I hadn't planned on sleeping with these people. Nor had I planned on leaving the building

without Mordecai to guard me.

"Feel free to leave whenever you want," he said. Leaving was the worst of my limited

options. Midnight, Friday night, on the streets of D.C. White boy, beautiful car. Snow or

not, I didn't like my odds out there.

"You have a family?" I asked.

"Yes. My wife is a secretary in the Department of Labor. Three sons. One's in college,

one's in the Army." His voice trailed away before he got to son number three. I wasn't

about to ask.

"And one we lost on the streets ten years ago. Gangs."

"I'm sorry."

"What about you?"

"Married, no kids."

I thought about Claire for the first time in several hours. How would she react if she knew

where I was? Neither of us had found time for anything remotely related to charity work.

She would mumble to herself, "He's really cracking up," or something to that effect. I

didn't care.

"What does your wife do?" he asked, making light conversation.

"She's a surgical resident at Georgetown."

"You guys'll have it made, won't you? You'll be a partner in a big firm, she'll be a

surgeon. Another American dream."

"I guess."

The Reverend appeared from nowhere and pulled Mordecai deep into the kitchen for a

hushed conversation. I took four cookies from a bowl and walked to the corner where the

young mother sat sleeping with her head propped on a pillow and the baby tucked under

her arm. The toddlers were motionless under the blankets. But the oldest child was awake.

I squatted close to him, and held out a cookie. His eyes glowed and he grabbed it. I

watched him eat every bite, then he wanted another. He was small and bony, no more

than four years old.

The mother's head fell forward, jolting her. She looked at me with sad, tired eyes, then

realized I was playing cookie man. She offered a faint smile, then rearranged the pillow.

"What's your name?" I whispered to the little boy. After two cookies, he was my friend

for life.

"Ontario," he said, slowly and plainly.

"How old are you?"

He held up four fingers, then folded one down, then raised it again.

"Four?" I asked.

He nodded, and extended his hand for another cookie, which I gladly gave him. I would

have given him anything.

"Where do you stay?" I whispered.

"In a car," he whispered back.

It took a second for this to sink in. I wasn't sure what to ask next. He was too busy eating

to worry about conversation. I had asked three questions; he'd given three honest answers.

They lived in a car.

I wanted to run and ask Mordecai what you do when you find people who live in a car,

but I kept smiling at Ontario. He smiled back. He finally said, "You got more apple

juice?"

"Sure," I said, and walked to the kitchen, where I filled two cups.

He gulped one down, and I handed him the second cup.

"Say thanks," I said.

"Thanks," he said, and stuck out his hand for another cookie.

I found a folding chair and took a position next to Ontario, with my back to the wall. The

basement was quiet at times, but never still. Those who live without beds do not sleep

calmly. Occasionally, Mordecai would pick his way around the bodies to settle some

flare-up. He was so large and intimidating that no one dared challenge his authority.

With his stomach filled again, Ontario dozed off, his litfie head resting on his mother's

feet. I slipped into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, and went back to my chair

in the corner.

Then the baby erupted. Its pitiful voice wailed forth with amazing volume, and the entire

room seemed to tipple with the noise. The mother was dazed, tired, frustrated at having

been aroused from sleep. She told it to shut up, then placed it on her shoulder, and rocked

back and forth. It cried louder, and there were rumblings from the other campers.

With a complete lack of sense or thought, I reached over and took the child, smiling at

the mother as I did so in an attempt to win her confidence. She didn't care. She was

relieved to get rid of it.

The child weighed nothing, and the damned thing was soaking wet. I realized this as I

gently placed its head on my shoulder and began patting its rear. I moved to the kitchen,

desperately searching for Mordecai or another volunteer to rescue me. Miss Dolly had

left an hour earlier.

To my relief and surprise, the child grew quiet as I walked around the stove, patting and

cooing and looking for a towel or something. My hand was soaked.

Where was I? What the hell was I doing? What would my friends think if they could see

me in the dark kitchen, humming to a little street baby, praying that the diaper was only

wet?