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ceaseless monologue, childish chatter that he listened to with care and politeness, and occasionally confusion.
    "You should have a name," Sam told him. "What name do you want? What would be a good name for you?" The answering silence had no effect on Sam's garrulousness; he took it for granted that the lost man didn't talk. Neither did Hector; it was just one of those things.
    "How about Lancelot? Do you like that? He was a knight of the Round Table in the Morte d'Arthur. That's my favorite book. Sydney used to read it to me when I was little, but now I can read it myself. Lancelot was Arthur's right-hand man. Lancelot," he repeated, trying it out, sizing his companion up with a long glance. "Lance," he amended doubtfully. He looked over his shoulder. "Can we call him Lance, Sydney?"
    She laughed; it struck her as silly. He didn't look like a Lance-to her, he looked like . . . himself. The lost man. "Lance is fine," she said—and happened to catch his eye. He knows, she thought suddenly. He understands all of this. Then he looked away, and her certainty faded.
    His big hands held the tin bucket, dwarfing it, turning it slowly in his fingers. A red line marked his chin, where he must have cut himself shaving. Or—she chilled at the thought—where O'Fallen must have cut him. Yes, more likely; they wouldn't give him a razor, she was sure. O'Fallon must be the one who had cut his hair, too.
    At Sam's insistence, he had taken off his coat. "Roll up your sleeves, too," he'd instructed, showing him how with the shirtsleeves of his own Russian blouse. It was charming, really, the unlikeliest friendship. And yet—it wasn't really possible to see it as cute or sentimentally touching, or the lost man as a big, harmless, overgrown boy, the way one might view a sweet-natured, retarded adult at play with a child. Because whether he was walking with his keeper or sitting in the sand or staring out the barred window of his room, the lost man was always exactly that, solitary and alone, and always a man.
    The next day, Sam brought his rubber ball to the beach. Bright blue, the size of a grapefruit, it was currently his favorite toy. "Here, catch!"
    The lost man—Lance—caught it somehow, purely by reflex, then stood staring at it for a full minute. The expression on his face made Sydney press her lips together to keep from laughing out loud. If Sam had tossed a glowing meteorite to him, he couldn't have been more flabbergasted. The squishy texture bewildered, then entranced him. "Throw it back," Sam kept saying, but he wouldn't relinquish it. He had to smell it, squeeze it; he put his tongue on it and bit it with his teeth. "No, don't eat it!" Sam yelled, laughing but alarmed, and the man frowned at him uncertainly. "Come on, throw it to me. Throw it. Like this." He gestured, using one arm. "It's a game, see?"
    Imitating Sam, the man tossed the ball in the air, high and straight up. It landed at his feet without a bounce.
    Sam ran and snatched it up again. "Good," he said encouragingly. "Now I throw it back to you—" Again the man snagged it with one hand. "Okay, now throw it to me." Sam held his arms out wide. "Me, throw it to me."
    Slowly, tentatively, the lost man lobbed the ball in Sam's direction, and he caught it on the run.
    "Good!" he shouted, as thrilled as if he'd taught him how to write his name.
    A game of sorts ensued, with Sydney watching from her place nearby, trying to see what, if anything, the man made of all this. Gradually the fierce concentration in his face relaxed, giving way to that look of pleasant, empty-headed absorption men wore when they engaged in mindless sporting contests. He had much more natural agility than Sam, of course, and it wasn't long before the dynamics of the game reversed, with the man throwing carefully and accurately, the little boy more often wildly. Father should see this, Sydney realized. Unnoticed, she scrambled up, intending to go and get him—and saw that she didn't have to. He and