, coming to stand beside Joby.

Silverjack gave Joby a decisive nod and said, "You're okay then," as if it were Joby who'd been uncertain, then thrust out a filthy hand, which Joby shook once, trying not to grimace.

"There you go!" Sundog roared happily, slapping Joby on the shoulder with one arm, and rocking Silverjack in a half hug with the other. Then, with Mary in tow, he yanked Joby brusquely off toward the basement door where those with tickets were finally being admitted.

"Thanks for bailing me out," Joby said turning first to Sundog, then to Mary.

"No problem," Sundog rumbled. "Everybody gets along. That's what matters."

Wishing another of his "neighbors" good night, Drrusaffa left their porch with his stack of pamphlets, and stopped to watch the last few stragglers shuffle out of the church basement down the street. The one they called Silverjack was still pacing and muttering erratically to himself back by the Dumpsters. Drrusaffa grinned, focused his mind, and hurled a barb in the man's direction. Sure enough, the vagrant turned, peering fearfully into the streetlit darkness around him until he met Drrusaffa's gaze across the distance. The demon's hideous grin widened unnaturally as Silverjack's frightened eyes went round as moons. Drrusaffa chuckled as the ruined man ran screaming from the lot, nearly bowling over two terrified old women walking home.

Drrusaffa's "neighbors" knew him as Bob Mackley, that nice young man who'd moved into the neighborhood several months ago, or had it been longer? Such a civic-minded young man, active in so many good causes, like . . . like, well, people had trouble remembering just what exactly, though they'd been told all about it . . . by someone.

It had been rather dreary, really, drifting around for three months in an empty apartment, doing practically nothing when he wasn't out ingratiating himself to the neighborhood, or vandalizing their cars, or burglarizing their homes.

He mounted another flight of steps and rang the doorbell. A middle-aged man answered, looking vaguely irritated until he saw who it was.

"Why, hello, Bob." He smiled. "What's got you out after dark?"

"Hello, Mr. Kerry." Drrusaffa smiled back.

"Who is it, dear?" asked a woman's voice from down the hall, where Drrusaffa noted the bluish flicker and mumbly voices of a TV. Wonderful things, TVs, he thought.

"It's Bob Mackley, honey."

"Ohhh!" exclaimed Mrs. Kerry, coming swiftly from the living room to stand beaming at her husband's side. "Won't you come in, Bob?"

"Thanks, but I can't stay. I just came by to let you know about a meeting I'm hosting next week."

"A meeting?" Mrs. Kerry asked, as if the word were foreign.

"Well, I've just been hearing so much concern about what's happening around the neighborhood," Drrusaffa said. "Seems like everybody I talk to-"

"Happening?" Mr. Kerry interrupted. "What's happening? I haven't heard."

"Oh. Sorry," Drrusaffa said. "I assumed you knew about the burglaries, at least."

"Burglaries?" Mrs. Kerry gasped. "Around here?"

Drrusaffa nodded gravely. "The Fowlers' house a month ago, and Mrs. Bennet's place just last week."

"Oh! That poor old woman!" Mrs. Kerry said, a hand flying to her mouth. "Mike! That's just up the street!"

"And all the vandalism, of course," Drrusaffa added.

"What vandalism?" Mr. Kerry asked unhappily.

"Gardens torn up in the middle of the night, houses spray-painted." Drrusaffa gave them his most guileless expression. "It just seemed like a good idea to get the neighborhood together and see if there's anything we might be able to do." He frowned uncomfortably. "I'm the last person who'd want to sound uncharitable, Mike, but . . . well, some people are starting to worry about the Meal Project's impact on our neighborhood."

"Why, yes!" Mrs. Kerry exclaimed. "Those people are crazy! I don't walk past there in the evenings anymore."

Drrusaffa held up his hands as if to forestall her conclusion. "Personally, I think what they're doing over there is important. People have a right to eat, and hunger certainly doesn't make vagrants any friendlier or safer."

"Well, then what are you proposing we do, Bob?" Mr. Kerry asked.

"Oh, I'm not proposing anything," Drrusaffa protested pleasantly. "I'm just providing a place for people to get together and talk about what they want to do."

"I'm not kidding!" Gypsy insisted. "This guy told us pigeon-kicking was some big sport in Canada, and when we told him he was full of shit, he went to show us how they do it. Walked right over to these pigeons by the fountain, and launches this big kick at one. By the time he figures out the dumb bird's just gonna stand there lookin' at him, it was too late to stop his foot." Joby's hands flew up to catch the fruit punch jetting painfully out his nose as laughter erupted around the table. "You should have seen his face, man!" Gypsy laughed. "The bird goes flyin' 'cross Sproul Plaza and flops down right in this bunch of girls eatin' lunch. Dead as a doornail. Oh God!" Gypsy gasped, barely able to speak through his own laughter now. "You shoulda heard 'em scream! The guy's so horrified, he just . . . he just ran away like . . ." Gypsy couldn't go on, clutching at his sides as he gasped for breath.

"You're so full of crap!" Sundog roared when he could speak again. "Don't your ass ever get hoarse from spoutin' such bullshit?"

"Got a whole barnyard into that one!" Mary cackled. "All but the chickens!"

"I'm totally serious!" Gypsy protested. "Tell 'em, Sarina! You were there. I ain't smart enough to make up shit like this."

"You are too!" she protested, slapping Gypsy's shoulder. "It's true though. Just like Gypsy said. I felt sorry for the bird though."

"Well," said Mary, "the man'll know better now what's meant by 'bird brains.' "

"Yeah," Sundog said, smirking. "Prob'ly still wipin' 'em off his shoe."

"You guys are terrible!" Sarina said, smiling reproachfully at everyone as she stood up, straightening her tie-dyed skirts. "I'd better get back there. I'm supposed to help clean up tonight." She leaned down to brush Gypsy's cheek with her lips, hiding his face inside the curtain of her ropy braids for an instant before squeezing his shoulder and heading off to the dining hall's kitchen.

Gypsy watched her go with a truly goofy smile.

"Someone's in love," Sundog crooned, lampooning tenderness.

"Jealous?" Gypsy asked, turning back to grin at Sundog. "You should be."

"Play nice, boys." Mary smiled. "Love's no laughin' matter."

"Not for Sundog," Gypsy scoffed. "For him, it's just a cryin' shame."

"I'm hit!" Sundog grimaced, clutching at his barrel chest. "God, that smarts." He pushed his chair back and got up with a smile. "Sarina's right. You're too smart to tangle with, monkey boy. Think I'll go drown my sorrows for a while. Care to join me, Mary?"

"Not if it's that diet horse piss you're offerin' me," she said daintily.

"What is this?" the big vet whined melodramatically. "Sundog pinata night? If my whiskey's not good enough for you, I'll take back the invitation, then."

"Whiskey, did you say?" Mary's eyes lit up as she gathered her skirts and climbed from her chair. "You might have mentioned it was whiskey, dear, 'fore lettin' me insult you that way. I was just thinkin' what a lovely night it was to share with friends." She batted her eyes comically at Sundog. "And I've no better friend than you, darlin'."

Sundog laughed, and took her arm as they headed out into the evening.

Alone at their table, Joby and Gypsy shared a meditative silence.

"She's a great girl," Joby said at last.

"Sarina? Yeah." Gypsy smiled. "She's so awesome." He fell silent again, then said more quietly, "My life always felt so pointless. You know. Endin' up like this, on the street? But now it all seems different, you know? 'Cause now I know it all led up to her. If I'd never run away . . ." He trailed off and shrugged. His smile faded before some more unhappy thought.

"Why the frown?" Joby said.

Gypsy shrugged again. "What am I gonna do, though, Joby? I mean, she ain't gonna marry some homeless street punk."

"You want to marry her?" Joby asked, somewhat surprised. Gypsy and Sarina had only been together for a couple months as far as he knew.

"Hell yes," Gypsy answered with sudden vehemence. "Joby, I left home to find somethin'. Somethin' to do, or be, that mattered. Someone, even. Someone I could believe in and, and, I don't know, follow, I guess, you know?" He shook his head. "Course, I was a clueless little twad. Don't think I haven't kicked my own ass almost every day for that. I let all that go years ago. Then Sarina came . . ." The light bloomed again in Gypsy's eyes. "She's all the meaning I could ever need, man." He looked back at Joby in excitement. "You know what I mean?"

To his dismay, Joby found that he did. Without warning, Gypsy's words plunged Joby into sudden, painful memory of another evening, impossibly long ago.

"I just . . . I gotta find some way to keep her though. Some way to be worthy of her," Gypsy said, his voice suddenly filled with angst. "I'm so afraid I'll lose her. That's what I do, man. I'm a loser! How do you change that, Joby? I gotta change that, now, before she goes. I have to! But I don't know how."

"I don't know either," he said, struggling to swallow a lump in his throat as he relived that long walk back to Ben's house on the night he had decided he would marry Laura. The last happy night of his life. "No. Wait. I do know how you change that," he said, feeling as if someone else had commandeered his voice. "You walk right through the door marked NO ADMITTANCE." He looked desperately at Gypsy, willing the boy to understand what he himself had not seen in time. "The things you're sure will kill you: do them, right away, even if it feels like dying on purpose. Defy everything you know about what won't work, what isn't allowed. If you want to marry her, ask her. Ask her now! And if she'll have you, do it right away." Joby couldn't stop the tears that splashed his cheeks. "You can lose her, Gypsy. I lost mine."

"Hey, I'm sorry!" Gypsy said, looking at Joby in distress. "I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't!" Joby snapped. "If you mean what you just said, don't sit there apologizing, go find her, right now, and tell her what you just told me. Do it now! I know what I'm talking about!"

Gypsy stared at Joby as if he were the Ghost of Christmas Future, then bolted from his chair and headed for the kitchen doorway.

On his hands and knees in the darkness, Silverjack peered around nervously through clouds of his own steaming breath, then went back to scrabbling in the dirt. He'd uprooted half a dozen plants already, and pocked the lawn with shallow craters, but still no beacon!

The warning had come to him right after that alien thing had smiled and pointed at him two weeks earlier. They were all aliens! All these smug, so-called normal people in their normal little houses. The voices had explained it all. Not the old, fake voices. Real voices! He knew they were real because the meds didn't affect them.

The voices had told him of the alien beacon buried in one of these gardens, pulsing its traitorous signal to the invading armada groping through space toward his unsuspecting planet. No one knew but himself, and the alien vanguard of course, but they weren't going to warn anybody! There was no one to save the world now but poor Silverjack, laughed at and abused all his life just because his brain was tuned to alien frequencies. Well, they wouldn't laugh so hard after he saved them all, would they! But the thing was damn well hidden! This was the third garden he'd tried this week!

Suddenly, a window filled with light and slammed open on the second floor.

"What in God's name are you doing?" screeched an angry man silhouetted in the open window. "Sweet Jesus! Look at my garden! Merideth, call the police!"

Silverjack was already running. He could hardly save the world if he was in jail. Near the corner, he looked back, and nearly fell over his own feet. Well up the street stood the very alien who'd leered at him before! Silverjack stumbled to a halt, immobilized by fear, as the creature's terrible lips parted in hideous parody of a grin, wider and wider, as if some invisible knife were slowly gashing its face open! Then its laughter erupted inside Silverjack's own head, mixed with ragged screaming, which, he realized a moment later, was his own.

The wail of approaching sirens finally broke the spell of terror that had kept him rooted to the pavement. Silverjack bolted into the darkness and vaulted a fence behind the Meal Project basement, sprinted through a darkened yard, and fled into the night.

The dining hall doors were just being opened, and the jostling crowd starting to move, when Joby saw them coming, hand in hand, across the parking lot.

"Hey!" he called happily. "It's the happy couple!"

"We were just about to sell your seats!" Sundog teased.

Gypsy smiled shyly as Sarina beamed beside him, and Joby suspected they were late because they'd been off necking somewhere. Everyone had heard the news by now, and because Gypsy couldn't seem to tell anyone about their engagement without crediting Joby for "scaring him into proposing," Joby had been getting almost as many kudos as the couple had. Mary, in particular, had drawn Joby aside one evening to say what a fine thing he'd done, though a minute or two of crying over spilled milk didn't seem all that heroic to him. In fact, he tried not to think about that part of it.

"My fiance has some awesome news!" Sarina said, as they joined Joby, Sundog, and Mary in the now moving dinner line.

"She's pregnant?" Sundog blurted out merrily. There was an awkward silence. "Sorry." Sundog shrugged. "I was just joking."

"I got a job," said Gypsy with quiet pride. "Right here at the church. It's just janitorial and maintenance work, but it comes with an apartment, right here behind the Meal Project kitchen!" An ecstatic grin transformed his face. "We got a place to live!" he shouted. "Is that fuckin' awesome, or what?" He looked suddenly abashed, and said, "Guess now that I'm workin' for the church, I better watch my language, huh?"

"That might be advisable," Joby said, trying not to laugh and bursting with affection for Gypsy, who'd become something like a little brother to him now. "Man, when you make up your mind to go, you go, don't you," Joby said, trying not to think about the fact that he'd most likely lose his own apartment in the next few weeks.

"I've got reasons now," said Gypsy, turning to smile at Sarina. "Turns out that was all I needed."

Sarina leaned in to give him a lengthy kiss as they reached the dining hall doors, where a woman on that evening's volunteer staff was handing out some sort of flyer.

"What kind of shit is this?" someone ahead of them in line bellowed angrily. Joby saw the man waving the flyer over his head and realized that there was a lot of angry buzzing inside the dining hall.

Sundog, who was first to reach the pamphleteer, began to scan one of her flyers, then barked, "Awww, Christ!"

"What's wrong?" Joby asked, reaching for a flyer.

"Fucking self-righteous bastards!" growled the normally sanguine giant. "Look what those assholes do with all their fuckin' free time!"

"We're asking you all to go to this meeting down at city hall," said the volunteer at the door. "The city's got to hear from all of us too, or this could really happen."

"This is so fucked!" said Gypsy, as he and Joby scanned the flyer.