He was dealt two aces. He split them. A man sat next to him. Morty felt rather than saw him. He felt him in his old bones, as though the man were an incoming weather front. He did not turn his head, afraid, as irrational as this sounded, even to look.

The dealer hit both hands. A king and a jack. Morty had just gotten two blackjacks.

The man leaned close and whispered, "Quit while you're ahead, Morty."

Morty slowly turned and saw a man with eyes of washed-out gray and skin that went beyond white, too translucent really, so that you felt as though you could see his every vein. The man smiled.

"It might be time," the silvery whisper continued, "to cash in your chips."

Morty tried not to shudder. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"We need to chat," the man said.

"About what?"

"About a certain patient who recently visited your esteemed practice."

Morty swallowed. Why had he opened his mouth to Locani? He should have stalled with something else, anything else. "I already told them everything I know."

The pale man cocked his head. "Did you, Morty?"

"Yes."

Those washed-out eyes fell on him hard. Neither man spoke or moved. Morty felt his face redden. He tried to stiffen his back, but he could feel himself wither under the gaze.

"I don't think you have, Morty. I think you're holding back."

Morty said nothing.

"Who else was in the car that night?"

He stared at his chips and tried not to shudder. "What are you talking about?"

"There was someone else, wasn't there, Morty?"

"Hey, leave me alone, will you? I'm on a roll here."

Rising from his seat, the Ghost shook his head. "No, Morty," he said, touching him gently on the arm. "I would say that your luck is about to take a turn for the worse."

24

The memorial service was held in the Covenant House auditorium.

Squares and Wanda sat on my right, my father on my left. Dad kept his arm behind me, sometimes rubbing my back. It felt nice. The room was packed, mostly with the kids. They hugged me and cried and told me how much they'd miss Sheila. The service lasted almost two hours. Terrell, a fourteen-year-old who'd been selling himself for ten dollars a pop, played a song on the trumpet that he'd composed in her memory. It was the saddest, sweetest sound I'd ever heard. Lisa; who was seventeen years old and diagnosed bipolar, spoke of how Sheila had been the only one she could talk to when she learned that she was pregnant. Sammy told a funny story about how Sheila tried to teach him how to dance to that "crappy white-girl" music. Sixteen-year-old Jim told the mourners that he had given up on himself, that he'd been ready to commit suicide, and when Sheila smiled at him, he realized that there was indeed good in this world. Sheila convinced him to stay another day. And then another.

I pushed away the pain and listened closely because these kids deserved that. This place meant so much to me. To us. And when we had doubts about our success, about how much we were helping, we always remembered that it was all about the kids. They were not cuddly. Most were unattractive and hard to love. Most would live terrible lives and end up in jail or on the streets or dead. But that did not mean you gave up. It meant just the opposite, in fact. It meant we had to love them all the more.

Unconditionally. Without a flinch. Sheila had known that. It had mattered to her.

Sheila's mother at least, I assumed it was Mrs. Rogers came in about twenty minutes into the ceremony. She was a tall woman. Her face had the dry, brittle look of something left too long in the sun. Our eyes met. She looked a question at me, and I nodded a yes. As the service continued, I turned and glanced at her every once in a while. She sat perfectly still, listening to the words about her daughter with something approaching awe.

At one point, when we rose as a congregation, I saw something that surprised me. I'd been gazing over the sea of familiar faces, when I spotted a familiar figure with a scarf covering most of her face.

Tanya.

The scarred woman who took "care" of that scum Louis Castman. Again I assumed that it was Tanya. I was fairly certain. Same hair, same height and build, and even though most of her face was covered, I could still see something familiar in the eyes. I had not really thought about it before, but of course there was a chance that she and Sheila had known each other from their days on the street.

We sat back down.

Squares spoke last. He was eloquent and funny and brought Sheila to life in a way I knew I never could. He told the kids how Sheila had been "one of you," a struggling runaway who'd fought her own demons. He remembered her first day here. He remembered watching Sheila bloom. And mostly, he said, he remembered watching her fall in love with me.

I felt hollow. My insides had been scooped out, and again I was struck with the realization that this pain would be permanent, that I could stall, that I could run around and investigate and dig for some inner truth, but in the end, it would change nothing. My grief would forever be by my side, my constant companion in lieu of Sheila.

When the ceremony ended, no one knew exactly what to do. We all sat for an awkward moment, no one moving, until Terrell started playing his trumpet again. People rose. They cried and hugged me all over again. I don't know how long I stood there and took it all in. I was thankful for the outpouring, but it made me miss Sheila all the more. The numb slid back up because this was all too raw. Without the numb, I wouldn't get through it.

I looked for Tanya, but she was gone.

Someone announced that there was food in the cafeteria. The mourners slowly milled toward it. I spotted Sheila's mother standing in a corner, both hands clutching a small purse. She looked drained, as if the vitality had leaked out from a still-open wound. I made my way toward her.

"You're Will? "she said.

"Yes."

"I'm Edna Rogers."

We did not hug or kiss cheeks or even shake hands.

"Where can we talk?" she asked.

I led her down the corridor toward the stairs. Squares picked up that we wanted to be alone and diverted foot traffic. We passed the new medical facility, the psychiatric offices, the drug treatment areas. Many of our runaways are new or expectant mothers. We try to treat them. Many others have serious mental problems. We try to help them too. And of course, a whole slew of them have a potpourri of drug problems. We do our best there too.

We found an empty dorm room and stepped inside. I closed the door. Mrs. Rogers showed me her back. "It was a beautiful service," she said.

I nodded.

"What Sheila became " She stopped, shook her head. "I had no idea. I wish I could have seen that. I wish that she'd called and told me."

I did not know what to say to that.

"Sheila never gave me a moment of pride when she was alive." Edna Rogers tugged a handkerchief out of her bag as though someone inside were putting up a fight. She gave her nose a quick, decisive swipe, and then tucked it away again. "I know that sounds unkind. She was a beautiful baby. And she was fine in elementary school. But somewhere along the way" she looked away, shrugged "she changed. She became surly. Always complaining. Always unhappy. She stole money from my purse. She ran away time after time. She had no friends. The boys bored her. She hated school. She hated living in Mason. Then one day she dropped out of school and ran away. Except this time she never came back."

She looked at me as if expecting a response.

"You never saw her again?" I asked.

"Never."

"I don't understand," I said. "What happened?"

"You mean what made her finally run away?"

"Yes."