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lead. His relationship with the three boys changed after that day. His cousins play baseball, not basketball, but Sam likes them anyway. He looks forward to their visits.
    Helpful Dry Cleaners is the corner store with the blue and red awnings.
    A few years ago, Gently-Used Books was torn down to make room for Helpful Dry Cleaners. But Sam can never pass the site of the old bookstore without hearing Mr. Vincent’s booming voice. “Come in. Come in. The only two Churchill fans on Elm Street.”
    “Any more books about Churchill?” Miss Perkins had asked Mr. Vincent after they had devoured My Early Life.
    “Well, of course, there’s Winston Churchill’s book Heroes of History.” Through his bifocal glasses, Mr. Vincent had looked down at Sam with a doubtful expression on his face.
    “We’ll take it,” Miss Perkins had said.
    That purchase had started Mr. Vincent’s habit of quizzing Sam when he entered the shop. “Hitler was diabolical,” he would say. “What does that mean?”
    Sam would struggle as hard as he could to pronounce a one-word definition, like “DDevilish.”
    But no matter how simple Sam’s answer, Mr. Vincent would always say, “Sam, my boy, you are amazing.”
    Miss Perkins passes a young mother pushing a stroller, and suddenly in front of Sam are three boys dressed in blue jeans. He recognizes them from the halls of Stirling Junior High. They are big: maybe eighth graders. All of them wear their hair below their ears; one has hair almost to his shoulders.
    “Let’s go to the record store,” the boy with the longest hair says. His shirt has a black guitar on it. Sam guesses that the arrow-shaped object in his hand is a guitar pick.
    “I can’t believe that girls like Paul,” the shortest boy says.
    “Yeah,” the third says. “I like Ringo.” He is carrying drumsticks.
    Sam is sorry when Miss Perkins stops to gaze in Corner Market, and he loses sight of the boys. A few pumpkins are already filling the store window—a hint of the holiday to come. Then, he sees the row of prickly cacti. Excess Inventory Sale. 50 cents. The mystery of his mother’s recent gift is solved. She loves sales.
    “I’ll come back,” Miss Perkins mutters to herself as she starts pushing Sam again. Normally, Sam likes to go to the barber shop, but not this morning. He tries once more to communicate with Miss Perkins. “No MMMister John,” he says.
    “For years, I’ve put up with your complaints about going to Dr. Adams,” Miss Perkins says.
    Of course, Sam hates to go to Dr. Adams. He has to go often. Sometimes even every week or so. Dr. Adams has a great aquarium in his waiting room with lots of goldfish, but who likes to be prodded, stuck, twisted, given shots?
    “Don’t tell me you’re going to start on Mister John,” Miss Perkins scolds him. “Mister John has been cutting your hair since you were born. Goodness knows, I was angry, too, when he made us wait for a whole hour. I could have used the time on my chores. Still, we don’t have a reason to boycott him.”
    Sam doesn’t have a problem with Mister John. He doesn’t even remember the hour wait. Why should he? Sometimes he feels like his whole life is one long wait.
    Elm Street Barbers. Next to the red and white pole, a man sits on a bench. He jumps up and holds open the door for Miss Perkins.
    The bell tinkles as they enter.
    “Noooo cut,” Sam tries again.
    ***
    Miss Perkins pretends that she doesn’t hear Sam and pushes him through.
    Of the three green barber chairs in the shop, only one is in use. Mister John smiles at Sam and calls, “Hey, Sammy boy. How’s it going today?” Mister John is a thin man with a small waist. His face is shaped like his hour-glass body—long with a curve below the wide cheekbones and full again at the jaw. His hair is oily and his mustache waxy. He has five grown sons and their photograph as small boys, faded now, is tucked into a crack in the mirror. A cream-filled shaving brush is lying on the