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arrived nine months later.” He chuckled and smiled. “She always said she got two great things from Columbia—a journalism degree and me. She was a single, working mom, never talked about my dad. Always made time for me, too. That’s what’s so hard, I guess. You know what self-absorbed shits twelve-year-olds can be. I never got a chance to tell her what a great mom she was, how much I loved her.”
    I winced inwardly. I knew firsthand the consequences of self-absorption. My wife had committed suicide, and I’d been too busy to see the signs of her depression. I kept those black thoughts to myself. “Moms have a way of knowing what their kids think.”
    He shot me a warning don’t-bull-shit-me look. I was learning fast that Picasso had a low tolerance for anything remotely sappy.
    â€œWhat happened after she disappeared?”
    â€œMy aunt Amy —my mom’s sister—came and stayed at our place for a while. Finally, she had to go back to Florida. I think she made it clear she wasn’t up for an instant family, and I was telling everyone who’d listen that I didn’t want to leave Portland. So, DHS plunked me into a foster home with the Dougans. They lived over in the Hollywood district, which meant I had to change schools. I hated that, but old man Dougan had a coronary three months later, and I was put with another family. They had this posh place over by Reed College. I couldn’t get along with their older son, so they gave me back to the system. By then, I was heavy into weed and art. School sucked, but I could get lost in painting, man.”
    â€œYou still doing drugs?”
    He gave me a sharp look. “Would that make a difference?”
    I looked him in the eye. “I like to know what I’m dealing with.”
    He paused for a moment, as if he were considering his answer with some care. “I used to think drugs expanded my mind, but then I figured out art did that all by itself. But people like you shouldn’t judge. Most people I know using drugs do it because they’re in pain , not because they’re bad people. Every kid on the street has a story, man, and none of the stories are good.”
    I nodded. “Just wanted to know. No judgment.”
    â€œI’m not saying I don’t take a puff of weed now and then. You know, there’s social pressure sometimes, like it’s rude to turn down a toke.” He took a sip of his tea and laughed. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, I wound up with a single foster parent next. Addie Jacobs was her name. What a trip. She was a big woman with a heart of gold and a gonzo cook. But she tried to force me to go to school. Finally I said, fuck it and ran away. I think I really hurt her, but I had to get out of there. I’d just turned fifteen.”
    â€œYou’ve been on the street ever since?”
    â€œMore or less. I’d couch surf with friends sometimes, you know, mix it up. Never one place very long. When I turned eighteen, I got control of the money from my mom’s estate. I don’t want anyone to know about that. I’m saving up so I can go to art school.” He looked around with a self-satisfied smile. “This place, the wood for the foundation—all donated, man.”
    â€œYou’ll need a high school diploma to get into art school.”
    â€œNot a problem. Got my GED. I studied online. The tests were a snap.”
    We talked some more about his life on the street, and then I changed directions. “You told me your mother and Mitchell Conyers fought a lot. Tell me about their relationship.”
    His face tightened. He got up and started to pace. “Conyers started showing up about a year before mom disappeared. She was a great mom, but she had lousy taste in men. He drank a lot and wasn’t a happy drunk, man. He’d get wasted and then start accusing her of all kinds of things.” He stopped pacing, smiled bitterly and shook