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it."
    Sydney recognized the knitted yellow giraffe with felt ears and a black yarn mane and eyelashes; she'd made it for Sam years ago. Amazing that he hadn't lost it before now.
    "Now, boy, you don't want to be givin' things to this one," O'Fallon warned, still trying to sound jovial.
    "Why not?" Sam asked, taking the words out of Sydney's mouth. But she had a nervous moment when he reached for the lost man's hand and pulled it toward him. O'Fallon stiffened; Philip stiffened. "See, look. You just stick it over your ringer like that. Now you wriggle it"— he twisted the man's long, strong finger back and forth— "and make it talk. 'Hi, I'm Gerry the giraffe!' " he trilled in falsetto. " 'Who're you?' "
    The lost man blinked down at the little yellow tube covering his first finger. He flexed his knuckle, and the dots on the tip of the covering, meaningless to him before, came into focus. A face—they made a face.
    "See? It's a giraffe," the boy said to him, looking right into his eyes.
    Ger-af. He couldn't remember ger-af. It was a gift, though, he knew that, and gladness filled his chest like a sudden deep breath. He wriggled his finger into the face of Sam, the boy, who opened his mouth and laughed, a sound like water trickling over rocks. He laughed, too, and then he looked up into the face of the woman.
    She had hair like a fox, shiny red and gold, and she made it stay on top of her head, not fall down. Her scent was mixed, something sweet and something you could eat, and over that, the smoky smell that the man had, the man beside her with dark hair and the same blue eyes. She had so many clothes on, and she had skin like no skin he'd ever seen. The pink bellies of newborn racoons looked that soft. Her lips curved up, but was she smiling? Was she happy? Did she think he was funny?
    "You should take your shoes off," the boy said, pointing at his feet. "You can walk in the sand barefooted, but no place else. That's what Aunt Estelle says." Sam kept talking, too fast, the words stopped making sense. He tried to sort them out, but he couldn't while he was looking at the lady. Everyone had talked but her. How would her voice sound?
    Soft. Not high and not fast. Like purring. "It's getting late. I think we'd better go up now." She had her hand on the shoulder of Sam, just touching, not pressing or squeezing, and Sam didn't hate it. The lost man couldn't take his eyes off the long white fingers of the lady, curving over the shoulder of Sam. The dark-haired man said something to her he couldn't understand. He looked into her eyes. Human eyes, clever and secretive, hiding things. She was hiding things. She let her eyelashes come down, so he couldn't see into her mind.
    Sam put out his hand. Did he want ger-af back? No, his hand was sideways, the palm not up. Confused, he stood very still, not looking at anyone. "Shake," Sam said, and took him by his other hand, the empty one. They made their touching hands bob up and down, and while it was happening, a memory flared into his head. He had done this before. And some words in his book made sense now.
    In a social gathering, do not attempt to shake hands with everyone. If your host or hostess offers a hand, take it; a bow of acknowledgment is sufficient for the rest.
    "All right, then, lad." O'Fallon grabbed his arm, laughing his lying laugh. "That's enough o' that, now."
    He tugged out of O'Fallon's grasp, not even looking at him. There was something he had to do.
    He bowed.
    O'Fallon laughed again, but the lady didn't. Neither did the boy or the dark-haired man. They all made their eyes big and round in just the same way—so he knew they belonged together. They were a pack. Then O'Fallon turned him around and made him walk away.
    In the room with the bar on the window, O'Fallon said, "Oh, yer a rich one, you are, boyo. Quite the gentleman now, ain't you?" He turned away, and O'Fallon shoved him in the back, so hard he hit against the wall. He swung around, holding his cheek.