He can see me.

I quickly scramble down to the grass to meet him. When I am on the ground, I stand a full head taller than he. “My good sir!” I say cordially, knowing full well how inappropriate a stranger hiding in Julia’s tree must seem. I remove my hat and hold it in front of me. “Pleased to meet you. I am Eron DeMarchelle.”

At that moment I note the large, rather threatening pruning shears in his hands. He jabs them at me. The scowl has deepened.

“And you are …?” I prompt.

He takes a step backward. “Calling the police.”

“No. No. No. You see …” I turn my hat in my hands. This is not how I expected my first day as a human to go. “I understand it may look strange … me in that tree … but I assure you, I was only …”

I swallow. What, exactly, was I doing?

He leans forward, squinting all the more, waiting for an explanation.

“I thought that perhaps my kite had flown into this tree.”

The sharpness in his features doesn’t diminish. “Kite?”

“Uh. Yes.” I’m not sure where the excuse came from; I never owned a kite when I lived in the city, as many a child had lost them in the clotheslines. But did they not fly kites these days?

He looks up into the tree’s branches. “Aren’t you a little old to be flying kites?”

I smile sheepishly.

He points the shears at me menacingly. “You’d better get out of here. If I see you in this neighborhood again, I will call the police.”

“Yes. Yes, sir,” I say, heading across the lawn, toward the street. If Chimere were watching, she’d giggle and say, Making friends already, are we?

When I am out of the view of the gardener, I marvel at the pavement, at the way the morning sun makes its surface glitter like a chest of jewels. It’s been over a hundred years since I’ve been in a sun this brilliant; usually I’d spend the daylight hours hidden in the shade of the trees. In the dying orange rays of daytime, things take on a more somber, muted quality. Everything now is so much more intense I can’t help blinking furiously.

A middle-aged man in shiny underpants lumbers toward me on the sidewalk. His face is ruddy, and he is breathing hard. His blank, unseeing eyes suddenly fix on me and narrow. It’s been years since humans have looked at me, and I shiver from the thrill of it. I tip my hat and say, “Good morning,” but the man does not reply. That is when I notice a small round device in his ear; the man must be hard of hearing. “Good morning!” I shout. But the man simply sneers and jogs on.

Chimere’s voice rings in my ears. Oh, yes. You fit in quite gloriously here.

I shrug and continue down the path, squinting in the light. Everything—the rooftops of the neighborhood colonials, the leaves on the trees, the identical black mailboxes—everything glints as though it were winking at me, welcoming me. Or perhaps warning me.

I pull a crumpled paper from my vest pocket and study it, though I know perfectly well what it says: V. Harmon, 26 Hart Avenue, 2B. I memorized that information, for it holds the key to my human livelihood. How could I possibly survive more than a few days as a human without money, without a place to live? V. Harmon is a former Sandman who offered up a room and some other items to help get me on my feet. Though I’ve never met him, I know he will be welcoming; he received the same kindness from another former Sandman when he returned to human life. It will be nice to have one friend in this world, one understanding soul to confide in.

At the entrance to Julia’s development, there are a few people standing at a small glass-enclosed shelter. It’s a motley crew, a pretty woman with a baby, an old lady in a flowered dress, and a young man, perhaps my age, reading a magazine. The two women stare me up and down, looking shocked, and I’m certain it’s because of my dress. A dark three-piece suit, a top hat, and spats are too formal and stuffy for such a warm day. Perhaps V. Harmon will have some more fashionable attire for me to wear.

I steal a look at the young man’s wardrobe. A vulgar black cotton shirt, sleeveless, like underclothes. It says Save the Trees—Eat a Beaver on it. Blue jeans, the kind I wore in the factory. The young man doesn’t look up. He slouches forward, rocking his head back and forth to some inaudible rhythm, a black nest of hair cluttering up his face. He, too, has wires coming from his ears; it’s strange how so many young people these days have hearing problems. I lean over to him and enunciate, “Good day. Would you happen to know where 26 Hart Avenue, 2B, might be?”

The man turns to me. “Up yours, homo.”

The lady with the baby taps me on the shoulder. “It’s about ten blocks down that way,” she says tentatively, inspecting me as she points down the street. Just then a frightening sight—a huge, hulking metal monster—screeches to a halt before me. I jump back, but the woman motions to it as two doors groan open. “This bus stops there.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, tipping my hat. I marvel for a moment at the enormous vehicle. Of course. A bus! I’ve been on a bus only once, on a trip to New York City with Mama and my stepfather to visit some DeMarchelle relatives. This isn’t the least bit similar. I offer my arm to the kind young woman, but she must not notice, for she struggles to step up on her own, hefting the baby on her hip with one hand and grabbing the handle with the other. The old woman swats my hand away and grumbles something unintelligible. The young man laughs coolly and steps inside.

I step into the well, climb the stairs, and feel a hand land firmly on my chest. An old woman with a stony face is at the reins.

“Good day, ma’am,” I say.

“Ticket?” she barks.

Instinctively, I reach into my pants pocket, where I always kept my money before, all the while knowing what I’ll find there. Nothing. I haven’t had any money in a hundred years.

The driver shakes her head and points out the door. She clears her throat. “No ticket, no ride.”

Bowing my head in shame, I step from the bus and it immediately crawls away, leaving me in a swirl of heat and foul-smelling exhaust. Not to worry, I tell myself. This situation will soon be remedied when I meet with Mr. Harmon.

For the next hour, I wander in the direction the young lady pointed in, until I come to Hart. In the meantime I see many indications that this isn’t the world I left. I’ve seen a few motor cars outside the homes of my charges, but I had no idea how omnipresent they were; they’re simply everywhere. Most seem to be congregating around a sprawling building, bigger than a mountain, with Walmart emblazoned on its front. I pass several people, but they all ignore my greetings; I hope that they’ll be more friendly to me when I’m wearing new clothes.

The homes are less well cared for on Hart; they’re smaller and remind me of the row homes from my old neighborhood. In comparison, the houses in Julia’s area are castles. Perhaps I’ll fit in better here, I think as I walk along the cracked sidewalk to number twenty-six, a small duplex with a crumbling brick facade. I climb the worn steps. There are four doorbells on the front, between two doors. I press the one that says 2B. After a moment with no answer, I buzz it again.

I wait for at least five minutes, buzzing intermittently. I wouldn’t normally linger so long. A few times, I turn back to the street, ready to leave, but then I realize there is nowhere to go. The thought makes me shiver, even in the sun.

I’m relieved to see movement behind the dingy once-white lace curtains on the windows. I remove my hat and say, “Good morning,” as the door opens, but my voice falters when I see the individual behind the torn screen door. He’s a younger man than I expected, perhaps thirty, and he’s unshaven and wearing a partially open bathrobe, even though it’s after eleven on a weekday. His eyes are bleary, covered by a mass of black hair, and he’s holding a lit cigarette, the smoke from which billows out to meet me. Surely there is some mistake. “Mr. Harmon?” I ask.