part0003

It was her music, her gifted playing of the piano, that decided them. She wasn't a particularly beautiful young girl, despite her long yellowish-brown hair. They had prettier girls, but none with a talent like hers. This orphan, performing on stage, had no idea of the events that would cascade her into an entirely different life.

The adopting parents seemed perfect. All of the right background checks, the right home, the right location, resources to develop and grow a young prodigy. A perfect vision of a nice, upper-middle-class, childless couple that wanted to help a young girl. Perfect interviews. Even tentatively hopeful conversations between the prospective parents and the young girl, who willingly, happily, climbed into her new parents' car when the time came.

Everything was indeed perfect, even through the two month post-placement interview. Just after the interview, however, the façade vanished. The young girl was drugged during the evening meal and when she awoke, she was chained in a windowless, cement-floored room. The only things within reach were a bed, a lamp on a table, a piano, and a toilet. Across the dank basement room were a bookshelf, a fake window with curtains, a couple pretty, if strange, tapestries, a toy box filled with stuffed animals, and an old white-washed dresser with tiny pink flowers painted on. A spotlight fixed in a ceiling corner shone on the piano, and a security camera in the opposite corner was set for constant monitoring and recording.

She yelled and screamed and tried to break free, but her "father" merely came in, stabbed her with a drug-filled needle, and left again. Two things were in her favor. One, she could not play the piano while drugged and two, the older upright piano was wood. Despite panic and terror, her mind cleared. The top of the piano was glued closed and any potential hazards removed, so she took to slamming the piano fallboard shut after playing and the old wood eventually split enough for her to snap off the tiniest wedge of wood. No longer than her finger; no wider than a pencil, but it was enough.

Her escape left her battered and covered in blood, more animal than human, viciously determined to survive by whatever means necessary, and unwilling to ever trust someone else with her fate again. She scavenged for food in trash cans and stayed out of sight until being taken in by a street gang.

People don't consider this beginning when they talk about the person responsible for Colony One, the space habitat that is the future of humanity. Most don't even know about it. Instead, they talk about her connection to the Marino family - the Italian Mafia - saying that this created the sharp, unforgiving edge to Colony One's legal system by which all people are now bound. Adapt and live by the rules or die. No prison system, no welfare, no crime.

My research suggests differently: the Marino family, Sal Marino in particular, was responsible for making the Founder human again. I had the privilege to interview her and this is what she told me - the real story of our space station's origin.

The alley between the two high-rise buildings wasn't touched by the early evening sun. Piles of debris on either side had blown in and gotten stuck. Four street kids squatted between two large piles of trash, dividing their spoils.

The future Founder, the youngest at ten years old, held out the tiny crust of bread she'd found in the East Street Bakery dumpster. She wished she could have eaten it already. The empty grinding in her stomach could be felt clear to her throat. She would never get anything at all if she were so stupid as to forget her rank in the small group, which was the lowest. She was scrawny and her jeans and red top were falling apart, having long since been ruined by continuous use in outdoor weather. Her hair was brown with grime.

Mason, the oldest, and leader of their small gang, glared at her. "Is that all, Grub?" Mason was a tall, muscled boy who routinely made people cross the street in fear because of his hard glare and scowl. He snatched the bread from her and stuffed it in his mouth. In one swallow, the bite was gone.

Grub, for that was what the group called her, tried hard not to cry, but her eyes watered anyway. He might have hit her had she brought back nothing. She tried to convince herself that this was better. Training, he would call it, telling her that she needed to learn to pull her own weight and learn to scavenge properly. Grub nodded timidly and bit her lip, preparing to duck, if needed. Refusing to show weakness, she didn't wipe the water from her eyes. As much as she was scared of him, she was more scared of being alone. She'd already learned a lot about surviving on the street from him. If it cost a bite of bread, so be it.

Her hero, Caitlin, the second oldest, stepped in front of her. Caitlin, in her early teens, had the best clothes of all of them, dark blue jeans and a logo'd t-shirt; they'd gotten lucky in the last house they'd broken into. "Come on, Mason. Don't give her such a hard time," Caitlin implored. "She's just a little runt. Look, I got a great haul."

Grub quickly wiped her eyes while hidden behind Caitlin. One day, she wanted to grow up and be like Caitlin - strong, tough, and dangerous, yet still kind and good to her friends. She peeked around Caitlin to see what the older girl had found.

Caitlin handed over a styrofoam sandwich container which Mason opened, revealing a paper-wrapped, mostly uneaten sandwich in near pristine condition. Grub unconsciously wet her lips at this treasure, but she knew not to speak or reach.

Mason took his larger share of the sandwich and passed the styrofoam container back to Caitlin who crouched down next to their fourth member - a pale, thin boy with narrow lips and a broad nose who sat nearby. Caitlin handed him half of half a sandwich. Paul stuffed it in his mouth whole, picking a crumb off his threadbare t-shirt. Caitlin handed the container and the remaining inch of sandwich to Grub. Mason scowled disapprovingly, but did not comment and grabbed a box to sleep on for the night.

Grub stared up at Caitlin with wide eyes and asked, "Sure?" Caitlin had taken her into their small band three years earlier.

Caitlin nodded, glaring at Mason. "It's my share. Have it, Grub." She reached into her back pocket. "And I got you this." She handed Grub one of those pocket city guide books that someone had thrown out.

Grub didn't hesitate before shoving the rest of the sandwich into her mouth just like Paul had. It was almost enough to make her stomach feel full. She read the guide book with a similar gusto. She adored any books she could get her hands on. Printed material was a rare find. Most people only used their phones. Mason just rolled his eyes and sat down on his cardboard, leaning his back against the building wall, and closed his eyes .

Two days later, Grub sat in the alleyway, studying the city map in the pocket guide and then comparing her memory to it, while waiting on the others to return. They'd be a few more hours yet; she was early, sitting next to a full loaf of bread she'd stolen in a grocery parking lot while a woman returned her cart to the queue.

A small bird hopped nearby and Grub watched it intently, admiring the way it seemed delicately fragile and weightless, with its absolute stillness followed by quick, sudden movements. Birds knew how to avoid predators and Grub had tried mimicking that at the grocery. People busy with their own concerns hadn't noticed her scrunched down between the cars. This was risky, but she'd come up short on contributions the last two days.

Mason ran into the alley, scaring the bird away. He bent forward, leaning with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. "Grub!" he wheezed, "The Fross brothers picked up Caitlin. Paul's watching the place right now, but we have to go get her or we'll lose her." He kneeled down next to a hole in the cement wall near a drainpipe. Without the usual prod with a stick for mice and spiders, he reached in and pulled out his spare shiv.

Grub felt panic squeeze her chest, tightening her lungs and making it hard to breathe. She shivered. The Fross brothers were an organized crime group that their small gang avoided. Grub had been warned to stay away at all costs. She knew what they did without having to be explicitly told.

"They got her in the house off Prescott Street, but she won't be there much longer and then we'll never see her again," Mason growled, reaching once again into the hole, deeper this time, and withdrew a waterproof plastic bag with two filled 9mm magazines and two boxes of bullets. Once more, and the gun came out also sealed in a plastic bag. Mason took the gun and a magazine out of their bags. To prevent any light from glinting on the gun's silver, they'd added a matte black finish and that seemed to suck away what little light reached the alley. "Remember when I showed you how to use this?"

Grub nodded, hesitantly, eyes wide. She'd been a good shot, the best of all of them, that day with the soda cans.

Mason shoved the gun and magazine into her hands. "Show me. Load it."

Grub swallowed and looked at the magazine. It was filled with 16 rounds.

"Faster, Grub!" Mason ordered sharply.

Her hands shook, but she closed her eyes and remembered the day she was standing in front of the targets. Her memory was crystal clear. The dank, abandoned warehouse with broken floors smelled like mice nests. This mixed with the odor of gunpowder and burnt carbon. Paul had just taken his turn and passed the gun to her. She saw her hands load the gun and then carefully aim. Mason had growled at her to exhale before shooting to keep the gun steady. Grub frowned and snapped out of the memory. The gun was empty. She checked that the top round was seated properly in the magazine before slamming it into the gun. She grabbed the back of the slide, pulled it and let it go, listening as it snapped forward, sending a round into the chamber. The gun felt heavy, solid in her hand.

Mason pulled at his hair. "There's a trash can across the street. You're going to hide behind that and shoot the guards when Paul distracts them. And then you shoot anyone else who comes out. Me and Paul will go in and get Caitlin. We'll prolly have to carry her. Don't come in. You don't need to see any of that stuff." Mason's eyes squinted at her and he said sternly, "You're going to have to kill people. It's them or us and Caitlin. You understand?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And don't fire so fast you waste bullets. Check your aim. You'll only have those two magazines. 32 bullets." He looked like he was beginning to doubt his decision. "Promise you'll kill anyone that comes out. Blood promise, Grub." Mason took the gun and the other magazine and shoved them into a paper bag. He did not unload the gun.

Grub stood a little straighter and tried to look fierce. "For Caitlin." She took her shiv and sliced her palm, wincing at the sharp sting, but held her hand up to him, letting the blood drip anyway.

"Come on then." Mason shoved the other magazine at her and she put it in her pocket. He then handed the paper bag to her and started off at a brisk walk. "Should never have taken those clothes," Mason hissed.

When Grub and Mason arrived at Paul's lookout, Paul reported that the Fross brothers hadn't returned yet. His lookout was a sunken stairwell a good distance from the Fross brothers' house on Prescott Street. They were likely out getting dinner somewhere, but could be back any minute. As nearly as he could tell, there were only the guards by the door, and he'd only seen one man go inside and not come out.

Paul held up a wad of newspaper he'd mashed into a soccer-sized ball, probably around some cardboard and other fillers. This was wrapped in a couple plastic grocery bags so it wouldn't fall apart.

Mason thumped him on the back. "That's good, Paul. Ok, you're both going to go down the street. Paul's going house-side, and Grub, you go across the street. He'll kick the ball down and chase it. You match him and call out that you want him to pass it to you. He's not going to. Instead..."

Paul interrupted, "I'm going to kick it right at them. Duck behind that trash can and as soon as I get past..." He nudged Grub in the ribs.

"You shoot them," Mason finished. "Got it?"

Grub clutched the paper bag with the gun. She nodded shakily.

Paul dropped the ball and began kicking it across the street. He angled sharply toward their target and Grub ran to keep up on her side.

As they got closer, Grub shouted, "Hey! It's my turn! Kick it over here!"

Paul yelled back, "In a minute! I almost beat my record!"

Grub's shoe caught on a broken sidewalk and she stumbled. She ran faster to keep up, ignoring the throbbing in her toe. The trash can approached too quickly and her heart pounded more from terror than running. The men were watching Paul. To distract them, she hollered, "You ain't got a record! Kick it to me!"

As soon as the two men standing in front of the building looked over at her, Paul kicked the ball directly at them and Grub ducked behind the trash can, pulling the gun from the paper bag. With a sharp inhale, she popped up and fired off a shot. It missed. She'd wasted a bullet. For the next shot, she aimed, exhaled and didn't inhale, to steady her hand, and fired twice. This time successfully.

The remaining man pulled a gun from the back of his pants and shot at Grub, but his first shots also missed. Grub aimed and fired two more times. The man fell back into the building's wall and slid downwards. Grub crouched down and waited. She heard the door open so she jumped up, and fired two bullets at the man who came out, counting and keeping track of how many bullets she'd have.

It was sheer chance, a bit of luck, that Grub saw movement on the building's roof. She darted back down, inhaling and exhaling quickly. She stood and shot the man on the roof; four shots to actually hit him. Three more men came out to that same fate. Two were not carrying guns. Customers.

Paul and Mason rushed in.

She thought her gun only had one bullet left and that would be chambered. Grub tilted the gun to find the magazine release, watching her finger press the small button. The magazine shot out and clattered to the ground. Grub slammed in the full magazine, and bent to pick up the empty one, before following Paul and Mason into the house. One of the men on the doorstep was still alive. She put the gun to his head and devoid of emotion, shot him. Grub stepped inside. The hallway was filled with cigarette smoke and perfume, and it nearly made her gag.

The first room she looked in was empty, a poker game still on the table. She pocketed the money in the pot and moved on. When she got to the first room that held a girl, she shook as the flashback overwhelmed her. This girl wasn't chained or tied but stared up the ceiling light with glazed eyes. She didn't even notice when Grub went up to her and put a bullet in her head.

Three days later, Grub found Caitlin laying in a lake of blood from her slashed wrists. Grub stared at her own future for a long time, feeling the air cool her throat as she inhaled, and listening to the silent scream in her mind. She didn't want to end up like this.

Grub turned and fled. She ran for a long time, not caring where she was going, and eventually collapsed. When she woke up, she raided the nearest dumpster for food, and gave serious thought to what she needed to do. Even if she was smart, she'd inevitably blossom out into a young woman and her options on the street were limited. She needed a different life path. She headed south. Winters were always too dangerous this far north.

She broke into a house and stole new clothes, carefully choosing a shirt and jeans that were already worn out and a few sizes too big. She almost wished for the lookout Mason and Paul would have provided, or that at least she had thought to steal the gun. Not wanting to be seen, she also broke into a library and absorbed the wilderness survival books, easily memorizing things with her avid need. She randomly grabbed a few other books and a couple things from the employee kitchen, and took a backpack someone had left behind that was in a basket labeled 'Lost and Found'. On her way out, she tossed the city guide Caitlin had given her. She didn't want anyone finding out where she'd come from.

Over the next two years, Grub relied on no one but herself. During the first summer, she stayed in Charlotte, North Carolina, and spent as much time as possible in libraries, scanning through books to keep her company through the winter. When school season arrived, she travelled southwest to the Chattahoochee National Forest where she stayed out of sight and used her new-found book knowledge to fish, hunt, and gather wild edible plants. She slept far from any human habitation in debris huts which she destroyed each day, until she found a small cave entrance which was obscured from view. She ousted the raccoons that were living there and moved her debris hut inside. Rather than return to Charlotte where she might be recognized, she pilfered more clothes, and headed farther south to Georgia, taking the name Alex Smith.

The cold, torrential rain pelted Alex like tiny, sharp rocks. Alex could feel the static in the air. The deafening roars of thunder almost immediately followed the flashes of light. She needed shelter. The rough grey of the Atlanta city street had no overhangs, no covered bus benches, and the air smelled of dirt and wet pavement. The stolen, lightweight jacket offered no protection at all.

Lightning cracked nearby and every cell of her body was screaming danger. Alex dodged into the first store with an "Open" sign. A small bell jingled softly. Outside, hail began pounding the street. It sounded like gunfire.

Alex blinked around. She was dripping on a beautiful, slightly-faded oriental carpet in a small antiques shop. Low shelves made three aisles on the right, displaying figurines, statues, and vases. Exquisite furniture pieces, arranged to show their best features, were to the left. Large, beautiful paintings hung on the walls. The proprietor, an elderly gentleman in an immaculate grey suit, was sitting on a stool behind a glass display box toward the back.

"Quite the storm out there," the proprietor said, setting an open magazine he'd been reading down on the counter. He stood.

Alex glanced back out. The rain and hail had gotten so heavy the buildings across the street were obscured. She couldn't retreat. She yearned for one of the large stores where she could have remained anonymous, preferably one with a built-in mini-food cafeteria. "Can I wait here, just until it slows a bit?" she asked. Her throat was scratchy from disuse and she had to clear it midway through.

"Yes, wait there." The man went through a door behind the counter and returned a moment later carrying several small kitchen towels.

Alex stepped off the carpet and set her very worn backpack down with a dishearteningly wet splosh. "Thanks," she said, sopping up the worst of the water in her hair and clothes. Thinking of the family dynamics she'd seen while spying on campers, she added, "Sorry about your carpet." The unnatural words sounded hollow. She hoped the carpet wasn't ruined.

The slight nod he gave her suggested it was the right thing to say. He replied, "It'll dry, faster than you actually." He tilted his head to the side slightly, thinking, and then said, "I have something we can wrap you in, if you want to try drying your clothes in my oven?"

She hesitated with that terrified stillness of a wild animal. He didn't seem like the kind of person who would hurt her. Could she even justify the time it would take to dry her clothes when she needed to find food and shelter for the night? "What do I have to do for it?"

"Not freeze to death in my shop? Don't worry. You have nothing to fear from me."

Just at that moment, her whole body shook with uncontrollable shivers. She knew all too well the dangers of hypothermia. It's why she had come so far south. She nodded. She grabbed her bag and wrapped it in the soaked towels so it wouldn't drip as she carried it. She still left a trail of wet footprints on the smooth cement floor.

As she followed him back, she saw a small area in the back left of the shop had been set up as a diminutive living room. Four elegant and comfortable armchairs surrounded a round table. Two floor lights by the wall would brighten the area quite well if turned on. She automatically noticed things that might be sellable at a pawn shop. Maybe a couple of the vases, but nothing much of real value.

He led her through the door into a surprisingly large back room. Off to the right was a small kitchen, complete with stove, oven, microwave, sink, cabinets, and a small four person table. A door that was slightly ajar had a small office beyond that. Then the door to the bathroom. Most of the space was dedicated to boxes, varying in size from huge wooden crates to tiny cardboard boxes. The big ones had auction house inventory data sheets stapled to them.

He motioned for her to wait and went to the very back and retrieved two blue blankets. "Packing blankets," he explained. "Not too clean, but at least dry. Use one as a towel. I'll turn the oven on while you wrap up." He gestured to the bathroom.

The small bathroom was decorated nautically, in blues, with three small paintings, obviously from different artists. One ocean and beach with a sailboat, one sand and shells, and the last, a gorgeous lighthouse. The shell-shaped bar of soap was on a ceramic rendition of coiled rope, and the hand-napkins had beach houses on them. Alex, of course, didn't give any attention to these details, although she saw them and would remember later.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely get her clothes off. She couldn't regret leaving her winter clothes buried under rocks and hidden in the back of the cave she'd claimed as her own. Those were self-made from animals she'd hunted and eaten. Warm furs, most novice-stiff, wouldn't keep her quietly anonymous. She wrapped in the first dry blanket, even right over her head, and sat on the closed toilet until the shaking stopped. The blanket absorbed the water, and slightly warmer, she reversed the blanket so the dry side was toward her, and rubbed at her hair. When she finished, she did her best to dry her underwear and put them back on and then did the same with the threadbare t-shirt from her backpack.

She saw her fingertips were still blue and frowned at them disapprovingly. Traitors. Granted, she hadn't eaten in two days and that had been cold rain, but she needed her body to take better care of her. She promised her empty belly that she would fill it later that evening now that she was in a more commercial area and could find a suitable restaurant dumpster.

She yanked knots from her hair with her broken comb, staring at her unfamiliar reflection for a moment in confusion. The girl who looked back at her was much older and gaunt, with unevenly cut hair that was too long to be a boy's style and too short to be feminine with her face-shape. She was just starting that gangly-awkward teenage look, limbs slightly long for her too-thin body.

She blotted at her meager belongings and repacked them in the now damp backpack, keeping her knife out. She pulled the dry blanket around her shoulders and lifted the excess up around her waist so she could hold it closed with her off-hand that also hid her knife. She wrapped everything else in the other blanket, and carried it out to the small kitchen area. It was awkward while holding the dry blanket around her, but as soon as he saw her emerge, the shop's proprietor came to help her with the bundle.

In addition to turning the oven on its lowest setting, he'd also put a tea kettle on to heat, and Alex wondered if she could talk him into giving her a cup of hot tea. They put her clothes on a metal tray, leaving the oven door partly open to prevent it from getting too hot. Alex hovered next to the radiating heat.

"I haven't seen you around before," the man commented. Even though he continued to study the oven intently and didn't look directly at her, the seemingly casual tone was not casual at all.

"My mom and I just moved to the area. I thought today would be a good day to explore. I left early, before the rain." Alex shuddered convincingly. "My mistake." Her voice was still gritty and she decided she would definitely practice talking next winter to keep her voice active.

"Would you like to call her to tell her you are ok?"

"Naw. She's busy unpacking. If I call, she'll demand I come home and help." Caitlin had said Alex was the quickest, best liar she'd ever seen (once she'd given her a few lessons). "Truth be told, I snuck out while she was still sleeping and left her a note."

The man raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Teenagers," he said. "I'm Sal Marino. You are?"

"Alex Smith. Would you prefer Sal or Mr. Marino?"

Sal's mouth opened slightly in startled bafflement. He touched his chin a moment, breathing in and studying her, and then answered, "Call me Sal." He removed two sturdy ceramic mugs from one of the cabinets. "Hot cocoa, tea, or herbal tea?"

As good as she remembered hot cocoa tasting, she knew the effects of sugar and caffeine on an empty stomach. "Herbal tea." She'd at least get some nutrients from that. She selected a packet labelled rose hips for the vitamin c from his collection of assorted herbal teas. He also chose one of the herbal teas.

Sal filled both mugs and carried them to the table. "Have a seat, young adventurer."

To prevent him from asking her probing questions, she took the lead. "Do you own the shop or work here?"

"It looks like you sell some really nice stuff." Alex didn't wait for the tea bag to finish steeping. She sipped some of the hot-but-not-too-hot weak tea while the tea bag was still in the cup.

"Nice stuff, eh?" Sal sounded amused when he added, "I'll have you know, those are very expensive, very valuable collector's items."

Alex, concerned she'd insulted him accidentally, clarified, "I never thought much about antiques."

"Most people don't."

Alex definitely didn't want the conversation to turn toward her so she prompted, "What makes them valuable?"

"That's a complex question." Clearly going into a teacher-lecture mode, Sal elaborated, "Many factors go into the evaluation of an item. Authenticity, what kind, when it was made, what is it made out of, who made it and if it is marked and signed, how well it was maintained and if it was repaired or restored, who has owned it, who is collecting that type item."

Pleased that the man was content to talk and not pry, Alex asked, "So how do you know what's what?" She drank more of her tea and begged her stomach to be satisfied with the post-fast offering.

Sal lifted his cup to sip his tea and his sleeve dropped, revealing a beautiful gold watch with a sparkling black face that would have been a worthwhile sell at a pawn shop. He responded, "There are price guides and prior auction results, magazines and catalogs, as well as a strong antiques community that keeps track of things. If you know the buyers, you can get a nice profit buying low and selling at a reasonable price. You just have to be able to recognize things at the auctions and estate sales. It's a science."

Alex had a hard time focusing on what he was saying, but heard 'science', and inquired, "Are you any good at it?" Her mug was empty already. She wished she could eat the mug. She wondered if the tea bag was edible.

"Sometimes I like to think so." Sal stood up and brought the teapot over and refilled her mug. When he returned the pot to the stove, he paused to flip her clothes over in the oven. He stared at them for a moment.

"They're not burning, are they?" she asked, trying to quell her panic. She didn't have any others.

"No," he hesitated and then said, "Ah, I was just thinking about boosting the temperature a little. I think we should leave it." He came back over to the table and sat down. "Are you feeling warmer?"

"Yes, thank you." Alex swirled the tea bag around in the water, willing it to darken faster. "What's the most you've ever made on an antique?"

"On a single item, just about $233,000." He sat up straighter. "It was a particularly fine claw-foot couch."

Alex gasped. "That much? Why isn't everyone doing antiques?"

Sal smiled with amusement. "That's very rare and very lucky. Not too many people are lucky enough to both find and recognize the right things, and often, shows don't have any items of significant value."

"I suppose I'd have to be older anyway," Alex sighed. She gave up waiting on the tea bag and drank more.

"You'd also need money to invest in the purchases initially. All of the inventory sitting out there in the shop was paid for by me. Until someone buys it, there's no profit at all. Meanwhile, I have building fees and utilities."

So much money tied up in what appeared to be junk was daunting. Alex couldn't fathom why someone would do that. "So how do you stay in business?"

"I mostly sell to private collectors I know. They tell me what they are looking for and I try to locate it. The store itself is where I put things I find accidentally. The most interesting thing I ever found is that book out front in the glass display case. It's a religious book from the 16th century in Latin with exquisite artwork. Every now and then, I turn the page to prevent any one page from over-exposure to light. The glass case itself filters most light."

"No, I don't know Latin. Every now and then I'll try to translate some of it but it takes a long time. The characters are different from current Latin and some things we don't have definitions for."

Alex continued to ask him questions about his antiques to deflect any inquiries about herself and he gladly talked and explained things. He was a natural teacher. Outside, the storm continued to rage even though the hail stopped. When her clothes were dry, she took them back into the bathroom and changed. The warm cloth cooled all too quickly, but was magnificent for a few moments at least. She carefully and neatly folded both packing blankets and set them on the toilet seat.

She supposed she should leave under the guise of heading home before he could ask her questions, but it was still raining. That would definitely defeat the purpose of drying her clothes. She went back out and found Sal back in the front of the shop, wiping down his counter.

"Still raining," he noted unnecessarily. "How are you at playing chess?"

"Uh, chess? I've heard of it."

"Good time to learn then." He went over to one of the shelves and took a beautiful wood box from it over to the round table surrounded by the armchairs.

Alex left her backpack on the floor next to the counter and came around to watch him set up the board with pieces that came from a small velvet-lined drawer. For the next twenty minutes, he described the different pieces and basic rules. As soon as the smell hit her, she couldn't concentrate on anything else. From the back of the shop, the mouth-watering scent of baking lasagne beckoned. Her stomach growled noisily.

Sal chuckled. "That'll be the lasagne, I suppose. It should be done heating fairly soon. That's why I've got the oven. A person should eat real food. I can't smell so well anymore - old nose," he tapped his nose sadly, "But the timer will go off. There's plenty for both of us."

"Really?" It was too much to hope for - actual food. Fresh, warm, solid food.

"Yes, really. It doesn't look like that rain is stopping soon and it's lunch time. I always have enough for several people anyway." He paused and then added, "I have someone making all my lunches. She definitely adheres to the idea that Italians should never have too little food on the table."

"Are you Italian?" Alex asked.

Again, his eyebrows scrunched together and he gave her a really odd look making her wonder how she'd erred. "Yes. Marino - it's an Italian name. Likely some ancestor into boats."

"I had a couple friends who were Mexican," she offered, trying to find something they had in common, that wouldn't make the conversation seem so one-sided, but would still prevent questions about herself.

The kitchen timer went off and they both returned to the kitchen. Alex could not believe her luck. She could skip foraging for the night and concentrate on finding a safe spot to sleep. She'd spotted a potentially good library a couple miles back.

Sal set out two exquisitely beautiful fine china plates and matching salad plates, silverware, and a water glass for her which he filled, and a wine glass for himself. She hovered eagerly, unable to stop herself. He took the lasagne from the oven, asked her to get the salad from the refrigerator, and got out serving utensils. He opened a bottle of wine from the cabinet and poured a beautiful red liquid into his glass. He also set out a pair of cloth napkins.

He indicated she should sit and he sat himself. He took some salad and passed the serving bowl to her. She mimicked his actions precisely, unwilling to risk being tossed out. It was all she could do not to pick up everything on the table and shove it into her mouth. When he took his fork and began to eat, so did she. It was a strange, silent meal, with Sal inconspicuously watching Alex eat and Alex observing Sal as discreetly as possible.

They moved on to the lasagne. Whenever Sal sipped his wine, Alex sipped her water. Alex suspected the slower pace was probably good for her empty stomach anyway, but she was really worried about doing something that would make him doubt her identity or worse, something to make him kick her out of the store, food uneaten. A long time ago, she'd overheard a discussion about the bad table manners of the orphans and how they needed to be taught better, but the group home had never implemented any training. She'd certainly never learned any manners out on the street.

She finished her serving before he did his probably due to taking larger bites. She set her fork back on her napkin, only to notice that his napkin was nowhere in sight. She rolled back through her memory and saw him slide it down onto his lap. Too late now; she couldn't correct it without making the blunder even more obvious.

"Have more," Sal said, taking the lasagne dish that was easily within reach of both of them, and handing it to her. She took a second serving and put the dish back on the table.

This time, he ran out before she did, but he simply put his silverware on his plate and folded his hands in his lap and waited for her to finish. She tried to continue the same pace, trying really hard not to twitch. When she finished and set her fork and knife on her plate, he stood and took the dishes over to the sink and rinsed them, setting them on the counter.

Sal handed Alex a towel. He meticulously washed each dish and handed it to her to dry and told her where to put it away again. He scraped the leftover lasagne into the garbage and Alex had to resist the urge to cry out and dive in after it. After cleaning the lasagne pan, he left that dish on the counter.

"Let's go play some chess," Sal said cheerily. "Do you remember how the pieces move?"

Alex nodded. "It seems like a lot of possible combinations of games."

His mouth twitched. "You might say that. I'll start. We'll do a simple test game to get you used to the moves. "

As they played, Alex's ever-present gnawing hunger dissipated and she felt full for the first time since leaving the forest. It was a nice feeling. She began to be able to think about the chess pieces and actual strategy.

Sal described each move he made and why he moved that particular piece and commented on her potential moves. The game went very slowly at first and picked up as Alex started making moves on her own. Sal won. That was the last game Sal ever won against Alex.

While they played, Alex asked about the antiques around them and Sal described their history and how he came to own them and why each piece was special. When the rain stopped, neither of them noticed. They played five more games before Sal noticed the sun was starting to set. "It's gotten late on us, Alex."

Alex glanced out of the front window. "Is it night already?"

Sal glanced at his watch. "It's after 7 already. Your mom is probably going crazy with worry. You should call her."

"Nah, it's only a short hop away from here. It won't take me but a few minutes to get home."

"Alex, I've been thinking about hiring some help for the shop. Dusting, sweeping, unpacking, and helping me pack again. I'm not as young and spry as I used to be. Would you be interested?"

Alex's heart skipped a beat. Money! Real money. Possibly even more food.

"All under-the-table type work. I'm guessing you are underage for an actual job. Just some cash for a bit of help."

Alex had the sense to say, "I'll have to ask my mom and see if she thinks it's ok." That's what she'd overheard a pair of kids out camping say. When she'd been hiding and spying on people for entertainment, she hadn't realized it was training for future conversations.

Sal nodded. "Come by tomorrow or any time in the next week and let me know. I'm not in any particular hurry."

"Thank you for rescuing me from the hail and cold and for lunch, Sal. I really appreciate it. I owe you and I never forget when I owe someone something. I liked playing chess with you." Alex collected her still-damp backpack, waved, and left, turning away and walking down the street with confidence just in case he was looking.

Alex ducked into the very first alley. It was twilight so there was still a bit of light coming in from the sky, but very little. The streetlights had already flickered on and she needed to get off the street before the night-citizens came out. It was simply too dangerous in an unknown location. She shimmied up the very first building pipe she saw, and peered over the roof to make sure it was uninhabited. No one was there and she didn't see any security cameras. She slipped over the edge. The roof was covered in small, sharp rocks. It's not that the builder had said, "Cover the roof with sharp rocks so no one will hang out there," but rather, "Put the cheapest something up there to protect the roof." It wasn't the best nest for the evening, but it would do.

She crouched down and made her way over to the corner as quietly as possible to prevent her footsteps from disturbing anyone below. In the corner, she peeked up over the building's railing and saw the street below. It was a good view and no lights shone in her direction to give her away. She only saw one person walking quickly down the street. She cleared the rocks from a spot big enough for her to sit and settled in and listened. Toward the restaurants a short way past the antiques store, she could hear people in groups talking and laughing, although they were too far away to actually understand.

She dozed off with her knife clutched in her hand on her lap and her pants damp from the still-wet roof. The sky was still overcast so she had no stars to judge the time, but she thought she slept for maybe an hour. She heard quiet voices below that were too soft for her to make out. She pulled her knees in closer to her chest and tried to shrink into the building. Through the night, the street seemed to have a lot of activity, especially considering the stores were closed. Several times, she looked over the wall at the street to see individuals and groups walking by. That was a bit scary, but she also didn't hear gunshots or screams, or sounds of people getting robbed or beat up.

The night passed uneventfully. When she judged it was around 3 a.m., she left the roof and headed toward the restaurants to scavenge for breakfast. She was raiding the third dumpster when she became aware she was being followed. She continued as if she didn't know it and slipped behind a solid stairway. When the man passed, she grabbed him and threw him against the wall and put her knife to his throat.

"Why are you following me?" she growled.

"Hey, hey, stay cool," he pleaded.

"Why?" she demanded. "Tell me or I'll bleed you out right here, right now. Move and I'll do the same."

"You're new in this area. You don't know how things go around here. It's my job to keep an eye on things. That's all. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"The local mafia. I'm going to report you slept on the street and raided trash cans for food. They ain't gonna care at all. If you start vandalizing things or leaving stuff around, they'll care, though. Bag your refuse and throw it in the trash cans. This is a clean neighborhood. Any business you want to start, you'd better run it by them first, too. "

Alex stepped back away from him, but did not relax. Thankfully, he made no sudden moves. He stood away from the wall and straightened his shirt.

"Passing through or staying?" he asked.

Alex pondered her options; she couldn't answer Sal until she knew if the area was safe, and if she stayed, she'd definitely take Sal up on his job offer. "Dunno yet. What kind of business does the mafia run?"

"Nothing of interest to a homeless kid."

"Safe neighborhood?"

"If you mind your own business and don't mess the place up."

"The family IS the law. Don't cross them."

Later that day, Alex was certain she wanted to stay in this neighborhood for the summer. The library was magnificent. In addition to a whole section of college-level textbooks, the library held current subscriptions to a large number of scientific journals. She would be able to memorize enough to last through the upcoming winter easily.

Even more useful was the mostly unused single bathroom on the lower level next to the magazines. She'd be able to wash there. If that man on the street hadn't been lying, the area was relatively safe. She'd just need to avoid the mafia family which shouldn't be a problem. She'd keep to herself, spend all her time at the library or the antiques store or in hiding. She had a nice selection of dumpsters with food in them and it was possible Sal might even pay her enough to supplement dumpster dives with fresh fruit and vegetables. It was an ideal location.

She made her way back to Sal's shop. The bell rang softly as she entered. Sal was again sitting behind his counter, reading what she now recognized as a catalog of antiques. "Hi, Sal. Is that offer of a job still open?"

"Alex, come in." He closed the catalog. "Did your mom say you could work here?"

"She did, well, provided it doesn't have too many hours. I think she's glad I wouldn't be randomly wandering around the streets while she's at work. She was a little annoyed yesterday."

"How does eight dollars per hour sound for the afternoons? Most of my shipments arrive in the afternoon, but because I don't know exactly when they'll be here, it would be good if you were here, even if we're just playing chess."

She answered, "You're going to pay me eight dollars an hour to play chess?"

"Sure. There's only so much sweeping and dusting that needs to be done. You can even come early if you want and help me eat all that lunch Irene makes."

Alex shook his hand. "Deal."

"Excellent. Start tomorrow."

"Thank you, Sal." She left the store, practically skipping as she went in search of a better nighttime shelter midway between the restaurants and the library.

The next afternoon, Alex arrived just about exactly at noon, having left the library at 20 minutes until the hour. Lunch was a magnificent spaghetti with a very hearty meat sauce, with crusts of toasted bread and olive oil for dipping. They talked more antiques while they ate and Alex wasn't quite as timid through lunch, although she still very carefully mirrored his actions. This time, her napkin went into her lap.

After lunch, Alex pestered Sal about what he wanted done and exactly how he wanted those things done. She was a quick and careful study and did everything as well as she could. She did a thorough job cleaning out the packing materials area and organizing all of the supplies. She wiped down every surface in the kitchen and scoured the bathroom. Sal wouldn't let her sweep between the shelves. He did that himself, very careful not to bump anything. Alex did sweep the other half of the store where the furniture was. She also washed the front windows. She finished just about at closing time.

Sal handed her some cash, which Alex glanced at and said, "Sal, you can't pay me for time we spend eating lunch. It's not working."

"It's bad form to argue with your employer," he said lightly. "Noon to 6 p.m. daily. 6 hours times $8 equals $48. You do know basic arithmetic, yes?"

"I just don't want you deciding I'm too expensive and firing me," she countered, matching his tone.

Sal laughed at that. "More likely you'll quit because you've overworked yourself."

On her way back to her night-shelter (a mostly unused lean-to behind one of the residences), she stopped at a drug store and bought a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and bath soap. She wished she had enough money for scissors. She normally would have stolen such items, but she didn't want any reason at all for the local mafia to seek her out. She also bought an orange. She felt delightfully rich. She wondered if she saved enough money if she could buy a real winter coat. She'd never even thought that would ever be possible.

The next day Sal told her she'd worn him out the previous day and he demanded she just sit and keep him company for the afternoon. They played chess and Alex asked him about the paintings on the wall. That proved to be a boon. He loved art more than antiques and spoke about his favorite famous painters and styles and how the paintings were created. Again, they got distracted until well after dark which made them both laugh when they noticed. Sal offered to drive her home and she declined, repeating that it was just a short way. On the way back to her lean-to, she bought a compact umbrella to prevent Sal from offering a ride when it rained.

A week later, three crates from an auction arrived and they spent the week unpacking, sorting, and repacking everything except the few items Sal wanted to keep for the shop, with Sal explaining everything in great detail. Alex loved to listen to him talk. It was like being in some kind of fantasy world where people didn't hurt each other and conversations didn't revolve around who could do what for, or to, whom, and where hunger and fear weren't daily companions. Sometimes she wished she could tell him that. Instead, she was thankful he didn't pry into her life.

Sometimes a customer would come in and Alex would serve them hot tea at the round table in the diminutive living room and then slip quietly into the back of the store out of sight. Sal would bring various pieces over to the table, where the bright light would show off the items. He'd sit and drink tea with the customer. If they had questions, he always had the answer, but he never pressed them and never tried to force them to buy. With several of the customers, they never even discussed the piece or the price, but instead talked about current events, sports, art, religion, kids, pets, or whatever the person seemed to want to discuss. Almost always, they bought something. As the least expensive item in the store was a figurine for $5,500, Sal was certainly making a profit. The most expensive was the Latin book, for $108,000.

While Alex still didn't let Sal win at chess, she at least took the nice long path to the victory so Sal could enjoy the game and think he might win for a while. "So you don't ever sell art?" she asked.

"No, it's a different class of buyer and I wouldn't be able to part with anything I liked. Antiques, I can look at and see their monetary value and the effort that went into making them, but art, I can look at and see part of the soul of the artist."

Alex glanced over at the painting on the wall doubtfully. "Projecting your own feelings, maybe. But it's just a painting." She knew that comment would rile him up. She grinned to let him know she wasn't serious.

"Just a painting!" Sal scolded in mock horror. "Sacrilege! When you stand at the foot of the great paintings and your insides cry and you can no longer look away, you'll understand."

"Now you really are kidding," she said.

"Haven't you ever been in an art gallery, young lady?" he asked indignantly.

"No?" Alex moved her knight strategically to give Sal an advantage.

Sal frowned. "What is school teaching you these days? Idiots, the lot of them. I'll take you this Saturday if you're free."

Alex had planned on getting through the rest of the scientific journals this weekend, but she supposed art also counted as education. "How much does it cost?"

Sal hesitated, pursing his lips suspiciously at the unguarded knight, and then took her knight with his bishop. "I'll cover the costs."

"You already pay me too much." She moved a pawn toward its inevitable promotion that would win her the game.

Sal blinked at that move but then relocated his bishop to safety. "I consider it an obligation to correct your ignorance."

Alex moved another chess piece. Sal would realize he was going to lose again in the next move or two. "Do I need anything?" Like photo I.D., which she didn't have?

"No, but you should leave your backpack home. The museum won't let you carry it in anyway. Meet me here at the shop at 8 a.m.?"

No way was she leaving her backpack anywhere on the street where someone would steal all of her cash. She simply nodded and moved the next piece.

They reset the board. He moved a piece.

"Don't move that one, Sal," Alex said. "You already know you lose if you move that one there." She knew his patterns and thought processes by now. That opening would only lead down one of 10 paths for him and all of them would lead to the end too quickly. He could certainly deviate from those, but he wouldn't. His eyebrows furrowed and he frowned at her a moment. Alex added, quite pleased with herself, "I consider it an obligation to correct your ignorance."

Sal growled amusedly, but he moved a different piece. He still lost and they didn't have enough time left for another game. They put the pieces and the board away .

Sal watched her pick up her backpack and said, "I'll beat you at chess tomorrow. I've been going too easy on you."

She laughed. "I hope so. See you tomorrow, Sal."

Alex was still grinning when she stopped to pick up her evening dinner - two perfectly ripe glorious oranges. In her entire life, she didn't think she'd ever felt so happy. She wasn't starving. She had energy. Her mental focus was outstanding. Most importantly, though, she thought she might be able to call Sal her friend, not someone who kept her around for what she could do, like the street gang had, or the adults that wanted to show off her piano playing before... well, before that.

Even her fellow group home kids and schoolmates before weren't her friends; they didn't understand most of what she'd talked about. Sure, Sal didn't know her history, but what was history that she was going to leave behind anyway? She could be anyone she chose. She just had to get through a few more years until she was old enough to be an adult and not be threatened by police and child services, and she could get a job, make some real money, and maybe even find something she really enjoyed doing. Maybe she'd run the antiques store for Sal when he got too old to run it himself?

Alex went to her lean-to and settled in for the night. She ate her oranges and listened to the evening birds and the city sounds. The sun set, although she couldn't see it because the buildings were too high, but the sky shifted darker. She started reviewing the physics journals she'd scanned earlier. She should probably wait until winter, but it looked curiously fascinating.

The articles from CERN on particle physics, complete with their data, and discussions were an incredible find. She rotated the data around in her head and just as an experiment, she decided to see if she could make both the underlying equations as well as the program that generated the data. The clarity from adequate nutrition was amazing.

She played with the data picture, visualizing the underlying chaos of particle movements, fit the data summaries to a raw data set, lost everything in one too many particle orbits and tried again. There was something not quite right. Something missing. Something that had to be there but wasn't. She walked down in size from a water molecule, carefully analyzing each constituent of the previous piece. She mirrored everything. There, the missing force, hiding in the mirror, with its missing field. Clear as daylight, she could see it all in her head.

"Hah," she thought with some wry amusement, "I shouldn't publish this. They'll just give the Nobel prize to some man anyway. What would it mean? What use is it?"

She tried to sleep, but her mind wouldn't let go. All the particles and data points swam together with their formulas and chaos, and taunted her with something she thought she should be getting. She skipped foraging in the morning and just bought herself a decent breakfast at one of the shops. She also skipped the library and instead, walked around the neighborhood, barely seeing anything except data rolling through her head screaming for a pattern or a grouping, bleeding for their formula.

Alex was a little late getting to the antiques store because she forgot to pay attention to the clocks, but her stomach growled on queue. She jogged to the shop and the bell rang softly as always.

Sal looked up from his catalog and smiled, "Good! You're here! I was beginning to worry. Lunch is already ready."

"Sorry I'm late. I forgot to look at the time."

"No problem," Sal said lightly, "The rush of customers will wait."

That made her laugh. He obviously wasn't upset at all. Lunch smelled divine and Alex followed Sal back to the kitchen. "What is that?" she asked peering over his shoulder as he removed a dish from the oven.

"Ossobuco alla milanese." Seeing her look of confusion, he translated, "Veal, in white wine, with vegetables. It's got lemon, garlic, and parsley."

"It smells wonderful. Your Irene is a really fantastic chef."

"I'll tell her you said so. I probably don't praise her enough."

"You should. She might stop cooking for you." Alex retrieved glasses and water for herself. "White or red?" He answered and she opened a new bottle of wine and poured for him.

Sal chuckled and sat down. "You're still coming to the art museum tomorrow, yes?"

She nodded, putting her napkin in her lap, again precisely mimicking him. She didn't feel she needed to anymore, but it had become something of a game. He would try to make her slip up on her copy. Wrong hand reaching for his drink, putting his fork back wrong, that kind of thing, and she'd try not to miss anything. He usually managed to catch her at something.

The particles again spun on their chaotic orbits and the formulas rearranged themselves dynamically to match. She needed a formula to rearrange the formula.

"Distracted today?" Sal asked, his voice rumbling with laughter.

"No," Alex answered, and then she looked around. He'd managed to reverse everything in front of him and drape his napkin across his wine glass. She chuckled and shook her head in amusement. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

"What is it?" Sal began rearranging his place setting back to the proper orientation.

Alex tapped her finger on the table, and asked, "Can I tell you a secret, Sal?"

"Sure." He put his folded napkin next to his plate.

"I'm pretty smart." Alex bit her lip and waited, watching his response carefully.

Sal grinned at her. "I know. People don't usually absorb and master chess in a couple games. I haven't been going easy on you. "

Alex cringed. She hadn't even thought about that. For smart, she was easily tricked. "Well, then," she hesitated, "You wouldn't be surprised if I told you I've been working on a math problem."

Sal drank the last of his wine. "Of all the things I would have guessed you might say, I never would have come up with that."

Still speaking timidly, unsure how far to go, she continued, "I've been spending a lot of time in the library and I think I might have..." No, she knew she had it with absolute certainty, "a new piece of physics."

Sal nodded wisely. "Physics is a very complex field. You need a lot of ground knowledge first. I wouldn't be surprised if you managed to come up with one of the core principles though." His tone suggested he'd be a little surprised.

"You know physics?" Could she run the concept past him?

Sal chuckled. "I know art. I know antiques. Not exactly a mathematical wonder."

Alex stood and collected the dirty dishes to take over to the sink. "Do you mind if we skip chess today so I can keep working on the problem?"

"Not at all. I have new catalogs that came in this morning." Together, they washed and put away the dishes. While Alex tried to insist she could take care of them herself, he argued that he enjoyed the company.

For the afternoon, Sal sat at the counter with his magazines, mumbling to himself and taking notes, while Alex kept changing sitting locations, mumbling stuff to herself. An audio track of the store would have made a very strange song with the ending: "I can find that. Maybe if I move those over there? I'll need to send a note to Dan. That can't possibly work. Oh, I've seen that! Where did I see it? Holy shit." On the profanity, Sal turned to Alex, "None of that language. You're a young lady."

Alex winced guiltily. "Sorry, Sal, but holy shit, I think I have a use for it."

He raised his eyebrow and squinted at her.

She said, "I'll have to find a way to implement it, but I know how I'm going to get rich." She chewed on her knuckle and stood up to pace back and forth in front of the counter.

Sal watched her with an amused grin. "Not going to get rich on chess championships?"

Alex stumbled to a halt. "What?"

"Chess championships. Lots of money to be made in those." Sal set his magazine aside.

"I didn't know such a thing existed." Could someone actually make money doing that? For a moment, she dreamed about having enough money to buy a safe house somewhere. Maybe one of those campers she could move around?

Sal continued, "I've been thinking about it for some time. Getting you a real tutor, that is. I'm not the most qualified chess instructor."

Reality quashed her dream like a hand smacking a mosquito and Alex replied, "That sounds like something that would make a person famous."

He closed his magazine and set it neatly back on the pile of mail. "Sometimes. In your case, I'd say yes."

Alex shook her head. "I can't be famous, besides that wouldn't make me the richest person on the planet."

"Your idea will?" Sal stood up and stretched.

Alex replied, "It has potential. I'll have to think about it some more."

"You keep thinking then, but no more of that language." Sal moved to unlock the case with the Latin book to turn a page.

"Yeah, yeah," Alex went into the back to make tea. She brought him a cup also. He was back reading another one of his catalogs. As she set the tea down next to him, she leaned over and looked at the catalog. "The things you find interesting," she teased.

A man in a business suit came in. He was not a customer by his bearing and complete lack of interest in their wares. He looked dangerous. Sal put his hand on Alex's shoulder. "Go ahead and leave for the day, Alex. I'll see you tomorrow morning promptly."

"You sure you don't need me to stay?" she whispered as the strange man approached the counter. Sal subtly shook his head and tilted his head toward the back. So commanded, Alex left through the back door, looking with unease over her shoulder as she left. If the local mafia was going to harass an old man, she should have at least stayed and tried to deflect any attack toward herself. She was much sturdier than Sal was.

The next morning, Alex was relieved to find Sal unharmed and in a good mood. She'd spent the night too worried to concentrate on anything else. "Are you ok?" she asked, coming into the store.

"Oh, yeah," Sal answered with a casual hand-wave. "We just had some things to discuss."

Alex walked back to the counter. "Who was that guy?"

Sal squinted at her and then answered, "He's family."

She gazed directly at Sal, intent on saying what she'd decided last night. "I didn't tell you, but back when I first came into town, this guy told me there's a local mafia. If you think there's going to be any kind of trouble, don't send me away. I may not look like much, but I can help defend your store."

"Hmmm," Sal replied, frowning. "You don't need to worry about the local mafia." Then he looked beyond her, back out of the front of the store. "Our car is here. I thought you might get a kick out of riding in a limousine today. What do you think?"

Alex turned to look. The shiny black limousine sparkled as if brand new. "Wow! Really? "

"Yes." He glanced at her shoulder and said, "I thought you were leaving your backpack home?"

"Oh. I forgot," she lied. "I'm just so used to carrying it everywhere. How about I leave it here in the store?" If his security that was protecting a $108,000 book wasn't good enough to protect her stolen clothes and half-used toiletries, she wasn't sure what could. "I'll just leave it here." She set it behind the counter.

Sal reset the store's alarm and locked the front door on their way out. "I think we only have time to get to one museum today so I'm taking you to my favorite."

As she climbed into the limousine, she teased, "That a polite way of telling me to super-appreciate it and ohhh and ahhh a lot?" Alex reflected that it was nice to be able to joke with someone. She was living in a fantasy.

"Hah! You'll see!" he growled with faux-displeasure.

The driver closed the door after them and Alex stared around with wide eyes. The inside was spacious and meticulously clean. She wished she had had a chance to clean up that morning. The fine upholstery made her feel particularly grungy. There were buttons that begged to be pushed and cabinets and drawers with potential treasures. A shiny black and white marble counter even had a small sink with what looked like a refrigerator underneath. The cabin was separated from the driver by a closed-window wall with dark wood paneling.

Sal settled in opposite her. "It's not too bad, is it?" he remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

She ran her fingers across the counter's smooth marble. "How can you afford this? Your shop doesn't make this much money." Then she realized that wasn't the most tactful statement she could have said.

Luckily, the comment didn't seem to offend him. He answered, "I'm independently wealthy. I just dabble in the antiques to support my art habit, but I really don't need to work. I just like to buy expensive paintings. I have quite a few in my house."

Alex's eyes were huge as she looked around. She thought he was renting the limousine. Did his reply mean he owned it?

"Did you get a chance to eat breakfast?" Sal leaned forward and popped open the small refrigerator. He handed her a bottled orange juice and took one for himself.

Alex had prudently eaten a roll she'd bought specially to prevent the dire hunger pangs of a morning spent walking around. "I ate." She opened the orange juice and drank anyway.

"I figure we should go through the painting styles in historical order so you can see how they progress. The oil paintings of the Baroque period are my favorites. How the artists render silks and brocades is amazing." As the ride continued, Sal described the types of art she'd see and their historical significance.

Alex didn't understand his enthusiasm until they were standing in front of one of Rembrandt van Rijn's paintings and she could not look away. "How'd he get the light to glow like that?" she whispered in awe. "It's amazing." She didn't want to just look and memorize to go over later if she needed it. She wanted to stand there and savor each small detail in the here and now. Sal had been right. She could see the soul of the artist, the immortalized moment of the subject, the years of practice needed to build up to that brush stroke, that particular blend of color.

A long time later, Sal said, "Told you so."

"I apologize for ever mocking you. I was so wrong." She still couldn't tear her eyes away from the painting.

Sal chuckled. "Come on. There's more to see." He led her on to another exhibit.

They ate lunch at the small restaurant in the museum. Alex winced at the prices, but Sal didn't seem overly concerned.

On the ride back to his shop, he asked, "What was your favorite?"

Alex thought carefully and replayed all of the paintings she'd seen in her mind's eye. "I don't think I could pick a favorite. I love the metal armors - how they do the silver with the shine highlights. I wasn't so fond of the modern art."

Sal nodded at that and passed her an apple juice from the refrigerator. "It has its place, but modern art isn't my favorite either."

When they arrived back, it was well after dark. Her backpack had been adjusted a little, just the top squished in a bit, but otherwise in the same spot. She verified that with her memory of how she'd left it. "Hey, Sal, might want to get a few mouse traps. My backpack's changed. Something jumped on it."

"You sure? We'd see other signs of mice if we had them. Maybe it just settled? I'll get mouse traps tomorrow just in case." Sal picked up a couple magazines to take home.

"I'll do a good sweep under the shelves and go through the cabinets on Monday." She put her backpack on. "Sal, thank you for taking me to the museum today."

"You sure you don't want me to drop you off at home?" He peered at her.

"Naw," she answered, "Mum would likely faint if she saw me getting out of that barge."

"Barge?! You dare call my car a barge!" He laughed and they each went their separate ways.

At the library the next day, Alex went through every art book. She concluded that art creation was a skill that required a decade or more of practice to master. Just the muscle memory alone would take quite a bit of effort in most of the mediums. She wondered if she could get Sal to take her to a sculpture exhibit, and then she laughed at the thought. Her, thinking about an activity other than survival. What had Sal done to her?

On Tuesday while they were unpacking another shipment, Sal said offhandedly, "I need to be late tomorrow and Thursday. Would you come open the shop? I'm not expecting any customers. Just sit here in case someone comes in and answer the phone and tell them I'll be around in the afternoon."

"Sure, Sal." Alex carefully unwrapped another vase and set it aside. She folded the wrapping paper and put it on the growing pile.

"Here's the back door key." Sal dug in his pocket and gave her a key. "The security combination for the alarm is 648522. Let me show you how to turn it off and on again." He also showed her the phone number for the security company in case there was a problem and gave her his own cell phone number.

Later that night, the wind picked up, blowing Alex's newspapers around. She chased them down and stuffed them inside her shirt and pants for warmth. While the overall temperature wasn't cold, the rain itself would be cold. The rain started and the wind continued to pick up. By midnight, the newspaper was dissolving and the wind was strong enough that it began to get scary. The large raindrops felt like tiny bullets. A plastic lawn chair rolled by and she huddled against the debris in the lean-to. It was the lightning that decided her. She didn't need to risk her life when she had somewhere to go.

She grabbed her backpack and went to the shop. She felt vaguely guilty, as if she were breaking a trust, but let herself in anyway. She turned off the alarm before it triggered an alert. Leaving the light off, she went into the bathroom and dried off as best she could. She switched to the slightly drier clothes from her backpack and then pondered what to do. She went back out into the shop's storage area, took several of the flattened boxes, and stacked them. She curled up on top of them with her backpack as a pillow and lay there in the dark wondering why she felt guilty. Outside the wind picked up and the loud howling of it between the buildings was unnerving. She was glad to be inside.

The storm was still raging outside in the early morning so Alex skipped going out to forage for breakfast. She made herself a pot of tea instead, and went into the bathroom and cleaned up. She had a moment of inspiration and went and got the shop's scissors and gave herself a haircut. She didn't take it too short, because the length would help keep her neck warm in the upcoming winter, but she thought she did a reasonable job getting it even.

Then, because she still had a few hours before the store should open, she took the opportunity to wash her spare clothes and dry them in the oven, and then she swapped to those, and did her main clothes. All the way down to her underwear. She felt more human, less of an animal. She made sure the bathroom was spotlessly clean and free of hair, and then she started cleaning the rest of the store. It was already clean from her previous efforts, but she made sure every surface was meticulous. With her newfound respect for art, she even dusted the tops of the picture frames with extreme care. She now recognized the paintings in the store, even the bathroom, and knew they far out-valued even the book in the glass display case.

Alex went to the front window and stared out. The rain fell almost sideways in the gusts of wind. She watched until sunrise. The rain began lessening and eventually stopped. Promptly at 9 a.m., she unlocked the front door and stood looking out at the wet street until Sal arrived at 11:30, dropped off by what looked like the same limousine, and carrying lunch. She resisted the urge to tell him she'd come in during the night, but only just barely and because as far as he knew, she was living with her mom. She felt guilty though and that was an uncomfortable, new feeling, and she didn't care for it at all.

When she stopped to buy dinner that night, she saw the school supplies were featured. She was shocked. How had the time passed that quickly? She wasn't done in the library yet and she hadn't even begun to plan for the winter. In the morning she verified with a careful inquiry that school was indeed starting in two weeks. She had to leave immediately or risk not having enough food stored through winter. She left the library early and went shopping. She had enough money for a coat and a change of clothes, and joy, a new pair of shoes. Sal had certainly been generous. She pondered a new backpack, but thought she'd do better with some staple grains instead, which she'd get closer to the forest. Rice, barley, and oats would fill out the winter diet nicely.

Sal was sitting at his counter, reading a catalog. Alex paused at the door and watched him a moment before going in. "Hey, there," he greeted her cheerfully, closing his magazine.

"Look at you. New clothes! Very nice." He stood and came around the counter, pausing as he saw her expression. "What's wrong?"

"School's starting. My mom told me I have to stop working at the shop and focus on my studies."

"That's a good priority," he said after a moment. "You can still come by and visit."

"True." She faked a happier smile. She was afraid her eyes were still reflecting her sadness, so she stepped past him to ostensibly put her much puffier backpack behind the counter. She unzipped it and pulled out her new coat. "New coat," she said, holding it up for inspection. "Does it really get this cold down here?"

She put the coat on top of her backpack, rather than stuff it back inside. She wanted her backpack to look normal.

The kitchen alarm went off. "That's lunch," Sal announced. "Pizza today. Not that nasty fast food stuff, but real Italian pizza."

The afternoon passed heartbreakingly pleasantly, with chess, and Alex asking Sal about his art collection at home. She watched the time, though, because she couldn't risk waiting until dark. She pointed at the clock before they started another game.

Sal nodded, and together, they put away all the pieces and the board. "Do you have all your school supplies?" Sal asked.

"Not quite all of them yet. That's part of the reason Mom wants me to stop working here now. I've got to go over last year's books and get ready."

"Tell you what. I've really enjoyed having you work here this summer. Come by tomorrow afternoon, and as a thank you, I'll take you supply shopping?"

"Sal, you've already given me so much. I can't accept more."

"Of course you can. Humor an old man."

"Ok," she lied. "If Mom says I can." Once again that uncomfortable guilty feeling settled in her stomach. Sal was a nice man. She didn't like lying to him.

Winter was especially cold that year and Alex was glad to have her new coat. Her monthly cycle finally made an appearance, much to her annoyance, but she made do, as the prehistoric woman used to, with absorbent materials and washable leather liners. She worked through the library material she'd memorized and spent a whole month checking and verifying her new physics. She even figured out how she'd be able to create the very first perpetual energy battery using the knowledge. It would cost a lot initially, but once the first one was made, she could easily create others, because she could use the infinite energy source to shift matter around enough to make more. She could visualize all of the tools and configurations she'd need. Whenever she was mentally exhausted, she granted herself some time to remember her discussions with Sal and recall all the beautiful paintings in the museum.

As soon as she saw the first kids in the campground, she knew school was out. She secured her winter gear, even her coat, carefully hiding everything under the rocks at the back of her cave again. She was looking forward to seeing Sal again. It'd been a cold and lonely winter, and she'd exhausted all the books she'd memorized. She needed vegetables and fruits. The high protein winter diet left her more mentally fuzzy than she liked. She began her hike back to the city. Would Sal let her work in his store for the summer again?

When she arrived at the antiques shop mid-afternoon, Alex opened the door and listened to the bell ring softly. Her tension melted away at the sound and she stepped into Sal's sanctuary. Sal was sitting behind his counter, reading a catalog, almost as if she'd never left. He looked older, with even more grey in his hair and new wrinkles around his eyes and chin. More hesitantly than she would have preferred, she inquired, "Mr. Marino, I was wondering if you were hiring this summer?"

Sal raised his eyes to her and his answering smile was all she'd hoped for. "Alex, you came back!"

"I missed you, Sal. It's been a long school year." Her cave meditations had certainly been long and insightful even though it couldn't be counted as school. Now that she knew what it was like to have an actual friend, she didn't care for solitude at all and that had made her especially lonely. Several times, she'd even gotten so depressed that she'd wondered if it would have been better to not know what having a friend was like.

"Yes, it has been a long school year. How were your grades?" Sal stood and came around the counter.

"I passed. I guess I move on?" She set her new (stolen) backpack down by the door and wandered through the aisles, noting things missing and things added. "You've had a profitable few months." She thought briefly on giving him a hug like she'd seen campers do when they greeted friends and family, but she didn't know how to go about doing that. He didn't come close enough immediately to make that part of their greeting anyway.

He waved her to follow him. "I have bought many new things. I'll tell you about them later. Come have some tea. I want to hear about your school year."

Alex accompanied him back to the kitchen. "Not much to tell. Lots of studying. Did more thinking on that physics thing." Alex got tea bags, cups, napkins, and spoons, while Sal added water to the kettle. It was as if she'd never left. "It's going to work if I can ever get a chance to implement it."

The stove snapped and popped as the gas lit underneath the kettle. Sal straightened and turned to her. "Yes? What do you need to do that?"

"I'm not asking you for money, Sal." Alex sat down in her old chair. " Well, actually, I am, I'm asking for my job back. I was wondering if you could teach me everything I need to know to trade antiques and make a profit."

"Of course you can have your job back; same deal if you like." Sal sat in his chair also. "These old bones have surely missed your youthful strength unpacking and repacking. I don't mind imparting a bit of wisdom if you don't plan to open up a competing store across the street."

"Thank you! I would never, ever be your competition, Sal," Alex answered with so much earnestness that Sal laughed. She flushed. "So tell me about the new things you bought?" For the remainder of the work day, Sal went through each new item and told her its history, qualities, and potential buyers. Alex refused to take his money for the day, even though he tried to insist.

When Alex left the store, she was focused on finding the best night sleeping place and scavenging for dinner. She did not notice the car that pulled up next to her until two men in suits got out. "Boss wants to see you," the closer one said, pulling his jacket aside to show a very shiny holstered gun. "Get in."

Very briefly, Alex pondered running. Bullet or tackle, she had no doubt they could take her. She'd had precisely three cups of tea and some water from a hose within the last two days. She was already a little lightheaded and given the recent walking to get to Sal's store, more than a little exhausted. "No need to threaten me," she said softly, opening her hands, palms up. She got in the car, between the two of them, holding her backpack on her lap in front of her. Her heart thumped so fast, she felt they must surely hear it. Whenever it seemed like neither one was directly watching her, she moved the zipper on her pack. She might get a chance to get her knife from her pack into her jacket sleeve.

The car stopped at a restaurant named "Gente Di Mare". Alex had raided its dumpster in the past. They served fine Italian food, but there was rarely much left over, making the trash can not really worth the trouble. As they got out of the car, Alex managed to move her knife to her sleeve. She was pretty pleased with herself, until they took her backpack, patted her down, and confiscated her knife too. She merely shrugged unrepentantly, and said, "Self-defense." She watched morosely as they took her backpack into the restaurant. She waited outside with the man that had shown her his gun. She wondered if she'd be able to get either item back. What use would they possibly have for a change of clothes, a washcloth, some toiletries, feminine products, a couple plastic bags, and a somewhat dented camping knife?

When the man who had taken her things inside opened the door and gestured to them, Alex thought she might pass out, so badly frayed were her nerves. "Come on," the gunman ordered and having no choice at all, Alex obeyed.

The inside of the restaurant was beautifully atmospheric. Actual candles lit the tables, while soft yellow electric sconces provided enough light to see reasonably, if not brightly. White tablecloths overlay deep red ones at an angle. Dishes were nice china with real silverware, and the cloth napkins were a matching deep red. Customers didn't even look up as the three of them passed through to the private rooms in the back.

They brought her to a fairly large private office where a man that seemed vaguely familiar sat behind the dark wooden desk. She couldn't remember ever having seen him before, but she was so lightheaded that her memory wasn't working as it should. Her backpack and knife were nowhere to be seen. The men took up position on either side of her and she was not offered either of the two leather guest chairs.

The man behind the desk folded his hands on the desk and asked, "Who do you work for? Which family? The police?"

Alex didn't want to mention Sal's name and get him into trouble. "Nobody," she answered. It was technically true. She didn't start work for Sal until the next day officially.

The man sighed. "Do you speak Italian?"

"No, Sir." She hesitated and then offered, "I can learn it if you need me to. I'm a quick study."

"Hrm. Last year, I figured you were mostly harmless, but I was glad when you left. And here you are back again, as if disappearing and reappearing is normal. Surely your employers would have realized this would be suspicious. They set you up."

"I don't know what you are talking about, Sir? I don't have any employers. Honest. I was just off at school in the next county over and was too busy to come back here." She quickly tried to recall the map of Atlanta and figure out what the next county over might be, but she couldn't quite focus with fear tearing at her nerves.

The man said something in another language that Alex thought might be Italian. The two men took her arms and dragged her from the room. The gunman said something to her in that same language.

"I don't know Italian," she replied desperately. "English, please?"

They took her outside, behind the restaurant. There was a large plastic sheet already on the ground. That's when she panicked and tried to break free and run. Even if she hadn't been weakened from hunger and exhaustion, she wouldn't have been strong enough to get free. The men had muscles like iron under their suits. The non-gunman took some duct tape from his pocket and secured her hands behind her back.

Gunman said something else in Italian. The other man pushed her to her knees on the front of the plastic sheet .

"What do you want? I don't speak Italian," she pleaded. "Please."

Gunman took out his gun, checked its ammunition, cocked it, and put it to her forehead.

"Oh, please don't kill me," she sobbed. "I'm worth a small fortune. I can do lots of useful things."

He demanded something again in Italian.

"I know you know English. You spoke it earlier." She was crying. "Please let me go. You'll never see me again. I swear."

"Who do you work for?" Gunman growled.

"I don't work for anybody. Honest. I'm just a street kid. I came here because you have a nice library. That's all. I don't have to stay. I'm not a threat. Please don't shoot me." She would NOT give Sal's name. Some repayment that would be for his kindness.

"You an undercover cop?" Gunman asked, pressing the barrel into her forehead so hard that her head tilted backwards.

"No! Hell, no. I'm just a kid. I ain't nobody. Please, please, don't shoot me," she whispered. Her mouth was dry.

Gunman said something in Italian to non-gunman.

Alex kneeled there, shaking in terror, sobbing, and wondering what she'd done to come to their attention. "Please don't kill me," she pleaded, having a hard time speaking because her chin was trembling so badly.

Non-gunman answered in Italian. They spoke back and forth a couple more times. Alex continued to beg. They yelled at her in Italian, pushed the gun against her forehead, demanding something. Alex cried and continued to repeat that she didn't know what they were saying. This went on for several minutes that felt like an eternity.

Gunman pulled the gun back away from her head, uncocked it, and holstered it. "You don't ever cross the family, you understand?"

She nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yes. I understand. Never. I swear."

Non-gunman pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the duct tape holding her hands.

Gunman pointed back toward the door. "Get your backpack. You're free to go."

Alex hadn't even noticed her backpack when they'd brought her out. She didn't even remove the duct tape hanging from her left wrist. She scrambled to her backpack, took it, and ran. She found herself at the library and stepped into the outside stairwell that would go directly to the basement if someone dared to unlock it. She cowered in the corner by the door, shrinking back on herself, all the while, distantly registering all the symptoms of shock, as if she were floating outside herself looking back at a stranger weeping. She hadn't even realized she'd wet herself sometime during that confusing interrogation.

When Alex was able to move again, she got her other clothes from her backpack, noticing that the contents had been completely searched and rearranged. Nothing was missing. Her knife was in the front pocket. She changed into her other clothes and carefully rolled the soiled pants and socks inside the slightly cleaner shirt, before packing it.

Alex's stomach growled. She needed food. She pried herself up from the hard cement. She got lucky; the nearest trash can that was likely to have food, did - an entire half of a ham sandwich in relatively good condition, which she stuffed into her mouth and ate like an animal. The sky was already lightening with that pre-dawn blue. She made her way back to the library. She'd find an Italian-English dictionary and find out what they'd said to her. Maybe it would make sense? She wanted to say goodbye to Sal, too. He'd be expecting her at lunch time. She could be out of the neighborhood before sundown. She didn't know what she'd done to acquire the interest of the local mafia, but it endangered Sal, too, and possibly even his cook, Irene. She couldn't risk them getting hurt.

A few hours later, Alex sat in a quiet corner of the library with three Italian-English dictionaries. She first translated what the boss had said to her reply about school in the next county, "You dare lie to me," and then to his men, "Take her out back and if she doesn't tell you who she is working for, get rid of her."

The comment in the hallway was gunman telling her that she might as well give over her employer's name as they were going to find out eventually anyway.

Outside, gunman had repeated the boss' questions about her employers. He'd described what her brains would look like on the plastic sheet if she didn't talk. Alex felt nauseated just putting the words together.

"I think I believe she doesn't know our language," Gunman had said to non-gunman.

"Or she's a damn good actress," was the reply.

"I don't even think she knows who she's hanging out with."

"Hah. Probably really thinks he's just a store owner."

"How stupid can she be?"

"She really is just a terrified kid; look at her. Let her go."

Alex tapped her fingers on the English-Italian book and double-checked that she had the right translation. She was only 'hanging out' with Sal. What did they mean? Then it all snapped into place. The boss was clearly related to Sal; it's why he looked so familiar. Maybe brothers, even. A super-rich man with a small, inconspicuous store-front. Sal's comment about her not worrying about the local mafia. The clues, here and there, readily apparent if she had been paying attention.

Alex bent over the desk, rocking, and then let her head rest on her arms and cried silently. Sal had known. He had allowed it.

"Are you ok?" a soft, heavily-accented voice asked.

She looked up and saw the man who was always dressed in black with the odd hair curls on either side of his face. Last summer, she'd seen him at the library often but she'd never spoken with him.

"Yes, I'm fine." She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I just learned something is all."

He leaned forward slightly, glancing at her books. "Learning is not something to be afraid of."

Examples to be afraid of blazed through her brain like a forest fire. Carnal knowledge, street knowledge, and now, betrayal. "I suppose it depends on how you learn it," she replied quietly.

"Well, a book is hardly at fault," he conceded.

She stilled her fingers that were pounding the dictionary. "True, a book has never betrayed me." She tried smiling for his sake, but was sure she just looked ghastly. She shifted the conversation away from herself. "I've seen you here before. If I might be curious, not insulting, but your clothes and hair, are they significant?" Alex's voice sounded fake to herself, a habit of disguise and redirecting interest away from herself, not an actual inquiry.

"I remember you from last year. Yes, I'm a rabbi. I teach over at the yeshiva. I wish my students were as enthusiastic about this library as you?" he seemed to be fishing for more information about her.

Alex, refusing to let the conversation steer to herself, asked, "What do you teach?"

His mouth quirked up at the corners, but he answered, "Sciences, mostly. I have a special summer session on physics starting soon."

Even in her despair, Alex felt a moment of jealousy. What would it be like to actually sit in a physics class and have people who might understand her to talk with? She set that thought aside for later consideration, and tried to focus on the conversation and keeping it neutral. "I've always liked science. There's something amazing in absolute, undeniable, repeatable proof."

"Which type of science do you like the most?" he probed, yet again trying to turn the topic toward her.

"I've never really considered any subject a favorite. They're all pretty equal." He tilted his head curiously so she knew she'd blundered somehow. She quickly corrected, "Earth sciences, I think. There's so much yet that needs to be done." To keep the conversation neutral, she added, "Micro weather systems are fascinating. How can the weather on one side of a mountain be so different from on the other side on the same day and time, and how should it be predicted?"

He nodded agreement. "That's a good area of study. Don't neglect your mathematics and higher sciences when you get to them. They often explain just such things. Meanwhile, young scholar, if you get stuck, come ask me. You should not worry so much about something that it makes you cry."

"I shall. Thank you, uh?" Alex paused and angled her head at him inquisitively.

"Just call me Rabbi. It's what all the students do."

He went back over to his table and Alex wondered when every dialog would stop being a minefield. Should she have had earth sciences in school by this age? How many of the possible science subjects should she know? And how much depth in those? And what was a Rabbi? Should she have known what that was? By context, a yeshiva would be a school.

Her fingers resumed tapping the Italian-English dictionary and she bit her lower lip. Should she stay? How much of a threat was the Marino family to her? She'd apparently passed their test. If she moved on, would she just find another test that she might not live through? This was an excellent library with so many books she still wanted to go through. Would Sal still want her help at his store? The income had certainly been very nice. Their concern was with other Italian families and the police, but would they punish her for lying or try to exploit her?

As she walked the books back to their shelf, she whispered every curse word that had been in the dictionaries, in Italian, trying out the phonetics, and feeling the shapes of the different sounds. As she put the books on the shelf, she looked at the other language books, and with a determined frown, took them all back to the table and started through them. Never again would she make that mistake. She'd save the pages for winter to actually wade through and learn them. She also wanted to go through a few comprehensive dictionaries and find out more about this Rabbi. That sent her on a foray into religious texts and she was forced to stop as the library was closing. She found a flyer for the local yeshiva, which was also part university, and a major contributor to the library.

Alex debated leaving as the predawn light replaced the stars. She raided more dumpsters to make sure her decision wouldn't be made based on hunger and then returned to the library's stairwell. She leaned against the building. There was so much knowledge on the other side of these bricks and none of it would tell her if it was safe to stay. There would be other libraries she could visit, but this one was the best she'd seen due to the additional funding from the yeshiva. Could she deal with Sal? She supposed she ought to at least go speak with him. The potential for food and money throughout the summer was too great to pass up. She had to be practical.

Instead of waiting until noon, Alex returned to Sal's store about an hour after it opened. She stepped in and the bell jingled quietly. Sal was sitting at the counter looking at another of the catalogs - as if nothing at all were different.

"Hi," she said softly, standing just inside the door, on the oriental carpet she'd dripped water on just about a year ago.

Looking up and seeing her enlightened and determined expression, Sal inquired, "Have you forgiven me?"

Alex inhaled and made herself speak. "No. Never again, Sal. You don't ever get to do that to me ever again. Not any of your family or hirelings either. If you ever don't trust me or think I'm working for someone else or are bored of me or just want me gone, just say so, and you will never see me again. But don't ever threaten me."

"I understand that." Sal nodded. "It was necessary; I have a responsibility to my family. I'm glad to see you back though. I really thought you'd probably run."

Alex set her backpack down and walked toward him, hands clearly open, clearly empty. "I probably should. It makes sense to do that, but I like the library, and I like the money you pay me, and I like that the street thugs leave me alone."

Sal stood and got a couple teacups and filled them with hot water, and took them over to the table and chairs. He'd already had the teapot warmed and cups out. Alex sat down across from him and took a tea bag and put it in the water. Sal prompted, "How about we start over?" At her shrug, he continued, "Hi, I'm Salvatore Marino. My family owns this community. My younger brother runs the family business for me so I can dabble with these antiques. We're wealthy and defend what's ours. The F.B.I. and police take an, ah, irritating interest in our affairs. We also have some competition with other Italian families."

"Hah." She snorted at the 'irritating interest'. "Hi, Mr. Marino, I go by Alex Smith, even though that's not my name. I'm a homeless kid, with no family, and no living friends. I've been on the streets for just about 5 years now. I come into the city during the summer so I can memorize books, and I spend winters underground so I don't get picked up for truancy. I have perfect recall. I can glance at something and I will remember it forever. Yesterday, I memorized an Italian-English translation dictionary and I now comprehend everything that I've heard spoken in Italian. That's why I go to the library - to memorize things."

He didn't blink at this list, but what he said was, "I've known you're homeless."

Alex nodded once. "I figured. Was it you that had me followed when I left your store that first day?"

"Yes." His tone held no apology .

She drank her tea even though it was borderline too hot and refilled her cup. "I'm glad you didn't have me shot for lying then."

He waved his hand dismissively. "It's a lie, but not one that will hurt our family. Would you do me a favor, though?"

"Depends." Her newfound caution made her hesitate. Was this where the deal would include something she was unwilling to do? Homeless children were so easily exploited.

He ran his finger along his teacup's handle and looked into the liquid as he explained, "If someone asks you about me or the family, will you tell me who and what they asked for?"

"Oh, that!" She exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Sure. I won't ever forget you giving me a towel and shelter. I owe you and I pay my debts. That hasn't changed." She hesitated then. Full honesty. "I stayed in the shop that night last fall when that horrible storm came through. The night you gave me the combination."

His mouth twitched as he looked up at her. "I know - silent security alarm and security cameras. It's why I gave you the shop key. I saw the weather forecast. I also don't have mice. I had someone search your backpack."

She almost laughed. "Thank you, Sal. As for the 'irritating interest' the police have in your affairs, be assured, I will not rat you out. Not everything I've done is legal either."

Sal countered, "That's merely a side-effect of living on the street. You're a good kid."

She didn't comment; instead she pushed her memory away with vicious firmness. "If I get picked up, I will say I lied to you and that you employed me with no knowledge or complicity. You are merely a dupe."

Sal chuckled. "That'll be good for my reputation."

Alex shrugged. "Have we an understanding?" She watched him closely. Would he call the cops on her? Would he have her picked up? Surely he would have already; he'd known she was a street kid. He would have already tried to exploit her if he was going to.

"I think so." He held out his hand for her to shake.

Alex shook his hand once, firmly. "Good. Can I keep calling you Sal or do you have some mafia title I should be using?"

"We are not mafia. We're just a rich family with interests. Keep calling me Sal. It's annoying Mario."

Alex squinted at him. "Who's Mario?"

Sal calmly sipped his tea. "My brother - the man you met last night."

"I'm not sure I want to annoy someone who so casually ordered me to be terrorized." Alex made sure her tone indicated a hint of censure.

Sal rubbed his chin. "Alex, Mario only recommended last night's interrogation because he was worried you were a spy leaking information to one of the other families. We've been having some business issues. When you disappeared without a trace anywhere, we figured one of the other families was hiding you. You're young enough that it makes sense that you'd have to go back to school. When you magically reappeared, we were sure the other family must have dropped you off." He inhaled and then confessed, "I ordered that interrogation."

Alex digested this. "Would they have shot me?"

"If there were any indication at all that you worked for our enemies, yes. We couldn't figure out how you were getting information, but we knew you were making the information drops in the library somehow." At Alex's frown, Sal continued, "Alex, kids don't go to libraries voluntarily every day and they certainly don't look at the types of things you do."

"Shit, Sal. If I was somehow getting information and leaving it for someone, wouldn't that someone have to come pick it up?"

"Language, young lady." He shook his finger at her teasingly. "We couldn't find anything and we didn't see anyone come by after you. Your backpack isn't bugged. You aren't wearing any electronics that we can detect. You don't search through my office. You don't ask any questions."

"I ask a lot of questions!" Alex said indignantly.

"Not about the family or the business," said Sal calmly.

"If there's no indication that I'm spying, then why?" Her voice sounded whinier than intended.

"Because a street kid doesn't just walk into a neighborhood and accidentally choose to ingratiate herself to the local godfather," Sal explained.

Alex pondered this. She weighed in with, "Shit."

"Don't swear." Sal frowned. "It's unbecoming and won't help you in the long run. You should learn better ways to express yourself."

"Does it annoy you?" Alex tilted her head and grinned at him defiantly.

"Good!" she said cheerily, "Then I'm not ingratiating myself to you. Shit, I'm deliberately provoking you." She smirked.

He refused to rise to the bait. "Have you eaten today?"

"I had a muffin earlier." Her stomach growled traitorously with its more honest answer. The dumpsters had been very sparse.

It took several days for them to adjust to the new friendship. Alex was able to forgive Sal's betrayal by reminding herself that he was loyal to his family and she might benefit from that integrity, and by reminding herself that she herself had done things that were necessary, if distasteful. Sal had been obliged to test her, not enthusiastic about doing it. That was the difference.

Now that neither one of them actually had to be careful of what they said to each other, they both felt better and an underlying tension that neither had been particularly aware of dissolved. The week passed pleasantly. Sal started stocking extra food in the store refrigerator and Alex would swing by and eat before going to the library. The afternoons were spent in the store, helping Sal with inventory and cleaning or playing chess.

When the weekend arrived, Sal took Alex to another museum. Sal let her set the walking pace as he'd been there many times before. Alex stopped for a long time in front of a still life painting of a dinner table by Willem Claesz Heda. "Two years ago, I'd've laughed if someone said they painted food instead of eating it." She could feel herself changing, becoming less instinctive animal and more self-aware human.

"All that book-learning isn't a real education," Sal noted on the ride home. "You have to see it and experience it for yourself."

"The pictures in the books don't look anything like those paintings at all," Alex agreed.

"A lot of things are like that. Books will give you a basic knowledge, but understanding requires more." A few minutes later, he asked, "So what's the deal with your memory?"

For a moment, Alex was paralyzed with fear. It took her by surprise, because she certainly trusted Sal now. To comprehend it, she took the fear and turned it around in her mind, studying it. At the core was her piano playing - the last time she'd truly let anyone see her real self - and the subsequent events. Sal asking about her memory was different; would be different.

Alex took a deep breath, fortifying herself, and explained as best she could. "I like to think of myself as having three kinds of memory. I can look at something or hear it, and it's like taking a video. I can go back and see it again later, but I don't actually know it." She unconsciously crossed her arms in front of herself, noticed the trepidatious action, and deliberately uncrossed them and set her hands in her lap again. "So if you were to ask me about it, I'd have to find the right reference and remember it. That's too slow to be useful, mostly. I have to go back and study it to learn it and build all the connections between information that I know and the new information, so I can recall it quickly." Her right foot started tapping, and she stilled it with a mental frown. There was nothing to be anxious about. "Then, if I really want to understand it and apply it, I have to rebuild the information in a way that makes sense to me. Once I have that, I'm done and can move on to the next thing. It takes a lot of time and focus. I mostly save that step for winter."

"That's quite a gift."

Alex winced at the word gift; she never wanted to be gifted again. Her heart rate picked up and she could feel herself stiffening.

Sal quickly continued, "So what do you plan to do with all that knowledge?"

She took three deep breaths before she could calm herself enough to answer. "Earn enough money to buy safety, I think."

"Safety?" He leaned forward and took two bottles of water from the small refrigerator. He handed one to her.

"I want to be able to go in a room, lock the door, and sleep, knowing for sure no one could possibly come in and hurt me. Maybe some body armor, so even if you put a gun to my head, the bullet would ricochet off." Alex opened the water and drank.

Sal nodded agreeably. "That seems... narrow? Understandable, but narrow. So what type of job would you want to do?"

Alex glanced out of the limousine window at the passing concrete buildings. "Park ranger, maybe. I really like the forest and I'd get to carry a gun, have authority, but most of the people I'd have to deal with would be happy on vacation, and my boss would be a long way away."

That made Sal laugh.

"It's not enough money, though," Alex said. Back on a neutral topic, she was much calmer again. "I'll need a lot more eventually."

Sal sipped his water. "I can't imagine you'd spend too much as a park ranger."

"I need money to build something," Alex replied.

Sal raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Alex hesitated. How much could she really trust this man? Wouldn't it be nice to actually talk with someone about her ideas? Someone to bounce ideas off of and help her fine-tune her plans. She inhaled and answered, "A perpetual energy battery. It's that physics I was working on last year. The initial creation is going to be really expensive." Interestingly, this confession didn't have any anxiety or fear reaction. Alex thought that was very odd and seemed backwards. She felt no concern at all telling Sal about her memory, and her whole body reacted with signs of stress. Telling him her plans for the future and about her battery made her very wary because he could steal the idea from her and she wouldn't be able to use the money to buy safety and food, and yet her autonomic responses were no more than if she'd been discussing his antiques.

"Ah." Sal didn't seem to notice Alex's internal conflict and stated, "I thought a battery stored power, not created power. Like capacitors. How can it be perpetual energy?"

"Technically, it's more of a gatherer of energy than a storage unit, but for all practical purposes, it's going to look like and work like a battery. Might as well call it a battery. Besides, if people think it's storing a lot of energy, their efforts to reproduce it will fail." Alex still wondered why she felt so calm discussing a secret that, once known by anyone else, could destroy her future.

"Ah, good point. How much money do you have saved up?" Sal asked .

"I only have the cash you gave me this week," Alex said lightly.

Sal took a sip of his water before answering. "Nothing? A girl as determined as you?"

"Until I'm 18, it all belongs to the State. No point even in having it and hiding it somewhere. You never know when someone would just come along and take it, and if I carried it with me, it'd be gone if I got picked up." Alex recited this fact without sadness.

Sal rubbed at his chin. "This memory of yours is quite impressive. Are you sure you don't want to use your natural ability for the common good or something?"

Alex scoffed and repeated one of her old street gang's thoughts, "The common good ain't never done nothing worthy of my time. Let humanity burn; it's choosing its own fate."

"Hmm." Sal shifted on his seat to a more comfortably position. "I think your experience thus far in life is too narrow to make a statement like that. There are good people out there that are worth helping and people worth being loyal to."

"Like you are loyal to the Marino family?" countered Alex, "These the good people you speak of?"

"Not all Marino's are good people. You could even make a case that I'm not a good person." Sal shrugged. "But they are my family and I'm loyal to my genes. You might consider choosing something or someone to be loyal to. Take, for example, your experience on the streets. Should kids be treated like that? Should they be scared and digging in trash cans for food?"

"It's just the way it is." Alex replied. Then she shook her head at his arched eyebrow. "No, I suppose not."

"Maybe you find a way to make children safe so no one else ever has to go through what you did."

Alex scoffed at him. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" Sal argued, "You just said you can create a perpetual energy battery. If you actually can, you could sell it for a lot of money and then use that money to influence society."

Alex conceded, "I suppose I have a few years to decide exactly what I want to do when I'm 18."

"I could help you work out a potential business plan. I may not know physics, but I do know business. You'd have to figure out what such a society would look like, and then figure out the steps to create it. Just like a chess game. Plan how to get to the win."

In yet another leap of unprecedented trust, Alex found herself saying, "I'd like your help, Sal." She drank a large gulp of water. "I dream about it sometimes - what I might do."

Sal rubbed his chin. "What do you dream?" He asked gently.

Alex recognized the speech tactic and muttered, "Going to psychoanalyze me, Sal? I've been through all the psychology texts. I already know what's been done to me ain't my fault. Ain't nobody's fault but them that did it and I'm still here. I'm not going to let them win. I also accept what I've done. No point in dwelling on any of it. There's just now and forward." She silently observed that when she thought too much on her street years, her language devolved.

Then it occurred to Sal, or maybe to Alex, or maybe just even at the same time, that she could use her memory to try and identify actual antiques at auctions, and they planned out a course through the next month to visit auctions and estate sales. He promised her a fair share of any profits, which he'd save for her, to negate any potential exploitation. He'd provide money; she'd provide talent, and together they'd get rich. They both cackled at that, and spent the next day ordering detailed references, magazines, and books. When they weren't discussing antiques, they discussed business possibilities and began working on a solid business plan.

The day Sal and Alex planned to go to her first auction, Alex arrived at the antiques shop to find Sal pacing behind the counter. His brow had small beads of sweat. When he saw her, he said, "Have I apologized for scaring you with that interrogation yet?"

"Eh? It's ok. You were just protecting your family." Then Alex joked, "I'll have nightmares for years..." She laughed to make sure he understood she wasn't upset anymore. As he still appeared tense, she said seriously, "Look, Sal, I understand it. Are you ok?"

"I'm sorry for putting you through that." His eyes held a sadness she couldn't fathom.

Not knowing what to do about his melancholy mood, Alex shrugged and said lightly, "Don't we have an auction to go to?"

"Yeah, we do." Sal called his driver to bring the car and grabbed a couple small paper bags that were on the counter. Holding them up, he explained, "Breakfast. We can eat on the way."

"My stomach loves you, Sal." Alex had skipped scavenging in dumpsters that morning, because she'd known Sal would get her lunch, but breakfast was an unexpected boon.

"Nah, your stomach loves Irene. She put these together for us." Sal set the store's alarm system and they stepped out into the summer heat. Luckily, the driver had already cooled the air in the limousine.

Once they were seated inside, Sal handed her one of the bags. Inside of hers, Alex found a freshly baked, homemade cornetto, a pear, an orange, and a small container with a mixed assortment of homemade cookies. Alex took out the croissant-like pastry; it was filled with marmalade.

Sal set his bag aside and reached instead for the already-prepared steaming coffee. He poured some into a small cup, offered it to Alex, who shook her head. He leaned back to drink it in one quick swallow and then set the cup aside. Coffee seemed to be an odd choice as Alex had only ever seen him drink tea. He was certainly in a strange, sad mood, and whoever had made the coffee had known.

Alex found that when he hurt, she hurt. It was a weird, foreign feeling. Her brain helpfully provided the word 'empathy', and she finally understood what it truly meant beyond its dictionary definition. She had no idea how to address the pain though; no one had ever taught her compassion.

Thinking that maybe she could take his mind off whatever was bothering him, Alex asked, "Did you ever have a wife, Sal?" She nibbled at the pastry and decided she'd never tasted anything so fabulous before. She was immediately torn between savoring each bite and swallowing the pastry whole.

Sal moved the cup back by the coffee pot. "No, but I loved a lady once enough to want to marry her." He closed his eyes briefly.

"What happened?" Alex licked the edge of the cornetto where the marmalade threatened to drip.

"I loved her too much to risk her in family warfare. Things were a lot less stable when I was younger. Mario's lost two wives. He's on his third now." Sal reached for a napkin and handed it to her.

Alex nodded soberly and tried to shift the conversation to something less morose. "I didn't think people who had money and families had that kind of problem."

"It depends on where you are and what family, I suppose. Most people go through their lives blissfully unaware of the harsh reality perpetrated on others." He eyes glazed over as he stared at something she couldn't see in his own memory.

Alex changed the subject yet again, hoping to find a cheerful topic. "Do you suppose we'll see anything good at the auction?"

The corners of Sal's mouth lifted into an almost-smile and Alex knew she'd finally hit a good subject. Sal answered, "You never really know for sure. If you do see something valuable, don't point it out. That'll just drive up the price. Instead, pick something else on the pallet and say it will go nice in your bedroom. That'll be our secret message that I should buy the pallet." For the rest of the ride, they talked about their plans for covert communication, and whatever was bothering Sal was forgotten by both of them.

Over the next month, they made quite a team, Alex with near-instant recognition of potential things of value, and Sal with the money and wisdom to know what was really worthwhile. Sal had one of his appraisers give Alex a crash course, ostensibly to help her appreciate antiques more, but in reality to help her properly evaluate the things she found that matched the desired items in the antiques wanted-to-buy ads.

Almost all of their sales were direct to the customer. An item would be purchased and they'd call the person who had posted a note wanting that particular thing. If the customer was a regular, they got the item for the price Sal paid for it, appraisal costs, plus a small store markup. If not, they went for value-of-item plus appraisal costs plus the full store markup. Sal diligently deposited a share of the profits into an account with his name, but that he said was hers. He told her that if she ever needed any money, she only needed to ask and he'd do a withdrawal without a question. She never asked. Her stomach was full. She got sleep most nights. The balance of her account steadily grew, but was not nearly enough to build her first battery.

A couple weeks later, while they were riding home in Sal's limousine from another particularly profitable auction, Sal stated, "If you are going to hang out with me, you need to know how to use a gun."

Alex shook her head. "I know how to use a gun." The memory wasn't particularly pleasant. In fact, an unfamiliar guilt-feeling seemed to creep in when she thought of those girls in that house.

Sal grinned, eyes twinkling, and announced, "Good. We'll get some practice. I've rented a space for the afternoon."

Just then, the car pulled up in front of a large, low building. The sign over the door said, "Guns and Range". There was another limousine parked outside. Three men in business suits stood outside. Alex recognized them from the Marino restaurant. Two were bodyguards, while she didn't know the function of the third.

Before they got out of the car, Sal pointed at the third man. "That's Milo Paul. He's my man of affairs, also a lawyer. You can trust him."

"Ok?" she replied doubtfully.

"If he says he has a message from me, it'll be true. He works for me, not my brother. If it comes from anyone else, you're going to have to evaluate motivation and who is choreographing them," Sal explained.

"Ah. I understand." Alex wondered at what point she would ever have a reason to interact with any Marino other than Sal. From her perspective, the farther away she stayed from his mafia family, the better. Her plans for the future didn't involve rotting in some prison somewhere or being found dead on a beach.

Nodding firmly, Sal said, "Good. Let's go in."

They got out of the car. Milo Paul studied Alex intently and it made her a little uncomfortable. What had Sal told him? The two bodyguards stayed outside while Milo followed them in.

The store was filled with a large variety of guns in glass display cases, ammunition, assorted attachments, and the usual hobbyist hats, shirts, and signs. The clerk immediately rushed over. "Mr. Marino, the range is all set up. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, thank you. My man here will watch the store. You take the afternoon off." Sal smiled at the man.

With practiced ease, Milo handed the clerk some money and escorted him out, turning the store's sign from open to closed, while remaining inside. The clerk glanced back once, but left. The two bodyguards outside went to their limousine and retrieved three large cases from the trunk and brought them in.

"Rented a space for the afternoon, eh?" Alex quirked an eyebrow at Sal.

Sal shrugged unrepentantly.

The bodyguards took the cases into the back and Sal and Alex followed them in. Milo took up position at the store's counter, and pulled a book from his pocket and settled in to wait.

The gun range itself was a long hall with targets at the end that could be adjusted with switches. The bodyguards set the cases on the counters and silently departed. Sal withdrew a key from his pocket and opened the cases. "This is part of the family gun collection. Pretty much every type we have." Inside the case, guns, both legal and illegal, and their ammunition were neatly packed in grey foam.

Alex whistled. "I retract my comment about knowing how to use a gun. Teach me."

For the rest of the afternoon, Sal did. Disassembly, assembly, cleaning, checking, loading, shooting. Historical use, strengths, weaknesses, comparisons. Everything he knew about each gun, he shared. Alex's prior hunting ability to stand perfectly still gave her a steady hand and excellent aim. Muscles developed from processing game gave her strength to lift even the larger guns, although some were unwieldy.

The afternoon went really fast. When they were done and everything was put away and the cases relocked, Sal paused and put his hands on her shoulders, facing her. With absolute seriousness, he said, "Don't ever let my brother know you can shoot like that. I've seen many people shoot, but none who started with your accuracy and ability." He let go of her shoulders. "You know any martial arts?"

"Read a bit, but no. That needs a teacher." Alex was pretty certain the fighting skills Mason had taught her were incorrect.

"I'll get you one," Sal declared. "If anyone ever tries to hurt you, I want you to be able to defend yourself."

Alex blinked, startled. How had she gotten this lucky? "I'd like that. I've been thinking on my business. How am I going to make enough money fast enough to keep my business afloat? That's a huge failure point in every scenario. There's no job I could do that would cover it."

"Well, that's definitely a challenge," Sal answered, speaking slowly, studying her. "The Marino's have been working on ways to gain money for generations. You've got several advantages other people don't have. I'll help you work it out. With your memory and knowledge of people, you won't have an issue." He grinned.

The next month and a half was filled with Alex's real education. Sal not only hired people to teach her things, he himself gave her an unparalleled view into the Italian Mafia business; describing individuals, groups, and families, their motivations, their purposes, and their use. He detailed what his family did to make money. He showed her pictures of everyone on his phone. In return, Alex described her perpetual energy battery and how it would work. He didn't understand the physics at all, but he had a lot to say on how she could market it, as well as what would be necessary for her business to survive.

Toward the end of this education, Alex found herself following Sal at yet another auction. This one was massive. People could place bids, but only things with multiple bidders would actually go into the voice auction. Bidders were encouraged to negotiate the final prices before the voice auction to speed up the proceedings.

"I want that lamp for my bed table. Buy it for me?" Alex murmured plaintively as well as loudly enough for their absurd audience to clearly hear. The other antiques collectors thought they were being discreet in their observation of what attracted Sal's attention. Luckily, they still hadn't twigged to her yet. Sal's recent profits had not gone unnoticed by the community.

"That lamp? Really? But it's worthless." That, sadly, was true.

"Oh yes, please! It matches my room perfectly." Alex closed her eyes a moment, pretending to look all dreamy, when in fact, she was studying the hilt on the sword she'd spotted toward the back of the pile of junk. She was almost completely sure that was THE sword. It would have to be dated, but if it was the right one... it was the find of a lifetime. The fake plastic gems glued on the handle were criminal. "Birthday present? Please?"

Sal shrugged and sighed. "Ok. I spoil you too much. Your mother is going to lecture me again." He opened his book and jotted down the number. He obviously remembered that secret phrase he'd mentioned for the first auction too.

Alex had a hard time even walking away from the pallet that held the sword, but they moved on leisurely, and she noted things of interest, comparing them to her memorized references. Occasionally, she would rub her nose, as if it were slightly stuffy, and several pallets later, he'd write down the correct one in his book. Their audience diligently scribbled away too, hopefully writing down the wrong pallets. That was a problem with the really big auctions - too many knowledgeable collectors. Sal wrote down a few numbers himself and Alex scrambled to figure out why.

During the actual auction, if Alex didn't know the value, she linked her hands together, if the bid was under the value, she opened her right hand, if it was approaching or over, she closed her hand. Sal considered these movements and made the actual purchasing decisions based on his experience and wisdom for selling and profit margins.

When her "lamp" pallet came up for bid, only one other person kept bidding. Alex did not recognize him, so he must have wanted something else in the pile. She hoped it wasn't the sword. If the price crept into the millions, Sal would surely veto it. The price jumped to $16,000 and Sal glanced at her and asked if she still wanted that lamp, and in an appallingly loud plead, she said she simply must have it, with a kid's long semi-whining "please". He sighed, shook his head, and kept bidding. Several people chuckled. The opponent caved at $45,000. She did a kid-bounce and planted a thank you kiss on his cheek. The rest of the auction continued uneventfully.

Afterwards, Alex and Sal went to the pickup point to arrange shipping. The other buyer was there and approached them. His eyes were silver, jewel-like, with faint eyebrows. His wispy salt and pepper hair was long and neatly pulled back into a hair tie.

The man stood confidently sure of himself and his larger-sized sleeves hid muscle, not fat. "How'd you like to sell that sword? I'm a collector."

Before Sal could answer, Alex said, "My dad would like that. He does those SCA events and needs a better weapon."

Sal sighed, opened his hand in apology, and replied sadly, "I'm sorry, Sir. I just can't say no to those baby blues."

That the man nodded sadly and moved away meant he didn't know what the sword was, or at least he wasn't sure enough to take the risk.

Alex bounced excitedly, "Can we take the sword now and give it to him tonight? Can we? Please?"

Sal shrugged an apology at the attendant who was waiting to take their shipping information, and said to Alex, "Sure, sweetheart."

They had the lamp wrapped extremely carefully, as Alex diligently watched to make sure her "treasure" wouldn't get hurt, and then they left, with Sal carrying the sword under his arm.

In the car, Alex about melted into the seat as the tension and stress of escaping with the sword finally released.

Sal climbed into the limousine across from her and handed her the sword. "Well? Is it worth $45,000?"

Alex unwrapped the sword very carefully. "Can we get it dated on the way home? If it's what I think it is, it's priceless."

"It's got plastic on the handle. Can't be too valuable." Sal reached over to the limousine's bar and withdrew two bottles of fruit juice.

"Criminal what they did to you," Alex said to the sword, stroking the blade gently, whispering to it. Then she looked up at Sal and grinned. "Here, under the dirt." She took her shirt and wiped at the blade near the hilt. The partial indentation of the watermark became more visible. "It's going to need substantial restoration, but we won't have to do that."

"We won't?" Sal handed her one of the juices.

Alex grinned. "Oh no. Not our job. We, being the honest and caring people that we are, are simply going to return it to its proper owner for what we paid for it."

Sal lifted his left eyebrow. "You do recall that the point of these purchases is to make money, right?"

Alex opened her juice and explained, "Yeah, but this belongs to the Hamasaki family. Fifteen years ago, they posted a reward notice for one million Euros."

He whistled. "That's a profit."

"Yeah, but you don't want it. I researched them back when I saw the listing to see if it had been found yet. Your family is rich and powerful. You have a lot of business through the southeast United States and Italy." Alex drank some of her juice and continued, "The Hamasaki family is the same, but worldwide. They're a lot more subtle and control a lot of things not in their name. I expect the reward amount was merely them fishing for the thief. Obviously, we didn't steal it or vandalize it like this. We have receipts."

"They're here," Sal announced as the rented limousine pulled up in front of Sal's store.

Alex went to make sure the tea water was hot. It was and she hurried back. She carried the sword tied to her waist, in an early traditional style. It looked a little strange with the t-shirt and jeans, but at least the clothes were new and not street-dirty.

Both Sal and Alex waited patiently while two bodyguards swept through the store. When they finished, they took up position at the shop entrance and an immaculately dressed middle-aged Japanese woman came in, followed by a scholastic-looking older Japanese gentleman. Sal and Alex bowed to them in greeting.

In Japanese that Alex hoped she wasn't mangling too badly, Alex said, "Please come in. This is Sal Marino, owner of this shop. I am Alex Smith, his assistant. I would be happy to translate."

"I speak English," the woman replied suavely and introduced herself as Kaiya Hamasaki. To Sal, she said, "Your email was quite a surprise. The sword has been missing for a long time."

Sal led them back into the shop and gestured to the armchairs by the table and Ms. Hamasaki and Sal both sat. Alex untied the sword and carefully set it on the table before sitting. The extra lights were on so that the sword's details could be clearly seen. The scholastic man frowned at the plastic gems. He picked up the sword and studied it, checking balance. He took a cloth from his pocket and rubbed at the watermark.

"It's exactly as we found it. We did not do any restoration because we thought you'd prefer to," Sal explained while Alex poured tea.

Ms. Hamasaki nodded. "I appreciate that. If it is ours, we will have it done."

The scholastic man took a loupe from his pocket and began studying the sword while the rest of them sipped tea and waited. After a few minutes, he announced in Japanese, "It's the sword."

"How certain are you?" Ms. Hamasaki asked, also in Japanese.

"Entirely certain, Ms. Hamasaki." He placed the sword back on the table and bowed to her. He then retreated to stand outside the shop. He did not get into the limousine.

The woman smiled and ran her finger down the blade. "Your email said you saw one of our reward notices?"

"Yes." Alex cited the issue name and date. "But this is what we paid for it." Alex removed the receipts from her pocket and set them on the table in front of Ms. Hamasaki. "If you would cover our costs, that would be enough."

Sal added, "I usually include 10-20% to cover store expenses, but consider this a gift from my family to your family. I'm happy to be able to return something that was stolen from you."

Ms. Hamasaki nodded coolly. Alex was impressed at how little emotion the woman showed. She couldn't have expected anything less than the full reward value. "May I take it with me now?" She withdrew a checkbook from her small purse.

"Please!" said Alex enthusiastically.

Startled, Ms. Hamasaki looked at her quizzically.

Sal chuckled. "My assistant has not let it out of her sight since we picked it up."

Alex agreed, "I didn't want anything to happen to it."

Ms. Hamasaki smiled at Alex. "Very kind of you." She wrote a check that covered the auction and appraisal fees plus 20% and handed it to Sal, who passed it to Alex.

They all stood and Alex went to put the check in the register. It was a subtle thing, saying that Sal was too rich to handle money. Alex was certain the nuance was not lost on Ms. Hamasaki.

Ms. Hamasaki bowed and said, "Mr. Marino, I'm sure my father would like to thank you personally. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but would you come to the car to speak to him? He is not as spry as he used to be and is waiting there. "

"Of course." Sal also bowed and subsequently followed Ms. Hamasaki out to the limousine. Ms. Hamasaki passed the sword into the car and then took up position outside the car along with her appraiser.

Alex stayed inside the store and wished she could have accompanied Sal. She cleaned up the used teacups, wiped down the table, and moved behind the counter. She sipped at her own tea, trying to admire the antique cup. Anything to keep from pacing. She took a cloth and polished the already pristine counter. She glanced at the clock, an expensive wooden cuckoo clock with actual hands pointing to numbers that were supposed to be moving around much faster. Alex made more hot water. She thought about taking drinks out to Ms. Hamasaki, but the woman was in deep conversation with her appraiser, and likely bringing hot tea to someone standing in the Georgian summer sun wasn't the best activity.

A very long two hours later, Sal climbed out of the limousine. He shook the hand of someone Alex couldn't see, then shook hands with Ms. Hamasaki, and bowed. Mr. Hamasaki's daughter and staff got in the car. Sal watched the car go and then came into the shop.

"Well?" Alex pounced. "What did he say? Was it worth it? Did you make a deal? Will it be good for the family?"

"You and I are going to dinner," Sal answered calmly.

Alex felt like throttling the information out of him.

"At the Marino restaurant," Sal proclaimed. Gente Di Mare. Where she'd almost been shot.

Alex paled and stepped back. "It couldn't have been that bad."

Sal reached inside his blazer and withdrew a business card. He handed it to her. Hand-written on the back was elegant Japanese kanji. It took Alex a full minute to decipher it to "Full courtesy to bearer." and Kuro Hamasaki's personal signature. There was also a handwritten phone number that was different from the one on the front of the card. "That one is yours. I have mine in my wallet."

She blinked and whistled.

"That was what you wanted, wasn't it?" Sal poked her on the shoulder so she'd look up from the card.

"Oh yeah," Alex breathed. "My chance for survival just went way up."

"Let's go get dinner. You can give Mario his card." They closed down the shop and Sal's driver showed up to take them to the family restaurant.

Alex arrived at the antiques store wondering how to tell Sal it was just about time for her to head away for the upcoming winter. She definitely wasn't looking forward to the long days stuck in her cave, even though she could use the time to hone her martial arts skills. She pushed open the door, listening to the welcoming ring of the bell. Sal was not reading a catalog today. He was sitting there with a cup of tea, watching the door, waiting for her.

As she set down her backpack, Alex said, "Hey, Sal, we need to talk."

Sal held up his hand. "Me first. We do have to talk." He handed her a warm cup of tea as she arrived at the counter. He inhaled deeply and said, "I have a gift for you and an offer."

She raised her eyebrow at him and took a sip of her tea.

"Yes, and I hope I'm giving them to you in the right order." Sal handed her a key and led her to the back room. There was a trunk-size metal box that hadn't been there before.

Alex kneeled and using the key, opened it to find two black and white cardboard boxes of the kind that people used for filing.

"Police evidence regarding a certain missing person case," he said unnecessarily. The boxes were stamped and labelled. "There's a lot of ugly stuff in there. You don't have to look. We can just destroy it, if you want."

Alex hesitated only fractionally before taking the lid off the first box. News clippings of her piano performances, pictures of her (and others), stills taken from video feeds, a few dvds, reports buried in reports. Too many images from her blood-covered escape, all viciously recorded by hidden cameras she hadn't known existed. She inhaled deeply, trying to still her panicked heart. "You saw these?" her voice was breathy, wavering.

Sal nodded. "Yes, my private investigator dug them up. All digital copies are gone, including the ones on backup disks. Even the group home records and digital copies of related news articles. You destroy these boxes and there's no trace at all. Your origin disappears."

Alex swallowed. "Sal... Oh, Sal. I never wanted you to know. How long have you had these?"

"I received it the morning of the first auction we went to together. It took awhile for my investigator to locate and assemble everything," Sal replied softly. "Tracing back from your arrival here was challenging."

Alex opened the other box. Instead of more gruesome clippings about her captivity and escape, there were reports and random security camera images from her time with the gang, not all of it, but enough to accurately place her at the location and time. She'd left fingerprints in the house with those girls. These were labelled with "probable shooter" and were linked to the young pianist. "Did your brother see these?"

"No, but I did tell him about it," Sal answered. "No one should ever see this kind of stuff."

Alex's hands shook as she lifted and looked at the pages. "No copies anywhere?"

"None. No future blackmail copies. Nothing at all." Sal put his hand on her shoulder, a gesture meant to offer support.

Alex finished glancing at the last page and declared, "I want to burn it."

Sal nodded again. "I have a metal barrel out back just for that."

As promised, the metal barrel was in the alley behind the store, far enough from the buildings to be safe. Several cans of lighter fluid, some wood and charcoal were all set up. Sal lit the fire. Alex glanced at each thing before tossing it in. She didn't need to see the dvds to know what was on them. These were also crushed and tossed in. When the last of it was in, they added more wood, and watched in silence until it burned away completely. A few locals came by to investigate the smoke, but seeing who stood there, they immediately departed without approaching.

When they went back in and each had a cup of tea, they sat on the armchairs by the table. Alex bit her lip, knowing what was coming next, and hating the idea of a criminal life. "So you want me to come work for the family?"

Sal swirled his tea, staring at it a moment before answering, "No, I don't. I set up an apartment for you in one of our residences. We can fake an airline stewardess mother and you go to school. I'll pay for everything, unless you want to tap your savings from the antiques. You'll be safely off the streets, able to close and lock your door, and sleep safely without fear that someone will come in and hurt you. The front desk has a security guard that won't let anyone in without permission. When you turn 18, do whatever you want."

Alex blinked. "Really?" She wondered if just helping him make a profit at the antiques shows was useful enough.

Sal set his cup down and tented his fingers in front of himself. "You have nothing to fear from me. I'll never step into that apartment. I'll never even be in the building when you are there for propriety's sake."

"But what do you get?" Alex persisted.

"A daughter I never had?" Sal opened his hands, palms up. "Look, I'm an old man, and you'd be wasted dead in some ditch somewhere. I have more wealth than I can ever possibly use. Why not?"

"Your brother agrees with this?" Alex still remembered the gun's deadly opening pointed at her.

"Not particularly, but he'll indulge me." Sal sounded certain when he said this.

Alex snorted at that.

"What was it you wanted to discuss?" he asked.

The room seemed to be spinning. Could Alex really stay here? Would she be safe? Feeling like she was leaping off of a cliff, she answered the only logical way, "Apparently nothing."

"Good. You'll stay in here tonight," Sal declared. "You sleeping out in that lean-to makes my skin crawl even if I do have guards posted."

Alex set her half-empty teacup back on the table. "You have someone watching me?"

"For a while now. Let's play chess." Sal went to get the chessboard.

They ignored the auction crates that were waiting and played chess as if they had all the time in the world. Alex won again even though he tried a new tactic.

Milo Paul took Alex to the apartment building. On the short ride over in Sal's limousine, Milo gave Alex his business card. "If you need anything, Miss, or get in any trouble, you call me and I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, Mr. Paul." Alex nudged the travel luggage at her feet that was part of the move-in show. It was odd to think of that hard purple case with wheels as hers. She didn't even know what was inside it. Sal had given it to her just before turning her over to his man of affairs.

"Please call me Milo. All the family does." He smiled at her warmly.

Dutifully, Alex corrected, "Thank you, Milo."

He inclined his head as if to say, "No problem."

Milo went with her into the apartment building and introduced her to the security guard. "This is Alex Smith. Her mother is a good friend of the family. No one goes up to their apartment without permission."

"Of course, Sir," the guard said, making a note. He reached into his desk drawer and handed Alex a key. "Miss, you are in apartment 608 and the elevator is just down that way. Movers already brought your things. If you are going to have guests or get something delivered, just let myself or whoever is on shift here know, so we can pass them through."

Alex acknowledged, "I will, thank you."

Milo shifted his weight to his other foot and said, "I can't go up. I have other business to attend. Call if you need anything."

"Ok." Alex grinned at the two men and portraying a confidence she didn't feel, headed toward the elevator, dragging the purple suitcase with wheels along behind her, as if she'd done it all of her life.

On the sixth floor, she unlocked... her?... door. It was a dizzying thought. She stepped in. The front door opened into a living room combined with a kitchen. Everything was already unpacked and set up. Eclectic, mostly used furniture was part of the deception. The kitchen table, offset into a windowed alcove with a balcony, had a stack of school things on it and a small card. She pushed the front door closed, locked it, and walked through the apartment, trying to feel like the space belonged to her.

The small corner apartment had two bedrooms with one adjoining bathroom. One room was decorated in the fashion of a well-travelled adult, with a mix of decors, and the other room was set up in the style of a "teenager who liked art" with posters and random half-used art supplies. Both rooms had equivalent clothes, all neatly hung or folded and put away. The bathroom had a full-size tub as well as a stacked washer and dryer unit. Two sets of new toiletries had been set out.

Alex returned to the kitchen table, where she found school supplies, notebooks, pens, pencils, books, a mobile phone, and a laptop. She opened the card. "I thought the new year and the new place needed a new laptop. Love, Mom." The refrigerator was already stocked with fruits, vegetables, nuts, meats, and some home-cooked frozen meals. The cabinets were also stocked. Sal must have been planning this for a while to have everything so well-prepared.

She took an apple, rinsed it, and took a bite, while pondering. "Ah!" she muttered and went back to her purple suitcase. She opened that and underneath some travel clothes, found a folder with money, credit card, account statements, and passwords. She went back to the phone, tapped the password, and called Sal. When he answered, she said, "It's perfect. Thank you!" He told her he'd see her tomorrow and to have a good night.

Alex spent the evening setting up her phone and the laptop. Someone had already done the bulk of the work, having installed a large assortment of software and necessary updates and connecting it to the wifi. She changed passwords on all of the accounts and swapped the picture in the background to solid black. She searched through the apartment and found the wifi router in the "mom" bedroom, under the dresser. After some digging on the internet, she changed her router password as well, and made sure both it and the laptop were as secure as she could make them. Whoever had set it up originally had done an excellent job.

Alex then went out on the balcony and listened to the night sounds of the city. It hardly seemed possible. In a week, she'd be going to high school as a freshman. As Alex was 14 years old, she and Sal had decided that was a good place to join in. There would be enough new kids that her sudden appearance wouldn't be too jarring. She hadn't been in a classroom since second grade. She had no idea what to expect. The textbooks on the kitchen table were way below her self-taught education level. Sal suggested she maintain a strict low-B average - nothing to stand out and draw attention to herself. She was in complete agreement.

As Alex lay in the bed that night, in clean, new pajamas, in a bed with clean, new sheets, and a clean, new pillow, behind safely locked doors, in a building with a security guard, she couldn't help feeling disoriented and confused. Wouldn't the apartment's owner arrive home unexpectedly and have her arrested? Where was the threat of another street denizen determined to take everything from her? Even in her cave, the threat of wild animals or a random park ranger loomed. The sounds of the street outside were muted and the apartment itself was quiet, even with the low hum of the air conditioning and refrigerator.

It was hard to accept that she might be safe. Alex was too used to sleeping lightly and immediately waking if anything around her changed. Her sharpened environmental awareness refused to let her sleep, refused to accept that the quiet stillness was safe, not a warning sign of impending disaster. She crawled out of bed and went to stand outside on the balcony, where she could hear the night sounds clearly. Occasional cars passed, but very few people were out walking.

Alex went back inside and poured herself a glass of orange juice and sat at the table. Staring at the glass, Alex decided she needed to do something to thank Sal. For the first time in her life since being on the street, she was able to think of life beyond her next meal and her next day. The concept of being this overwhelmingly grateful was completely foreign to her. This certainly demanded some sort of repayment. The only thing she really had of any value that was truly hers was her perpetual energy battery and that was just a concept and he wouldn't be able to do anything with it.

Between one breath and the next, she knew. She would take her concept and paint it. If she were slow and careful, and tried every step on another canvas, she could do it. She certainly knew the foundational design principles, and she had memorized a lot of books on how to do oil paintings. She could figure it out. The end result might not be art and couldn't be truly in the baroque style, but maybe, just maybe, he might like it.

The very next day she asked Sal for $2500 cash from her account and no questions. Milo Paul brought it over before the end of the day. She left the antiques store early, took the subway out to a large art supply store, and went shopping. She chose only professional, light-fast paints, professional grade brushes, and high-grade, large canvases. She also got cleaning supplies and a sturdy easel that was big enough for the canvases. She then arranged to have everything delivered within the week to her apartment.

Alex spent that evening sitting in her apartment, with her eyes closed, designing her painting. It would be worthy and Sal would know its true value even if no one else ever understood it.

The week passed really quickly. Alex got a haircut at a real salon (much to Sal's delight), and watched seven of the latest hit teen-friendly movies so she'd have something to discuss with the other students. She helped Sal sort the latest auction crates, and spent every spare minute in her apartment working on her painting skills. She ended up having to buy a pair of really large fans to cycle the apartment air off of the balcony. Oil paint and cleaning supply fumes were toxic. Her hand, arm, and shoulder muscles hurt in ways she'd never even thought possible, but her test attempts were going well.

For all of the anxiety she put into worrying about what school was going to be like, the actual attending of it was eventless. The kids, all new to high school, accepted her inclusion without pause. Most were glued to their phones whenever they could be anyway. Alex couldn't fathom the lure, but periodically pretended to play with her phone also. The usual cliques formed and Alex attached herself to the artsy group and took up drawing in her notebook so she'd fit in.

Alex spoke as seldom as possible, because she recognized that her conversation style and topics wouldn't match theirs at all. They merely labelled her shy and let her hang out with them anyway. The classes themselves were great for giving Alex time to think through her business plans as well as her physics to manipulate matter. When she needed to listen in case she might get asked a question, she just drew another picture in her notebook.

After school, she would visit Sal for a while and help sort antiques or play chess, and then head back to the apartment to paint until her shoulder screamed, then homework, then more painting. She'd be in bed by 10 p.m. and up again at 4 a.m. She still couldn't believe she was sleeping in a safe place. She told this to Sal a month later.

"It's really weird, Sal," Alex said as she sipped her tea and pretended to think of her next chess move. "Sometimes it feels too safe. I'm afraid to let go completely."

Sal frowned at the chessboard. "That's understandable. You can't change life habits overnight."

Alex moved a pawn toward its inevitable capture. "I know. This particular life is just so completely alien to me. The kids at school have no idea how good they have it. You should hear the things they complain about."

He chuckled. "I'm sure. You can always find something to complain about even if your life is perfect."

"I don't have any complaints, Sal, thanks to you." Alex watched him move the wrong piece again - short term gain for long term loss.

Sal smiled happily. "Oh, that reminds me. My birthday is coming up next month. I want you to come to the family birthday party. It's a huge deal. Family members fly in from all over. You can finally put actual faces to all the names I gave you."

Alex moved her knight so it could be captured. It wouldn't prevent her from winning, but it would give Sal a bit of joy. "I'd be honored to attend your birthday party, Sal. Do I need to bring a present?"

His eyes narrowed at the suspicious knight. "Yes, but don't put too much into it. You'll also need a formal gown. I'll take you shopping when the time gets closer. I think you'd look rather pretty in green or blue." Instead of taking the knight, he moved his bishop.

"Good grief. You get me a nice haircut and now you want to change my clothes? What are you trying to do to me?" Alex moved another piece, still leaving the knight unguarded.

Sal took the knight. "Hey, I put up with your hacked hair and two outfits plenty long enough. It's time for you to change those habits too."

Alex giggled and moved her piece. Checkmate in 16 moves. While Sal figured out his moves, she worked out a schedule that would get her painting done in time to give it to Sal on his birthday. It would probably still be wet, but it could be done. She'd have to cut back some of her sleep, but it was a worthy cause.

Sal's birthday party was overwhelming. There were easily a couple hundred people. Alex's new green dress made her feel more self-conscious, rather than more confident as Sal had promised. Most of the family was already there. People ambled about the beautiful park enjoying the cool November day. Children ran around, chasing each other, or playing with their kickball. At the center, a huge temporary pavilion had been erected and its white roof was decorated with colorful flags. Underneath, tables had been set with real china. Several additional tables held presents in different sizes and shapes, all beautifully wrapped.

The three men behind her that were carefully carrying her meticulously crated and packed painting waited for her direction. A fourth carried a stand for the crate. Her crate wasn't wrapped at all though. It would look terribly out of place next to the other presents. Alex wasn't sure what she should do. She looked about her in dismay. It took her a full minute to find Sal in the sea of people. He was with Mario and several others. She wasn't going to go over and interrupt that discussion to ask him.

Luckily, Milo Paul saw her standing there and waved and came over. "Hi," he greeted her with a slight bow, "Sal will be delighted you're finally here." He looked quizzically at the large flat crate and three men. "Is that...?"

Alex was incredibly relieved to have someone familiar nearby. "His present, yes. Maybe we should have it delivered to his store or house instead of here?"

"No, it'll be fine, Miss. Right this way, gentlemen," Milo beckoned the men to follow toward the nearest present table. They carefully propped the crate up on its stand and departed, under the family security's watchful gaze. Milo turned to her and said, "A painting, eh?"

"He likes them." Alex tried not to sound defensive.

"No kidding. It's a good gift choice." Milo smiled at her. "How about if I take you around and introduce you to people?"

"Sure." Desperate not to be left alone in this crowd of strangers, Alex quickly tacked the card she'd brought with her to the crate. The card read, "It's still wet; don't touch it. No photographs. Happy birthday, Sal. - Alex". She followed Milo, who introduced her to the adults in their path as "Alex Smith, the person who is working in Mr. Marino's antiques shop". They expressed varying degrees of curiosity. The women were generally more welcoming. All were polite, but whether they were naturally gracious or conscious of Milo Paul's close relationship to Sal, Alex was unsure. The people did not exactly reflect their photographs on Sal's phone; some of the photographs had been quite old.

"Irene, this is Alex Smith," Milo said, introducing her to a tall, beautiful woman with gorgeous wavy brown hair.

"Ah! Mr. Marino's young assistant. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Irene's voice was filled with sincere welcome.

"You must be the chef responsible for all those divine meals," Alex guessed, shaking the woman's hand.

Irene flushed happily. "That's me."

Alex smoothed her dress down, wondering if it was sitting right. She felt so awkward, like she was wearing a costume, and wasn't herself at all. Could this person she was pretending to be actually manage small talk? Alex tried with, "You're amazing. I've wanted to meet you so I could tell you that myself. I always look forward to your lunches and that cornetto you made was divine."

"Thank you," Irene said, obviously pleased. "I studied for a while in Tuscany in a private cooking class. It's always been my passion."

Alex asked several questions about Italian cooking and shortly had Irene enthusiastically explaining things. Milo didn't seem to be in a hurry to move on at all, as if this had been his destination the entire time. The three of them watched the children play and discussed the differences between red sauces and their paired pastas until it was time for the meal and the opening of the presents.

Alex and Milo joined the table with Irene and her husband and two bubbly young girls that Alex thought might be 8 and 10 years old. Sal was seated at a table on a platform, near the present tables, along with Mario and select others that Alex recognized as the core business men of the family and their wives. Waiters and waitresses brought plates of Italian food and giant serving bowls to each table.

As people ate and talked, the younger children took turns opening Sal's presents and taking them over for him to admire before returning them to the gift table. Sal knew all the children by name and made each one feel appreciated and proud of their moment in the spotlight. Milo suggested that Irene's girls might open Alex's gift with Alex's help, and Alex shot him a thankful nod. When it was their turn, Alex followed the girls up, and had them take the card over to Sal first. Sal read it aloud and stood to come over and watch the opening of the box, which Alex was directing. Alex herself didn't help the girls, but told them how to undo the latches and a couple men from a nearby table came over to help them lift the lid away. Sal murmured a "well done!" to the girls and turned to look at the painting.

At first glance, it looked like a painting of a glowing galaxy overlaying randomly placed mathematical symbols on a background of misty blue so dark it was almost black. Fine line golden orbits were perfect ellipses that turned the flat galaxy into a sphere. Careful observation showed that the galaxy was actually two separate planes of stars embracing each other and there was a flow to the symbols. At the bottom of the painting, hidden in the shadow, were slightly brighter forest trees reaching toward the heavens. The bottom right had her barely visible signature. Not visible with the painting still in the crate was the rest of the formula for her perpetual energy battery painted onto the sides of the canvas.

Sal turned to Alex. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah," she answered solemnly.

"Truly amazing, Alex," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her cheeks. "Thank you. We'll talk about this later."

Alex nodded and returned to her chair by Irene, as Sal returned to his table. Alex heard one of the nearby kids say to their father, "But Daddy, I thought Mr. Marino liked those people paintings? That's not a person." He was shushed. The party resumed. When the presents were all opened, and everyone had finished eating, and Sal's "thank you" speech was concluded, people were free to mill around and socialize again. Children squealed and ran back to their games.

Milo turned to Alex and said, "That's an odd painting to have commissioned for Mr. Marino. What's it mean?"

Alex laughed. "I didn't commission it. I painted it." Without pausing, she added, "It's a thank you for the art education he's been giving me." Milo looked back at the painting with more respect.

As the party continued, people went by to admire the presents and stare curiously at her painting. They honored the "no photographs" directive. Milo and Alex continued to socialize with Irene, whom Alex inspired to talk about her daughters for the remainder of the party. When the crate to her painting was closed again and men carried it away, Alex felt like part of her was being ripped away with it. She hadn't expected to feel so attached. Sal had been more right than he knew; paintings held the soul of their artist.

The next day, while drinking tea at the store, Alex answered Sal's question about her painting, "All the particles, the white, gold, and orange dots, are precisely positioned. If we could pry them off the canvas and make them 3D and small enough, it would work. That's the formula, too, if you follow it from the center out, it finishes on the sides of the canvas."

Sal shook his head in wonder. "The family thinks you had that commissioned. Mario wanted to know why you would get me a modern style painting when everything I own is baroque or renaissance." He chuckled.

Alex took their empty cups over to the sink to wash them. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

Sal got the dish towel for drying. "No. Well, I did tell him you painted it. To which he said he finally understood my interest in your welfare. He thinks you are a budding artist."

Alex snickered. "Maybe the next one should be in the baroque style."

He grinned. "No more park ranger?"

"Naw, a ranger is a good fantasy, but I'd rather make that painting a reality. I'm sorry I couldn't make it baroque for you. I just didn't have time to learn how to paint the lighting correctly. My attempts were poor," Alex confessed.

"It's perfect the way it is." Seizing on the crucial part of her words, Sal asked, "You have copies of this in different styles laying around your apartment?"

"Not anymore. They're destroyed. I can't let the information out, you know." By how sad Sal looked at the pronouncement, Alex suspected he would have immediately gone to raid her apartment for all of the cast-offs. Alex commented, "I thought you knew what I was doing?"

"I had no idea. At least the mystery of the $2500 is solved. Art supplies are expensive. I wondered if maybe you got furniture or were decorating, but I didn't think you'd be interested in that."

Alex ran her fingers through her hair, confused. "You didn't have people watching me or the apartment guards reporting back to you?"

He shook his head. "You have a couple bodyguards following you, but they're not reporting to me. Or to Mario either. I've been feeling guilty about having you interrogated. I wanted you to have privacy."

"Sal, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You were just protecting your family."

He paused closing the cabinet on the teacups and asked seriously, "Would you protect my family?"

"Of course. I'd do anything for you," she answered without hesitation. "That is, if they'd let me. I can certainly dump money back into the family when I get my business going strong. I don't think your brother likes me very much."

Sal nodded, content. He closed the cabinet. "How about we skip that auction this weekend and go to another museum instead?"

On Tuesday, she noticed, but did not worry about, the different car in the school's parking lot. It was just an unremarkable, standard grey four door sedan and could have belonged to anyone. No one was sitting inside it so the owner must have gone inside the school.

During the math test, Alex forgot to pay attention because she was thinking about how to manipulate matter and answered all the test problems correctly. She realized it just as the teacher was collecting the pages. Maybe she'd get marked down for not showing her work? She'd need to do worse on the next test to balance her grade.

Although in a different parking spot, the sedan was still there on Wednesday and then Thursday. Maybe one of the teachers bought a new car? Alex mentioned it to Sal that night when she got to the store.

"I wouldn't worry about it if you didn't see anyone inside." Sal was sorting mail and pulling out the latest magazines. "Probably one of the faculty's."

Alex brought out the small vacuum for the carpet by the door. Maybe because she was already hyper-observant from the sedan, she saw the dark blue, rough car with four people inside go by the store. The second time it passed the store, it was going the same direction, so it must have circled somewhere, it seemed to slow down just the tiniest bit in front of the store. One of the guys in the back was looking directly at the store. The car continued on.

Alex quickly turned off the vacuum. "Sal, that car just passed the store a second time. There are four men inside. One was looking directly in the window."

Sal immediately stood, "Get back here!" He kicked the wooden panel under the glass display case and it snapped free. Alex arrived to see him pulling out a shotgun. "Don't go out the back door. It'll be covered. Go get my phone from the office and call Mario."

Alex turned to run to the office, but it was too late. The car squealed as it backed up. Machine gun fire tore through the front of the store. Both Sal and Alex instinctively crouched down, and Alex noted, to her complete surprise, that the display case was made of bulletproof glass. The four men exited their vehicle, coming in. Sal lurched upward and shot at them. One went down. The others ducked behind the antique sofa and dressers. They simultaneously returned fire. Sal gasped and fell backward.

Instinctively and operating on sheer adrenaline, Alex pulled the gun from his hands, trying not to look at the spreading patch of red on his suit coat, and dove around the display case, between the shelves. She did a blind fire underneath the shelves toward where she'd seen the men go, hoping to hit their feet or ankles.

Alex didn't stay in the same position. They were shooting at her. She dodged forward, glancing at the security mirrors, and then in a moment of inspiration, dove between the shelf boards, knocking a $25,000 vase to its death as she went. That gave her a good angle to shoot two of the three remaining men. The last opened fire at her as she ran toward the front of the store to draw him away from Sal. She tried to return fire, but her weapon jammed.

Alex dropped the gun and sought out the man Sal had shot, an action which probably saved her life. He wasn't dead and was pointing his gun at her. She lunged toward him, tackling him, landing her fist, thumb on the outside, thanks to her new martial arts training, directly in his wound. He screamed and she twisted the gun from him. She pulled the gun up just in time to shoot the fourth man who was about to kill her. She put a bullet into the head of the man she'd taken the gun from, and scurried to do the same to the other three, just to be sure they stayed dead.

Certain of their deaths, Alex ran back to Sal, heart pounding. There was so much blood. Sal's eyes were glazed over when she knelt next to him, but he saw her and blinked to focus. She let the gun fall from her hand and ripped open his shirt. The wound in his pectoral muscle might have gotten his lung. She couldn't tell. She grabbed his opposite hand and pressed it to the opening. "Hold that! Do not let go!" she commanded him. She ran to his office and got his phone. Her hands were slippery with blood and it took her way too long to get her finger clean enough to unlock the phone. She called Sal's brother while rushing back to Sal.

When Mario answered, Alex screamed, "Sal's been shot! He's alive, but we need an ambulance. We're at the store. I need you." She didn't wait for the answer. She dropped the phone next to Sal and pressed her hand to the wound to hold in the blood. She pulled him up to see if the bullet went through. There was no exit wound. "Sal, don't you let go. Your brother is on his way. I know that gunshot hurts, but you're going to be ok. It didn't hit anything critical." She hoped. She lowered him back down.

Sal wheezed, but she saw comprehension in his eyes. Alex rushed to comfort him, "I know anatomy, Sal. Just focus on breathing." He tried to say something. "Don't talk. Save your energy."

"Back door," Sal gasped. "I'll keep pressure on the wound." He reached up and she helped him get his hand to the right position .

Alex grabbed the gun and checked the ammunition and went to the back. She slid behind one of the shipping crates just as the back door opened. They had the door combination.

Alex leaned around the crate, made sure she didn't recognize the men who entered, and shot the first. The second ran forward with his semi-automatic firing. She rolled away from the crate as it exploded and fired a shot at his legs. She got the gun up barely in time to shoot him in the chest. She put a bullet in both of their heads too, wedged one of the crates in front of the door and hurried back to Sal. He was so pale, eyes completely glazed over, but he was still breathing. She moved his hand and put pressure on the wound herself.

Tires screeched outside and Marino family men poured in, followed by Mario Marino. One was carrying a portable medical kit. "Over here!" Alex called. The one with the medical kit took over, cleaning and taping the wound while Alex watched in a panic. "Where's the ambulance?"

"We'll get him to the hospital faster," Mario said succinctly. Four men lifted and carried Sal away. Alex moved to follow them and Mario stopped her with a hand on her upper arm. He was way too calm when he commanded, "Tell me what happened before the police get here."

Midway through her explanation, Mario turned to one of his men and said, "Get the security footage." He finished listening to her, and then asked if she was hurt.

Alex shook her head.

Mario released her arm. "All right. Go home, get cleaned up, and get changed. You weren't here. I'll send someone for you later."

Alex argued, "No. I have to go to the hospital to be with Sal. When he wakes up, he's gonna be scared."

"You do exactly as I say," Mario growled. "Or you will be a casualty here." Mario pulled out his gun and pointed it at her. "Now, get out."

Alex snagged her backpack and staggered back toward her apartment. As the adrenaline wore off, she began to shake. She steadied herself and stepped into the apartment building's lobby.

"Miss, do you need a doctor?" the guard asked, rising.

In her best street-kid-can-lie calm voice, she answered, "Naw, naw, I'm fine. It's paint. Damn if I didn't drop a whole can of the stuff. It was a horrible mess." She added some frustration to her voice, "And now we have to buy more paint tomorrow, 'cause we didn't have enough to finish. I'll try not to get it on anything."

The guard sat down again, but watched her walk back to the elevator. Alex got to her apartment and stripped just inside the door. She got in the shower and washed down, and then she washed the shower out, and then went back and cleaned up everything by the door. She made sure there was not a single drop of blood anywhere. She bagged her clothes and shoes in a black plastic trash bag, but decided she didn't want it anywhere in the apartment with her. That was Sal's blood on those. Her whole body shook in a massive tremor. She took the trash bag out and dropped it in the community trash can at the end of the hallway. She checked the hallway for blood and returned to her apartment, willing Mario to send someone.

The knock at the door surprised her. The desk guard was supposed to call her if anyone was coming up. She supposed Mario's men might walk through that stop-point without question. She hurried to the door and opened it to find not Mario's men, but two police officers.

"Miss Smith," the first officer said, "We need you to come with us." He showed her his obviously legitimate badge.

Alex froze with the exact stillness of a hunted animal. Her heart stopped. With a calmness she didn't feel at all, she inquired, "Is there a problem, Officer?"

"We'll discuss things down at the station." The police officer turned to his partner and said, "Go get her some shoes."

"They're in the closet of my bedroom," Alex offered helpfully. Inside she was screaming. "Second door on the right."

The man returned with her spare shoes and a jacket. It was hard for her to acknowledge that she had spare shoes - she'd only gotten them because Sal had insisted in case the others got wet. Kids shouldn't go to school in wet shoes, he'd explained. She'd never even worn them and now she was overwhelmingly grateful to have them.

"May I call my mom?" Alex asked.

"You can call her from the station," the first officer said.

As they passed the front desk, she noticed the guard was gone. Outside, they put her in the back of the grey four door sedan she'd seen at the school. She spent the ride to the station trying to make her heart slow down. They could have picked her up for any number of reasons. She had to wait to see which one they had before saying anything incriminating. It could be as simple as missing school records. She hoped it was as simple as missing school records. Had Mario turned her in? Was Sal ok? What was going on?

They escorted her through the busy station and into a back interrogation room with a one-way mirror and told her to have a seat. "Can I make a phone call?"

"You aren't under arrest, Miss. The officer in charge of your case will be in shortly to discuss things with you." They left, closing the door.

Alex sat and waited. She wanted to pace. She wanted to scream and beat her fists against the mirrored window. The room smelled like rusty metal and day-old coffee. Alex recalled a book on meditation she'd scanned and never bothered processing, and quickly worked through the pages. It was bloody useless given her current stress level. She tried anyway. She reviewed the telltale signs of lying and knew she'd have to answer promptly, with unchanging details, and maintain a relaxed, easy body language.

After way too long, a woman officer came in and sat opposite Alex, setting a closed manilla folder on the table. "Alex Smith. Is that your name?" She had brown eyes, a broad forehead, aquiline nose, and glossy lips.

"Yes, Ma'am." Alex was sure to make steady eye contact and did not fidget. She tried to limit her visible tension to what might be expected of an innocent teenager picked up by the police.

The woman rested her hand on the table near the folder. "Do you have a phone number for your mom? We'll call her for you."

"Am I in trouble?" Alex let her voice quaver just a little.

The woman's eyes narrowed and she said, "No, of course not. We just want to talk, Miss Smith."

Alex gave the woman the phone number Sal had given her that would go to a voicemail account for an airline stewardess that would say she was in flight and to leave a message and she'd return the call when she landed. "She sometimes doesn't answer."

"Are you home alone a lot?" the woman queried.

"Mom's single, so yes, but the woman in the next apartment over checks in on me all the time, and the building's guard won't let anyone in. I'm old enough to be left alone. Mom calls every day whenever she's not home." Alex quickly fabricated reasonable phone call times for the last week as well as what they might have discussed, in case the details were needed.

Instead of pursuing that topic, the officer said, "Tell us about your relationship with Salvatore Marino."

The officer mispronounced his name. Alex corrected her and then said, "He owns an antiques shop not too far from my apartment. I help out after school sometimes with sweeping and dusting. He's a nice man, but he's getting too old to do physical tasks."

The officer tilted her head slightly. "Does he pay you?"

"Naw. Sometimes he buys me lunch or dinner, though." That wasn't illegal.

"I see." The woman touched the folder but didn't open it. "Why would you choose to hang out with an old man?"

"He's not that old," Alex muttered, frowning. "He's teaching me chess. I'm getting pretty good, too." She crossed her arms, sitting up straighter, in what she hoped would be perceived as pride, not insolence.

"Has he ever touched you?"

"Huh?" Alex choked, feigning bewilderment. She uncrossed her arms and opened her hands upwards, aiming for body language that would indicate confusion.

The officer clarified, "Stroked your hand? Run his fingers through your hair? Perhaps more than that?"

Alex leaned back a shade, indignant. "No! He's not like that. He's never been anything but a complete gentleman."

"You're safe here, you know," the officer stated. Her voice echoed flatly in the small room. "We can protect you. It's ok to be honest with us."

"I am being honest with you." Alex snapped, angry. "Sal's a good and decent man."

"He's a crime lord." The officer countered sharply.

"No," Alex managed to act completely surprised. "He's not. He can't be." She pitched her denial carefully to match her bewildered expression.

Alex must have been convincing, because the officer responded by trying to correct Alex's ignorance, "Do you think all store owners own limousines?"

"He said he had family money he inherited," Alex mewled.

"Didn't he take you shopping recently?" The woman opened her folder and withdrew a picture of her and Sal coming out of the department store where they'd bought her party dress for his birthday party.

"Sure. He paid for a dress for his birthday party." At least Alex didn't have to act outraged.

"A seductive evening gown?" The officer pulled a picture from the folder and pushed it toward Alex. It was a picture of Alex outside Sal's party.

"It's just a dress. The event was formal," Alex asserted.

"And you don't think that's odd? A man his age buying a teenager who is not a relative a dress like that?" The officer exhaled tiredly.

"I didn't have enough money. Mom's paycheck hasn't come in yet. I'm going to pay him back in parts." Alex thought that would sound reasonably convincing.

"I'm going to be more frank with you here, Alex. Did Salvatore Marino ever have sex with you?"

"No!" Alex was really indignant. She didn't have to act.

"Miss Smith, we know you've been visiting him every single day," the officer said.

"Chess," Alex interrupted stonily. "And art."

As if Alex hadn't spoken, the officer continued, "Weekdays and weekends. You go places with him in his private limousine. You live in an apartment building he owns. You do not have adequate adult supervision. Do you see where this is going?"

"Salvatore Marino is a kind and generous man. He puts up with me asking him questions all the time. Mom even suggested I've been pestering him too much, but he said he didn't mind." Alex couldn't keep the irritation from her voice and stopped trying.

The officer growled in frustration. "Miss Smith," she started, and then there was a knock on the door, and an officer leaned in and beckoned Alex's interrogator out. Unfortunately, the woman took the manilla folder and pictures with her.

Alex swallowed, worried and scared. That would be news of the shooting at the antiques store catching up to them. Was Sal ok? Had they gotten him to the hospital safely?

When the officer came back in, her expression gave nothing away. "Miss Smith, why didn't you go to Mr. Marino's store today?"

"I wanted to paint. I've been learning oil painting." Her apartment definitely had paint supplies spread everywhere, but they weren't open or set up. "I got stuck working on a design in my notebook instead."

"I see." The officer nodded. "We're waiting on a call back from your mother. In the meantime, we have a psychologist here who specializes in women who have been traumatized. She's going to come talk with you for a while. Just remember, you are completely safe here. You can tell us anything."

"There is nothing to tell," Alex repeated.

"We'll see," the officer said ominously and left Alex.

After a few minutes, a motherly-looking middle-aged woman came into the small room. She introduced herself and spent the next three hours grilling Alex on things Sal or any of his family might have said or done to her. Alex was exhausted, still somewhat in shock from earlier, and going crazy needing news about Sal. She tried to correctly moderate her responses, but she was sure her underlying tension and anger were slipping through to the woman's way too observant eyes.

When the first female officer came back, the psychologist said, "I'm recommending a full, immediate physical. This girl is clearly showing signs of trauma and stress, even though she won't admit it."

"We're still waiting on a call back from her mom," was the reply.

The psychologist nodded. "I'll write the authorization. I feel she's in immediate danger and we'll need the hospital exam to put her into protective custody."

"I don't need an exam!" Alex gasped. "I'm not in any danger. Sal never did anything to me. Not once. Not ever."

The officers ignored Alex and left. Alex did get up and pace like a caged tiger then. She'd missed dinner and recognized that her energy level was dropping off. How late was it, anyway? She sat down again. Where was Sal's brother? Surely he had contacts in the police that would tell him she'd been picked up. What was going on with Sal?

The original two officers that picked her up from her apartment arrived to escort her to the hospital. When they demanded she strip for the exam, she went wild, kicking and fighting. They sedated her and did the exam anyway. In the morning, she was handcuffed and transferred to a psychiatric hospital across state lines into Alabama, well away "from the potential danger of the Marino family".

Alex arrived at the psychiatric facility mid-afternoon. The sedation had mostly worn off by then; she'd been given another dose just prior to leaving the hospital. The heavy duty metal locked doors with tiny windows were intimidating enough. The place looked like a prison. The doors buzzed loudly when opened and staff at every step of the way did not leave much hope for escape. Inside, they were passed through yet another two layers of security, and they eventually arrived at a psychiatrist's office.

The psychiatrist, a lanky man with stiffly combed-back amber hair, squinted at Alex's handcuffs and said to the officers, "Is she dangerous?"

"Calm as a mouse since last night," the one officer said. "This is only because she did a bit of kicking and hitting prior to her medical exam last night."

"Drugs?" the psychiatrist asked.

"Bloodwork came up clean." The officer handed the doctor Alex's paperwork.

The doctor looked at Alex and said, "If we remove the handcuffs, are you going to behave?"

"Use words," the doctor ordered.

"Yes," Alex ground out, and at the doctor's glare, she added, "I'll behave." Truly she felt like she might pass out or throw up. It was a close call for which action would win.

The doctor nodded at the officers who removed the handcuffs. The doctor waited a moment, told Alex to have a seat, which she did. The doctor signed some papers and handed them back to the officers who then left.

"Ok," the doctor said, glancing through her papers. "We're admitting you for a 30 day evaluation, during which time you will attend daily group therapy and individual therapy 4 times a week. The rules are simple. No physical contact with anyone, not the orderlies, not the other patients. You will not hurt yourself nor anyone else. We do not allow unprescribed drugs."

"May I make a phone call?" Alex inclined her head toward the phone on his desk.

"We do not allow any outside communication without prior approval from your treating psychiatrist. No phone, no email, no internet. No visitors without authorization and no unobserved visits." The man recited this as if he'd said it a million times.

Alex inquired, "Who is my treating psychiatrist?"

"Me. And I'm not allowing it until you prove you are ready for it." The doctor continued his litany. "You will eat your meals. You will not damage the facilities. You will be respectful and you will not interfere with the treatment of any other patient."

Alex really thought she might pass out at any moment. "What do I need to do to prove I'm ready for outside communication?"

"We'll see. I need to review your case file." He pushed a button on his desk. "Do you understand the rules I've just stated?"

"Use words," the psychiatrist demanded.

"Yes, I understand," Alex ground out.

"Good." The door opened and two male orderlies came in. "Take Miss Smith and get her washed, changed, and settled into her room."

They took Alex's arms and practically carried her out. They took her through another set of locked doors that did not buzz when opened and into the common room of the psychiatric ward that was to be her new residence. The place smelled equally of antiseptic, urine, and vomit. The caged TV was loud and tuned to some home improvement show. The windows had bars on them. Easily cleaned vinyl furniture looked uncomfortable. Several tables held board games. One had coloring books and crayons. The residents, all also female, stared at her as she was brought through. The orderlies stopped at a barred off door, where Alex was issued a hospital gown, approved hospital underwear, and some small toiletries by a bored, bitter-sounding woman from her shelves of supplies.

The orderlies took Alex down a hallway past a dozen rooms with open, but lockable, doors to a large multi-person bathroom. There were no doors or stalls. Showers were toward the back and had no dividers or curtains. A loud buzzing bell rang making Alex jump from its sudden near-deafening noise.

"Activity bells," the one orderly informed her gently. "Every 2 hours during the day. Checks occur once per time block randomly. Approved activities will get you points toward privileges. Breaking rules removes points." He indicated one of the showers. "You'll need to shower now, Miss. We have to check your hair for lice and make sure you aren't smuggling anything inside the ward."

Alex winced. She could kill them easily. She knew that. She was wearing street shoes with hard soles and she knew deadly martial arts. They were just a couple of beefy guys who probably had light training in subduing crazy women. But they were just doing their job and not unkindly. At least with two of them, the chance of abuse was lessened. She submitted to the shower, inspection, and put on her new uniform without protest. She cried the entire time.

They brought Alex back down the hallway to room 8 and informed her that it was hers for the duration of her stay. The door was to remain open during the day and would be locked at night. There was a night pot in the corner if she needed to use the bathroom during the night. A simple institution spring bed with thin mattress on top was the only other thing in the room and it had a thin pillow and an equally thin blanket.

Alex went in and sat on the bed and the orderlies left her. As soon as they were gone, she relocated to the floor in the back corner. The spring bed was too uncomfortable to sit on. She pulled her knees in to her chest and rocked. She was dozing off just as the loud activity buzzer sounded again, making her jump. It took a full minute for her heart rate to return to normal.

A few minutes later, one of the other patients was standing in her doorway. "Gotta love those alarms, huh?" the woman said. She looked to be in her mid-20's. Her hair probably hadn't been brushed in a week. "You drugs?"

Alex shook her head.

"Oh, an actual crazy," the woman sung and came in and sat down on Alex's bed, facing her. "Self-admitted or involuntarily visiting?"

"D.I. Drugs. Involuntary," she explained. She tried rearranging the flat pillow against the bed's bar so she could lean back. She swung her feet up on the bed. "Don't suppose you brought any in with you?"

"Sorry," Alex apologized.

"Well, if you can get your hands on any or manage to save any of your prescribed ones, I'll pay for 'em." The woman tried rearranging the pillow by folding it in half, but even that didn't help. She shrugged and sat up straight.

"Good deal," Alex felt herself sliding back into her street personality, the animal that thinks moment to moment and offends no one and evaluates everyone based on what they could do for or to her. "So what are the approved activities?"

"Pretty much anything social. We'll get a point for sitting in the same room talking to each other." She peered at Alex closely. "We'd lose them all if we were found kissing."

"Sorry, not gay," Alex replied.

"Too bad." The woman shrugged. "Oh well. I'm saving up for a room radio anyway."

Alex's stomach rumbled. "When's dinner?"

"Next activity bell," was the woman's disheartening answer.

A nurse came by with a clipboard, looked in at them, wrote on her papers, and moved on. Alex's visitor grinned and stood up, "Ta-ta, C.I.!" She headed for the doorway.

"Wait, what's your name?" Alex asked.

"Doesn't matter." The woman skipped away.

The psychiatric hospital was going to make her insane. Between the activity buzzer, the TV, the other patients, and the pointless therapy sessions, Alex was sure of it, even without the stress of not knowing what was going on with Sal. The psychiatrist kept asking her about her relationship with Sal and Alex kept reiterating the same things she'd told the police.

Group therapy was even more entertaining. "Jan, how do you feel about Marsha taking your pillow?" "Alex, what do you think about this TV station discussion?" Alex had lost a point for suggesting they smash the TV and throw it out with the garbage. "Violence cannot be condoned," the moderator had said, removing a point from her record. Alex's psychiatrist continued to refuse to let her make a phone call, even though she asked (politely!) every session.

Twenty-four days into her incarceration, two F.B.I. agents arrived to speak with her while her doctor sat in to take notes. No unobserved visits, indeed.

The F.B.I. agents introduced themselves and showed her their credentials. They were both trim men, with close-cropped hair, serious eyes, dressed in clean, but slightly wrinkled grey suits. They could have been brothers "Miss Smith, is that your real name?"

"Yes." Alex wondered how she could get them to tell her Sal's status without asking them. Maybe if she mentioned his name often enough?

"What is your home address?" the lead agent asked.

Alex gave them her apartment address in Sal's building.

"We know that's the apartment Salvatore Marino set up for you, complete with a fabricated mother. What's your real address?" At least he pronounced Sal's name correctly.

"That's it. The only address I have," Alex answered calmly, her insides twisting around into spasms. Her lies couldn't last forever. She'd known that. Just tracking down her fake stewardess mother would lead them... Lead them where? Sal would not have tied anything back to the Marino's. The family was too smart for that. The agent was fishing for answers.

"Was it your idea or Salvatore Marino's that he set up the apartment for you?" The lead agent posed the question while the other agent leaned forward slightly, watching Alex's responses.

Alex noted how adroitly the agent worded the question to incriminate Sal either way. "Sal didn't set up the apartment for me." She was too tired to play the body language game, yet she knew she had to. She tried for slightly befuddled eyebrows.

The lead agent didn't seem very happy by her response. "Then how did you get the apartment in Salvatore Marino's building?"

"I arranged it. I faked a call from my mom, transferred rent, and moved in. Sal never knew anything. I didn't even know he owned the apartment building until you said just now." Alex was reminded of the conversation she'd had with Sal where she'd told him she would say she deceived him and that he was merely a dupe. In her memory, Sal chuckled and commented, "That'll be good for my reputation." Forgive me, Sal, Alex thought.

The lead agent twitched. He knew she was lying. "Where'd you get your money?"

Alex shrugged. Maybe she could pull off a "matter-of-fact" attitude? "I'm a courier. I take messages people want delivered and I deliver them. Sometimes people give me gifts. It's not illegal. It's not tax evasion." Alex hoped they'd overlook the potential hazards of a courier job.

That reply startled the agent and Alex could see the greedy hope light up in the lead agent's eyes. "Messages? Like what?"

"I don't ever read them," Alex said with horror in her voice. "That's a good way to get shot." Alex could feel the psychiatrist's glare even though she didn't look in the man's direction. Nothing like a bit of misdirection to confuse the interrogation. Let them think of her as her own operator, outside of the Marino family.

The lead agent cleared his throat. "Did you carry messages for the Marino's?"

"No, but I would have. Sal didn't need a courier; I don't think he ever had anything he wanted to send discreetly. The antiques business isn't all that secretive, you know. Have you asked Sal?" Alex really needed to get control of this conversation. The lack of sleep was really making it difficult for her to think clearly.

Neither agent answered her question, either by words or body language. Instead, the second agent spoke up. "Would you say you are very observant?"

"Not particularly," answered the girl with the photographic memory and perfect recall.

Again, the second agent spoke and Alex wondered which of the two of them was really the lead agent. "When you were working for Salvatore Marino, did you ever see or hear anything that would suggest criminal activity? From him, or Mario Marino, or anyone related to them?"

They certainly were good at wording questions to incriminate based on any answer. Mario Marino was Sal's brother. Alex dodged, "I wasn't ever working for Sal. Sal was teaching me chess and art. If he was doing anything illegal, I never saw it."

The second agent continued, unperturbed by her evasion, "Miss Smith, we didn't find anything about you on your laptop. We didn't find anything about you in our database. No fingerprints. No missing person record. Nothing at all. No school records even. Do you know what that says to us?" The first F.B.I. agent's hand was clenched and he was rubbing his fingers together, the first real body language tell either of them had made; he was frustrated.

Alex gazed at the second agent blankly. Her laptop had a search history of oil painting techniques and business human resources documents. She bet that delighted them. She rarely turned the laptop on. Oh, and there were a couple "B-grade" school papers, she remembered. As she thought about her laptop contents, she realized she'd cited a couple periodicals from the Charlotte library, not the local library, on those papers. If they were digging, that might stand out, but maybe they'd think she found those magazines somewhere else? It was really too obscure to mean anything, but she should have been more careful.

The second agent concluded, "That you are deeply involved with the mafia. So much so that they are willing to erase your history for you."

Thank you, Sal, Alex thought earnestly. This interview would have been much worse if her history had been discovered. Alex countered, with concern in her voice, "People have that much access to your databases? You shouldn't be worrying about me. You should be worried about that. As far as I know, I should be in your system. I'm actually surprised you haven't turned up my school records yet." She'd be happy to have them spending more resources looking for something that didn't exist.

The first agent resumed, "Where did you come from, Miss Smith?"

Alex rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck. "It really doesn't matter, does it? I've been living on the street pretty much my whole life. I don't have parents. I don't have relatives. I've been taking care of myself and doing a fine job of it until the police forcibly removed me from my apartment. My SAFE apartment, incidentally. And then subjected me to an illegal, invasive physical exam, and incarcerated me here without cause."

With a glance at the first agent, the second agent offered, "Miss Smith, we could get you out of here. Put you in protective custody. Give you a new name, a new life, parents even. You'd be completely safe."

"And for that, I'd only have to perjure myself and say I saw Salvatore Marino doing things I've never seen him do?" Alex stood up. "This interview is over, gentlemen. Sal is a good and kind man and he taught me chess and about art and antiques. I never saw or heard him do anything illegal. I don't have anything for you."

The second agent also stood. He handed Alex his card. "If you think of anything you'd like to say differently, give me a call."

You let me near a phone and I sure as hell ain't callin' you, Alex thought, aggravated. She nodded politely to the men and let herself out to the indifferent care of the waiting orderlies. The second agent prevented the doctor from calling her back.

In the common room, Alex fidgeted, spinning the card between her fingers. There was no way that psychiatrist was going to let her out now; he knew that she had lied on earlier interviews. She'd accrued enough points for a room radio, but she'd been saving them to spend on a walk outside with a potential opportunity for escape. She went over to the supply window and asked the woman in charge for a radio and earphones. She carried them back to her room, reflecting that it seemed odd to reward her for being social by giving her an item that would help her be antisocial.

She unscrewed the back with her fingernails and noted what parts and supplies it had on the inside, and tucked the F.B.I. agent's card inside. It would be useful eventually. That night, she discovered the psychiatrist had ordered she be placed on antipsychotic medicine. She tried to decline, but they forced her to take the pill after dinner anyway. She broke out in massively itchy hives and threw up the entire night. The night shift orderlies ignored her pleas for help. The other patients screamed at her to shut up so they could sleep.

The nurse forced her to take the pill again in the morning, despite Alex showing her the rash and pointing out her obvious allergy. The nurse merely told her to take it up with the psychiatrist when he came in. He was too busy to see her for 2 days. She couldn't keep any food down at all, her thoughts were fuzzy, and she was dehydrated. The orderlies had gotten tired of cleaning up her vomit, accused her of doing it deliberately, and often let it sit longer than reasonable. Her fellow inmates started calling her V.Q. (vomit queen) and admired her determination from afar.

Desperate, Alex offered to brush her teeth really well and kiss the woman who'd first approached her, in exchange for a really good distraction during the medicine distribution. Alex kept her eyes open during the kiss to prevent any flashbacks. D.I. pulled away after a minute and said, "Yeah, you're not a lesbian."

That evening, D.I. quietly taunted one of the other women into attacking her during the medicine distribution. Careful to not be seen on the security cameras, Alex grabbed 2 needles from the lower drawer and a single harmless sedative pill. Alex was fast and she was not caught. She stashed the needles in a tear in one of the couch's seams, and then the pill on top of one of the shower heads. Naturally, the missing inventory was discovered and the place searched. The orderlies didn't find anything and everyone was locked in their rooms for the night.

Alex again spent most of the night dry-heaving and itching. The next afternoon, she took apart her radio again and withdrew the F.B.I. agent's business card, and removed some of the radio's parts. She closed the radio back up, and went to her bed and chewed the card into a thick pulp, which she then jammed into the door's strike plate hole so the latch assembly wouldn't be able to catch. She moved her bed around and then tried to get an hour's sleep before the loud buzzer jarred her awake again.

The evening buzzer sounded and Alex helpfully pulled her door closed as many of the patients routinely did for privacy. She quickly tore her blanket down the middle to make a long rope and tied one end to the doorknob and put the other under the corner of the bed, out of view from the door's window. She lay down on the bed and curled up facing away from the door. The evening orderly came by, peered in the window, locked the door, pulled on it (and it didn't give because it was tied), and moved on .

Alex waited until the ward settled into their normal night sounds (crying, thrashing, and snoring). Alex slid out of the uncomfortable spring institution bed as quietly as possible. The tile floor was so cold under her bare feet that it felt like it was burning. She tiptoed over to the door and listened intently. The midnight patrol had gone by and wasn't looping back. She untied the doorknob and pulled on her door. The thick wadded paper had indeed done its job and prevented the lock from catching.

Alex slipped from the room, pushed her door closed again, and went silently down the hall, ducking below room windows. In the common room, she retrieved the needles she'd hidden away in the couch's stitching. She attached these to a couple pencils by jamming the sharp end into the erasers and into the wood far enough to be secure. As lock picks went, they were really rough, but they could be made to work with the parts from the radio. She hoped whoever was monitoring the security cameras was asleep on the job.

Alex hurried over to the main door and with the needles and the radio's stiff wire, she picked the lock. She quickly went through the door and secured it again. She ran down to her psychiatrist's office and picked that lock also and went in. She grabbed the phone and dialed. Sal's phone rang but he did not answer. She hung up and dialed Mario's phone. That rang a few times and then a gruff voice said, "Hello?"

In Italian, Alex said, "This is Alex. Is Sal ok?"

There was a sharp inhale, the sound of a light clicking on, and movement. "Where are you?" Sal's brother demanded, also in Italian.

She continued in Italian, "I'm in the Rosewood Meadows Psychiatric facility in Alabama. I was picked up by the police the day that Sal got shot. Is he ok?" Alex heard a door open and footsteps coming down the hall outside. Clearly, she'd been spotted on the security cameras and they'd managed to organize a posse to come get her.

"Sal's dead," Mario reported emotionlessly.

The ground disappeared beneath Alex and she dropped into the abyss. Every cell in her body screamed. When she managed to remember to breathe again, she begged, "I need help. Please get me out of here. I'll do anything. I'll come work for the family. Whatever you need."

The office door crashed open and four orderlies came in. One was wielding an ominously large hypodermic. Alex dropped the phone as they rushed her. She didn't even bother fighting them, until they touched her, and then she kicked and screamed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew not to use deadly martial arts on them. It wasn't their fault. She broke bones before they subdued her anyway.

This was followed by two days in a straight jacket, chained to a bed. Heavily drugged, Alex alternated between horrible memory-nightmares and babbling complex equations. At moments when she was coherent enough to really be awake, she found herself laying in vomit and wished she were dead too. They'd killed Sal and she hadn't been there for him. He must have been worried and frightened and she wasn't there to comfort him. The doctor came by several times and Alex thought that her mumbling would just confirm her crazy diagnosis, but she was unable to stop herself.

Eventually, they reduced her medication and thankfully stopped the antipsychotic medicine and let her rejoin the patient population. An hour later, she was escorted to her psychiatrist's office where she refused to discuss things she'd said while drugged. She asked to make a phone call and the psychiatrist refused. She was escorted back to the patients' common room. She saw D.I. and sat across from her at the checkers board.