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did you find?”
    “Nothing,” he said.
    She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was watching his feet on the thin trail. The hillside was studded with spiky plants. Ahead the trail widened, tame.
    “Nothing at all? I don’t believe you.”
    “He’s smart. Nothing’s written down.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “Frankly, junior, I don’t give a damn.”
    “Why do you call me that?”
    Beside her, his hands in his pockets, he smiled at her. “You don’t like it, do you?”
    “No.”
    “Junior,” he said, “you have a lot to learn.” He went off ahead of her down the trail. Burning, she stood still and let him walk up a good lead before she started off again.
     
    Paula took the midnight train to New York. Walking up the aisle of the car, she saw Bunker sitting next to the window on a forward bench. After a moment she put her bag on the rack over his head and sat down opposite him. He had a book plug in his ear; he ignored her. She stretched her legs out before her. The train was almost empty. The lights flashed on and off, and the bench under her jerked forward. She braced herself. The train bounded forward, stopped cold, and started up again. They rolled off into the dark.
    The windowless walls of the car were covered with graffiti. Gaining speed, the train swayed from side to side. She rocked with it, sleepy. Los Angeles was two and a half hours from New York; it would be nearly dawn when she reached her home. On the bench across from her, Bunker sat with the tape purring in his ear. He was spare and lean, even his kinky hair close to his head. He could have been forty, or fifty, or her age. She knew he was older than she was.
    “The Styths don’t know much about us, either,” she said.
    “Not if they want to know about our military.”
    The train sailed wide around a curve. She flung her arm across the back of the seat. He was staring at the wall. Obviously he would say no more than he had to. She aimed her eyes at the figure-covered wall.
     
    Her flute was gone. She kept it under her bed. Nothing else in her disordered room had been touched, so she knew as if he had signed his name who had taken it. She went next door to An Chu’s room.
    “Shaky John has crooked my flute again.”
    An Chu looked up. “Are you sure it was him?”
    “I will be.” She tipped up the lid to the other woman’s sewing box. An Chu kept her sequins and sparkles in little plastine bags. Paula shook one empty.
    “You shouldn’t accuse people when you aren’t sure.”
    “Hunh.” She took the little bag and went across the common room to the kitchen.
    Three people stood at the sink, singing an obscene round and washing dishes. Water puddled the floor. She opened the cupboard over the stove and filled up the plastine bag with baking soda. The boisterous singing followed her out again. She went down the other hall to the third door on the left and knocked.
    “Go away.”
    She tried the latch. The door was locked. John’s plaintive voice called, “Go away.” She felt in her pockets, found her pay envelope, slid the edge through the seam in the door and lifted the hook on the inside.
    “Hey!”
    She went into a dark, stinking room. The floor was caked with rotting food. The mattress against the far wall smelled of piss and mildew. John sat huddled on it, his arms crooked up to his chest.
    “Why you coming in here?”
    “Why you stealing my flute? Where is it?”
    He was trembling. He curled up on the mattress. “Let me alone.”
    Paula crouched before him. At her feet was an apple core fuzzy with mold. She kicked it away. She took the plastine bag out of her jacket pocket and waved it at him. He straightened slowly out of his curl. His face was broken out and his nose dripped. He scratched around in his crotch, his eyes on the bag.
    “Where is it?” she said.
    “Don’t have it. You can look. Let me—” He reached for the bag. She drew back, holding it in the air above her head.
    “Where is