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places?”
    I looked out the window, as if helpful ideas might be wandering around the parking lot. In fact, that’s exactly what I saw. I pointed across to the rear of the Super Center. “Take us over there. We can ask him.”
    Sitting against the wall was a thin man dressed for winter, even though it was the dead of July. He wore baggy camouflage pants, unlaced wo rkboots, and a hooded bomber jacket. He gestured wildly with his hands, as if he was in the middle of an argument with himself. Which he probably was.
    â€œDude ,” said Calen. “You realize that’s a homeless guy.”
    â€œHe’s not homeless. He sleeps at the Emerson Center, this rooming house near where I work.” I bit my lip. “He’s sort of a friend-of-a-friend.”
    â€œYou know that guy?”
    â€œWelcome to the neighborhood,” I said.
    â€œDude, that is messed up.”
    â€œJust drive over to him. I have an idea.”
    Calen turned around in his seat, looking at my sister. “Is he serious? You guys really know that guy?”
    Nomi nodded. “It’s B-Man.”

17
    You Can’t Have a B wit hout an A
    Nobody knew what the B stood for. It was simply what ev eryone called him. Most of the time, B-Man stumbled around Evandale muttering to himsel f. All year long, no matter the season, he always dressed like it was Christmas. He was never without a hood pulled up over his head. When you put it all together—the stooping, stumbling gait; the bulging layers of clothes; the fur-fringed hood that kept his face in perpetual shad ow—he looked less like a human being and more like a creature from under a bridge. If that wasn’t enough to spook the locals, there was always Razor , B-Man’s dog.
    Razor was a big, meaty, chocolate-colored mutt. By the looks of her, she had genes that ran the full range of bull —bulldog, pit bull, bull terrie r. Needless to say, she came out looking fairly nasty. Despite the ferociousness of her face, however, it was the dog ’s other end you had to worry about. Razor was a relentless farter . The only person who didn’t mind the stench, of course, was B-Man (probably because he reeked so bad himself).
    â€œYou sure about this?” Calen asked me.
    We had parked close (but not too close) to the wall of the Super Center where B-Man was pacing. Calen had cut the engine, but we just sat there.
    â€œIf you know that guy, go talk to him. Not me. Looks like if he breathed on you, you’d get AIDS.”
    Alana rewarded Calen’s crack about AIDS with a slap to the back of his head.
    â€œOw!”
    Sometimes, you can talk to B-Man and it’s like talking to a regular person. There’s a certain logic to the conversation, or something approaching logic. Other times—or rather, most of the time—i t’s gibberish.
    I got out of the car and walked ov er to him. I had a feeling it was a gibberish day. B-Man was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself , Razor following at his heels.
    â€œSolid ground. Fuckers always keep it shifting.” At least that’s what I think he said (apparentl y, but not necessarily, to his dog). “You find some solid ground, and you stick it.” To demonstrate, he stabbed the air, fingers sharp as a blade. “Never kno w what’s coming. The machine’ll fuck ya ev ery time. Cuz there’s ghosts in there. Echoes! Wheels within wheels, man, wheels within wheels!”
    â€œB-Man?”
    He stopped and looked at me. Razor toddled over and sniffed my crotch. When I shoved her head away, she blasted out a fart.
    â€œGross!” was Alana’s response, through the car window.
    I stepped around the dog and the cloud of fumes. “B-
Man? What’s up?”
    He didn’t answer because he was too busy muttering to himself. For a second, I thought it was a mistake coming over. Maybe I should have done what I usually did when I saw B-Man: Ignore him .