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again.” He signed the note, “Your loving son, Brun.” That would do it. He laid the pencil on top of the note, carefully slid the chair away from the table, got up, slipped a couple of loaves of fresh-baked bread out of the breadbox, and wrapped them in a kerchief. Then he slipped out the back door.
    The summer night air was warm and fragrant; a three-quarter moon sat low on the horizon. Brun’s heart pounded as he followed that moon to the railway depot. He’d hop a freight to Oklahoma City, change there, go through Tulsa and on to Kansas City, then change again for Sedalia. Easy.
    But by the time he finally rolled out of Kay Cee, he was feeling a whole lot less enthusiastic. In Oklahoma City, he’d gotten chased by yard bulls, jumped aboard the wrong train, and found himself in Amarillo, not Tulsa. Coming back, he made a worse mistake, climbed into a car where two ’boes lost no time in relieving him of his bread and the little poke in his pocket with more than thirty-five dollars in it, every cent of his tips from playing piano. After the bums shoved him out, he settled himself into a blind baggage car, but as the train rolled out of Tulsa it pulled up short, and a little wooden box full of lead shot flew off a pile and delivered the boy a blow to the ribs that left him gasping and clutching at his side for several minutes. Now, chugging across Missouri out of Kansas City, he huddled behind stacks of lumber, and tried not to think of food. When he had to relieve himself, he turned sideways, opened his pants, and let fly against the wall. He willed himself to stay awake, crawled over to the door, cracked it. Raindrops pattered onto his face.
    When he felt the train slow, he stretched his legs and peeked out the crack. In the glow of streetlights, he made out city buildings. Sedalia. He felt dizzy, whether from excitement or hunger, he couldn’t have said. Just before the train pulled into the station, he slid the door open far enough for him to squeeze through, then jumped to the ground, a good clean four-point landing.
    The rain had stopped, though the air felt heavy enough to swim through. Brun wiped his wet hands on his pants, then started walking toward the buildings and lights he’d seen a few minutes before. All right, he’d lost his food and money, but now his luck was going to change. He knew how to play piano; he wouldn’t be hungry or broke for long. He’d get a job and find lodging. And then he’d look up Scott Joplin and somehow talk piano lessons out of him.
    But right then, food seemed like the first consideration, and after that, a place to sleep. He even thought a nice tub of hot water didn’t sound too bad, and laughed out loud, thinking of his mother’s face if she could’ve heard that particular thought.
    Clouds sailed across the dark sky, but a full moon shone uncovered. Brun figured it was probably a little after midnight. His side ached where the box of shot had caught him; he stretched his arms over his head. Hobo life wasn’t for him, no sir. Dress in rags, all filthy and smelly? Live by train-hopping and begging food and money? He shook his head. Playing piano, a man could make real good jack, and if he didn’t drink it away, he could eat high off the hog, wear spiffy clothes, and when he felt sand in his shoes, travel like a sport inside the passenger coach of a train. Brun was so caught up in his fancies, he didn’t notice a log in the weeds at the side of the street. He stumbled, staggered comically, all the while misusing the Lord’s name in a most serious manner. Finally, he recovered, and aimed a kick at the log, just to show it who was really boss. As he landed the blow, it occurred to the boy that the log was soft. It shifted just a bit, and by the light of the moon, Brun saw that this particular log wore a long white dress and petticoats.
    ***
    Dr. Walter Overstreet wondered just how long this goddamned meeting would go on. Why in all hell had he ever let Bud Hastain