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"What?"

"You and I aren't that much different. I had a father and a mother, but it was as if I didn't most of the time. I cooked for myself, took care of my own clothes and cleaned the house after my mother left. I even wrote my own excuses for school when I was absent," he added with a smile. "Being here all the time, I learned to forge Dad's signature real good. Now, people think of this place more as mine than Dad's. He doesn't care." He thought a moment as if he were deciding whether to say something else, and then he returned to his work.

"I understand what you're saying," I told him, "but at least you didn't have to live in a state-run facility."

"I guess you girls had it real bad in that home, bad enough to run off like this without any money, huh?"

"We had some money," I said and told him about Sunshine. He listened and worked. Soon the broken water pump was out and he was fitting the used replacement into the engine.

"The road's no place for you, Brooke. There's lots of stuff like that going on. I hope you find what you're looking for soon and settle down," he said.

"Me too."

He wiped his hands on a rag.

"Want a cold drink? I've got some soda or even a beer, if you want that?"

"I'll take a soda," I said. He went to the office and returned with two Cokes. We sat on a bench and looked at the station wagon.

"So whose Buick is that?" he asked.

I was silent.

"It's not one of yours if you're all foster children, right?" he pursued with a gentle smile.

"It belongs to the creature who runs the house with his wife," I replied.

"Gordon Tooey?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"I looked at the registration in the glove compartment," he replied and drank from his Coke. "Serious business, stealing a car."

"Now you can appreciate just how desperate we were," I said.

"Yeah, but how's Gordon going to take it?" he asked with a wry smile.

"Not well," I said. "Crystal's afraid he might be coming after us."

"You guys really are on the run." He took another sip of his soda and looked at me. "You don't look like an outlaw," he kidded.

We stared at each other for a long moment. As I measured him, he was measuring me in just about the same way, I thought. I wondered if I reminded him of someone. Neither of us seemed intimidated or embarrassed by the other's long gaze. It made me feel warm and comfortable rather than self- conscious now. I liked the way his eyes softened and moved ever so slightly as he washed them over me with care that suggested he wanted to commit me to memory forever and ever.

He looked away, toward the door and the night sky.

"Beautiful night," he said. "It's actually my favorite time of the year. Late spring here is warm but not yet so warm it's uncomfortable or too humid. I tend to take more time just staring at the stars or watching birds. I like it, but I also hate it."

"Hate it? Why?" I asked quickly. "You sound almost poetic when you talk about it. Crystal would love to hear you."

He laughed.

"Poetic, huh? My old English teacher would topple over in hysterics if she heard you say that." "Why did you say you hate it?"

"I don't know. I guess it's because I feel lonelier than I do other times of the year," he replied, putting his bottle down and returning to the car.

I sat there watching him replace the broken hose, feeling my own heart palpitate in ways and rhythms I had n

ot felt before. I rose and stood beside him as he struggled with a rusted bolt.