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in four- to eight-year-olds. He didn’t know why that should be, but it certainly seemed to be true.
    There were times, though, when he needed his dreams enough to pretend he still believed in them, and this looked to be one of them. So after shutting off the unbelieving part of his mind he curled himself up on the rag rug and tried to follow Miss Mooney’s instructions about picturing everything you hoped for as clearly as you possibly could.
    But as time crept slowly by, and the cold deepened in Gib’s bones, and hunger growled and scratched at his stomach, it was easier just to feel sorry. Sorry for a poor orphan who had no one to worry about him or even remember where he was. No one to care if he was left forever in a freezing cold closet, until there was nothing left of him except maybe some bones and a new rotten smell oozing up out of the old rug.
    But finally, just when he’d convinced himself it would never happen, there was a sound from the stairs. Hobbling, uneven footsteps, the grate of a key in the lock, a burst of light, and there was Buster Gray with a lamp in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other. At that moment, scruffy old Buster with his big ugly ears, pale blotchy skin, and crippled foot was the best-looking person Gib had ever seen.

Chapter 7
    I T TOOK A BIT for it to sink in. It wasn’t until Buster said, “Okay, jailbird. You want out, or you just going to go on sitting there blinking like a big old owl?” that Gib realized it was really true. He hadn’t been forgotten after all. Someone had sent Buster to let him out. Staggering to his feet, he lurched through the door, grabbing his rescuer and almost knocking the lamp out of his hand.
    “Hey, take it easy,” Buster said. Backing up, he put the lamp down a safe distance away and came back to take hold of Gib’s shoulders and turn his face toward the light. “You all right, kid?”
    “Boy, am I glad to see you.” Gib’s openmouthed surprise had turned into his ordinary widemouthed grin.
    Buster looked surprised. “Well, what do you know? Looks as how you’re doing all right after all. I was figuring to scrape up the pieces this time for sure.”
    Gib managed a shaky laugh. “Nope. No pieces,” he said. “Not now anyways. I’m”—he gulped, gulped again, and went on—“I’m fine now.” But when he looked back into the dark hole beyond the Repentance Room door, he couldn’t stop the deep shiver that snuck up his spine and jittered in his voice. “But let’s g-g-get out of here. Okay?” He started for the stairs, and, picking up the lamp, Buster slowly followed.
    Buster never had been speedy because of his crippled foot, but that night, with the heavy lamp to carry, he seemed to be as slow as a big old snail. Right at first Gib tried to match his pace to Buster’s, but before long the relief of being free, of having the Repentance Room over and done with, was too much, and on their way down the long hall he must have kicked up his heels a little, like a colt put out to pasture. Buster was chuckling when they got to the door of Junior Hall.
    “What’s funny?” Gib whispered.
    Buster was still smiling as he said, “You are, kid. You are one tough little ...
    Gib didn’t hear the last word. “Tough little what?” he asked.
    Buster shrugged. “Junior,” he said. “I said one tough little junior.”
    “Hey.” Gib grabbed the older boy’s arm and whispered, “Buster, I been wondering. How come juniors don’t get adopted?”
    Buster frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked. “No law against it, far as I know.”
    “I know,” Gib said. “But they don’t very often, do they? Infants do, and seniors sometimes, but not—”
    “Shhh!” Buster put his finger to his lips and nodded toward the door to the dormitory. “It’s silence time. Remember?” And then, when Gib let his disappointment show, he added, “Later, kid. You’ll find out all about it later.”
    Inside the dormitory there was silence and,