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"
See
you
around
.
"
There
was
a
soft
sigh
of
air
;
the
door
collapsed
shut
,
tucking
up
its
corrugated
tongue
.
The
trolley
sc
slowly
down
the
late
afternoon
,
brighter
than
the
sun
,
tangerine
,
all
flashing
gold
and
lemon
,
turned
a
far
con
wheeling
,
and
vanished
,
gone
away
.
"
School
busses
!
"
Charlie
walked
to
the
curb
.
"
Won
’
even
give
us
a
chance
to
be
late
to
school
.
Come
get
you
a
your
front
door
.
Never
be
late
again
in
all
our
lives
.
Think
of
that
nightmare
,
Doug
,
just
think
it
all
over
.
"
But
Douglas
,
standing
on
the
lawn
,
was
seeing
how
it
would
be
tomorrow
,
when
the
men
would
pour
hot
tar
over
the
silver
tracks
so
you
would
never
know
a
trolley
had
e
run
this
way
.
He
knew
it
would
take
as
many
years
as
could
think
of
now
to
forget
the
tracks
,
no
matter
how
deeply
buried
.
Some
morning
in
autumn
,
spring
,
or
winter
he
kn
he
’
d
wake
and
,
if
he
didn
’
t
go
near
the
window
,
if
he
just
lay
deep
and
snug
and
warm
,
in
his
bed
,
he
would
hear
it
,
faint
and
far
away
.
And
around
the
bend
of
the
morning
street
,
up
the
avenue
,
between
the
even
rows
of
sycamore
,
elm
and
maple
,
it
the
quietness
before
the
start
of
living
,
past
his
house
h
would
hear
the
familiar
sounds
.
Like
the
ticking
of
a
doe
the
rumble
of
a
dozen
metal
barrels
rolling
,
the
hum
of
single
immense
dragonfly
at
dawn
.
Like
a
merry
-
go
-
round
like
a
small
electrical
storm
,
the
color
of
blue
lightning
,
coming
,
here
,
and
gone
.
The
trolley
’
s
chime
!
The
hiss
like
a
sc
fountain
spigot
as
it
let
down
and
took
up
its
step
,
and
starting
of
the
dream
again
,
as
on
it
sailed
along
its
way
,
traveling
a
hidden
and
buried
track
to
some
hidden
and
buried
destination
.
.
.
Kick
-
the
-
can
after
supper
?
"
asked
Charlie
.
"
Sure
,
"
said
Douglas
.
"
Kick
-
the
-
can
.
"
The
facts
about
John
Huff
aged
twelve
.
are
simple
and
soon
stated
.
He
could
pathfind
more
trails
than
any
Choctaw
or
Cherokee
since
time
began
,
could
leap
from
the
sky
like
a
chimpanzee
from
a
vine
,
could
live
underwater
two
minutes
and
slide
fifty
yards
downstream
from
where
you
last
saw
him
.
The
baseballs
you
pitched
him
he
hit
in
the
apple
trees
,
knocking
down
harvests
.
He
could
jump
six
-
foot
orchard
walls
,
swing
up
branches
faster
and
come
down
,
fat
with
peaches
,
quicker
than
anyone
else
in
the
gang
.
He
ran
laughing
.
He
sat
easy
.
He
was
not
a
bully
.
He
was
kind
.
His
hair
was
dark
and
curly
and
his
teeth
were
white
as
cream
.
He
remembered
the
words
to
all
the
cowboy
songs
and
would
teach
you
if
you
asked
.
He
knew
the
names
of
all
the
wild
flowers
and
when
the
moon
would
rise
and
set
and
when
the
tides
came
in
or
out
.
He
was
,
in
fact
,
the
only
god
living
in
the
whole
of
Green
Town
,
Illinois
,
during
the
twentieth
century
that
Douglas
Spaulding
knew
of
.
And
right
now
he
and
Douglas
were
hiking
out
beyond
town
on
another
warm
and
marble
-
round
day
,
the
sky
blue
blown
-
glass
reaching
high
,
the
creeks
bright
with
mirror
waters
fanning
over
white
stones
.
It
was
a
day
as
perfect
as
the
flame
of
a
candle
.
