He didn't exactly care, and didn't want to be noticed. He associated being noticed with being beaten. It seemed better to be inconspicuous, safer and far less painful.
He walked all morning and could feel the warmth rising steadily in the air around him, like a tingly, almost burning feeling on his skin. Eventually, an aching in his feet broke through his awed wandering. He had worn the same shoes for the past two years, and they were tight now, very constricting. Each step shot stinging electric currents up his legs and made his toes numb.
Sitting down on the curb, he pulled his shoes off. His toes were throbbing, and the balls of his feet were sensitive; however, he was not about to let that stop him from his wandering. Cautiously, he stood back up, and walked on, careful to keep his weight on his heels.
He must have walked for several more hours. The scenery slowly changed from tall buildings and garbage can allies to rows of houses with large green yards. Occasionally, he saw other children. They were playing games on the lawns with balls and sticks, or running around in water that shot up in misty currents from the grass. Whenever he saw this he would stop and stare, entranced. The children were giggling, laughing, even squealing. After awhile they notice him standing there. The boys glared at him. The girls put their hands on their hips and gave him condescending frowns. Then, they went back to their games, and ignored the strange filthy little boy that hovered on the sidewalk. When this happened, the spell was broken, and he walked on.
Finally, he noticed his thirst, a dryness in his throat that could not simply be quenched by swallowing his spit. He didn't know what he could do about it. Normally he would use the red cup at the kitchen sink, when he could find the bucket to stand on so that he could reach the faucet. Otherwise, he would turn on the bathtub faucet and cup his hands to catch the water. He liked slurping it into his mouth. Mother didn't like him turning the water on, though, because it mixed with the stuff she kept in the tub. So, he only did that whenever she was gone or asleep.
The air outside now felt hot, and it made him groggy. He saw no sink around for him to get water from now, and he realized too late that he should have thought of that before he jumped out of the window. He would have gotten himself a giant drink of water first.
What he soon saw down a nearby street caught his attention, and made him feel a little desperate. In a miniature chair behind a small table in yet another grassy yard sat yet another child. A large piece of paper hung across the front of the table with some writing on it. If he concentrated enough, he could probably use his Sesame Street learning to make out what the letters read on the paper, but his mind felt too muddled to think. Besides, what really caught his eye was the large pitcher of liquid and several red cups on the table. Even if the liquid appeared to be yellow, at that moment it looked better than nothing.
Warily, he stepped up to the table and gaped at the beautiful glass pitcher, half full. He felt sure that he could drink the whole thing. It took a moment before he heard the child behind the table speak. She must have been talking to him before he realized, because she looked a little exasperated at being ignored.
"Ahem," she cleared her throat to get his attention. He looked up, and she repeated her question, "Would you like to buy some lemonade?"
He didn't answer. She poured the liquid from the pitcher into one of the red cups, while explaining, "My big brother is sick. My mom said its called leu-kem-ia, and that the 'high-and-mighty doctors can't seem to get enough of our money, and want to suck us dry before they try to find a cure'. She's very upset about it. So I'm selling lemonade to make money so that the doctors will make him better, and my mom can be happy again."
She filled the glass, and pushed it towards him, "That'll be fifty cents."
He wanted to take it, he felt so parched. He could smell it, and knew it was more than water. Between the look and smell of the liquid and the confusing words of the girl, he became very apprehensive, despite his thirst.
The girl observed his hesitancy, "You don't have fifty cents, huh?"
When he just looked at her, she interpreted his dumbfoundedness as pennilessness. This was indeed true of his monetary state, but his real reservations encompassed the entire situation as a whole: baffling girl, mystifying drink.
The girl gave him a half smile, and pushed the cup even closer to him, "Go ahead. Mr. Marlem gave me five dollars for a cup of lemonade when he was out for his walk with Pixey - that's his dog, so I do actually have some extra. You can have this one for free."
She offered the cup to him. Should he take it? He still felt wary. But he felt thirsty, too. Thirsty enough to drink the unknown liquid from the stranger, though? Yes, he decided. Yes, he was thirsty enough.
Cautiously, he moved the cup to his lips and sipped. Then, at the unexpected taste, sweet while pleasantly tangy, he gulped it down. It tasted wonderful. It quenched his thirst. He'd never experienced such a fantastic flavor and it felt so good rushing down his hot dry throat.
"Man, you were thirsty," the little girl exclaimed. She smiled, satisfied with herself for helping this poor dirty little boy in his need. So, she offered him more by topping off his cup. Her gesture, now that he was in a more satiated state, caught him off guard. Shocked him. Kindness: a completely new experience for him.
He looked at her. She smiled back. Finally, he saw her; and she was beautiful. An angel. Her hair fell dark and wavy with curls around her shoulders; her eyes were a lovely mixture of green and blue and brown; full lips spread across her face in a smile, and created dimples on her rosy healthy cheeks. He had never seen anything so pleasant to look at.
"I'm Esther," she introduced herself. "What's your name?" He didn't notice that she asked him a question. He just noticed that her name was Esther, and he thought it a beautiful name.
When he didn't answer, Esther raised an eyebrow and cocked her head, wondering if he was dumb or mute. She asked for his name again, even slower so that he might understand her better.
He finally realized that she asked him a question, and opened his mouth to answer, "Uuh. . ."
"Hey, you!" Suddenly, with a bang, the front door of Esther's home was thrown open. A grownup came stomping down the walkway towards him, with an angry look on his face, "Get out of here, you dirty little Gypsy."
Familiar enough with grownups coming at him in such an irate manner, he breathed in sharply, shrank to his knees and covered his head. This threw the grownup off guard.
"Daddy!" Esther cried, "What are you doing?" Esther looked genuinely stunned and confused, and her daddy now wasn't far from feeling the same way himself at the boy's reaction.
Something was wrong with this boy.
CHAPTER ONE
Dr. Michael Roden typically came to the restaurant early so that he could avoid the rush. It was a trendy place, owned by the renowned chef Benlevi Martsoff from a popular cooking show on the Food Network; and so the diners came here to be seen. Dr. Roden, on the other hand, came to eat. They had a terrific mango chicken masala on the menu, and he found himself craving it quite regularly after a long day at the office.
As a single man who usually ate by himself, Dr. Roden always dined here before the normal dinner hour. He laughed at himself for feeling awkward about eating alone, he was a psychiatrist after all and understood the consciousness behind it; but nonetheless, he'd rather not be at a table for one in a crowded restaurant.