Matt Reece only half listened. The other half of his mind kept an eye out at the passersby, praying Patrick would be among them.

  “Now, with Mamaji getting weaker, I’ve got to take care of him as well,” Vishal said. “Some days he never leaves his bed. Not so many years ago I was in school, hung out with friends, traveled, and then it all turned to shit.”

  Matt Reece was about to share his own experience of caring for Blake when he spotted another green-skinned student sporting the same tank top. Vishal asked, “Do you want me to keep calling you Kirby, or can I call you Matt Reece?”

  “Matt Reece doesn’t exist anymore. He went MIA when the world turned upside down. But what the hell is going on? Why paint themselves green?”

  “You’re a cult hero, cowboy. This time next week, thousands of kids across the world will be green. I’ll bet there’s already YouTube videos of green kids doing all kinds of weird shit. Who knew we didn’t have to dye your skin. All we had to do was buy a tank top.” He laughed so hard he leaned over gulping for air.

  “Cult hero? It makes no sense.” The label was not something he could handle just now, being so far afield of his own sense of himself, the narrative he had fashioned that allowed him to function—a confused kid with humble ambitions, former cowboy who now lived moment to moment, searching for a lifeline to save him from this shitstorm.

  “Face it, cowboy, you’ve got what everyone wants.”

  The waiter deposited two glasses of iced tea and packets of sweetener on the table. As he walked away, Matt Reece noticed a television on the wall inside the café. It showed a panel of “experts,” and behind them was a photograph of him—a head shot at age fourteen dressed in a snap-button shirt and Stetson. The panel participants all talked at once, speculating on why an innocuous youth might run off with a deranged killer. One woman said, “Even though Kenji offered the boy immortality, they both have a mark of death on their brows.” By then, Matt Reece and Vishal were listening intently. The panel agreed that Matt Reece was with Kenji for immortality, even, perhaps, for sex, and—in the opinion of one “psychologist” who felt able to judge Matt Reece without ever having met him—because certain kinds of teens were turned on by the thrill of danger.

  “The world’s gone crazy,” Matt Reece whispered. He felt a sense of shame, however subdued, yet he knew he was guilty of nothing.

  Vishal said, “The media provides a relentless feeding frenzy. Americans are gluttons, and gossip and half-truths are our snack food. Our demand for empty-caloric titillation never diminishes. It arrives in a different wrapping each new day. People don’t care who they hurt as long as they can keep their face in the trough.

  “Last year, before I was burned,” Vishal continued, “I was plowing through Churchill’s six volumes on World War II. What I found most interesting was that Churchill called the Versailles Treaty, the product of the combined intelligence of all the top politicians of Europe, ‘a sad and complicated idiocy.’ From what we’ve seen today, I think that description can extend to all human politics.”

  The broadcast made it clear how divided America was on these issues, and the debate that started in the US Senate had spilled onto the universities and onto the streets. The only certainty, Matt Reece thought, was that the country was caught in moral confusion.

  Matt Reece looked away, turning his attention back on the crowd swarming by. He moved his eyes from one face to another, noting each set of features. He knew finding his brother was hopeless, but suddenly something vaguely familiar caught his attention. It felt like no more than an itch at the top of his head. That itch, abruptly and without warning, grew. He’d learned to trust his instincts, and right then, they told him that Patrick was nearby. Groucho jumped to his feet, and Matt Reece grabbed the leash to keep him from dashing off. He stood, scanning the faces with more determination.

  For an instant there was no sound. The TV stopped broadcasting, and the people stopped burbling. It seemed like just after a conductor taps on his music stand, raises his arms, and holds them poised.

  His eyes settled on a man whizzing toward him on a skateboard. For some reason, that man’s presence struck him, but there was no recognition. The man’s hair was platinum blond and stuck out at rakish angles. The dirt on his clothes seemed old enough to have geological significance. He had a worn, abraded look as if he had lain exposed to the weather for ages. He was Patrick’s age but looked to be a vagrant. Spirit-trappings, second sight, ghost stories, etc., never interested Matt Reece, but there was no denying the surety of this supernatural connection. It had to be Patrick. Every feeling pushing up from Matt Reece’s gut told him so.

  He kept his eyes on the skateboarder. Patrick had always been unclassifiable, as remote and clear as mountain water and as elusive as its color. The skateboarder weaved through the crowd until he smacked into a man wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. They both tumbled to the ground. The skateboarder helped the man to his feet before taking off again in a hurry. The suit-and-tie man screamed, “My wallet! Hey, you, stop!” and he ran after the skateboarder.

  Matt Reece was so shocked he loosened his grip on the leash holding Groucho. The dog leaped away and raced up the street, close on the heels of the skateboarder. Before Matt Reece could react, they had vanished.

  On the ranch, Matt Reece and Patrick had been more than brothers. They had been pals forever. They had tied bandannas across their foreheads—Big Warrior and Little Brave. He remembered that more clearly than anything in his young life. Those days riding into the foothills, the two of them, fly-fishing the Promesa Rota, nights at the campfire frying up trout and telling stories under the Nevada sky. He remembered all of it. Swimming races, bareback riding steers, hunting rabbits. A friendship like that makes everything more intense. You share the same food, same blood; you give it together and take it together, no matter what “it” may be. Pals forever. But now Patrick was a petty thief.

  “What the fuck?” Vishal said.

  In a voice that seemed to arise out of a deep well, Matt Reece said, “I saw Patrick pick that man’s pocket and dash away. Groucho recognized him too and ran after him.”

  “Great, now we know he’s here and what he looks like.”

  “He’s a pickpocket. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Vishal sat unsmiling. “Are you qualified to throw stones? Don’t judge people by what they do. If you judge them at all, it must be by what they are.”

  At first Matt Reece didn’t understand the difference. It seemed pretty evident that one dictated the other. But he nodded vaguely, because that was what he had experienced while listening to that panel discussion on TV. On the evidence, both he and Patrick were outlaws, outcasts, and perilously short on luck—but the evidence didn’t tell the whole story. Patrick had qualities that couldn’t be expunged.

  “Let’s run after him,” Vishal said. “If he’s this close, maybe we’ll find him.”

  Matt Reece stood stunned, his mind enveloped in fog. Was Patrick a petty thief or a man who could help him? Both? Neither? Maybe Patrick needed more help than himself. Pals forever, or an anchor that would drag him further down? He could find no satisfying solution to this puzzle. It had the fascination of an enduring mathematical riddle, like squaring a circle.

  By the time Matt Reece wrapped his head around what had happened, it seemed too late to chase down Groucho. He was easily miles away by then, and he held no hope of finding his friend. And by that time, he didn’t have the heart to even try. He shook his head. “He’s gone.” He meant gone forever, and he was not quite sure if he were talking about Patrick or Groucho. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  IT SEEMED an agonizing drive across the Bay Bridge and into the city. This time the view of crowded skyscrapers did nothing to excite him. The city seemed to contract, to diminish to a dot, scarcely larger than any other speck on the enormous map of the earth. While riding through the streets teeming with people, Matt Reece saw only buildings bunched up against each other, like bones connecting to form a skeleton, a fragile frame sharp with the ache of grinding girders of railway lines and ironwork bridges and discordant clusters of hotels, bars, cinemas, restaurants, and shops. He felt that ache in his own skeleton. And the masses of people, swinging like monkeys from one bone to the next, made it easy to see what America’s faithful worshipped; they all knelt at the altar in the Church of the Immaculate Consumption. Now that his only lifeline was severed, the city’s sparkling nucleus turned into a sham diamond, glittering in the shabby twilight, giving only the illusion of warmth. It seemed cold and cruel and wounded.

  He assumed they would drive to Golden Gate Park to return Ray Ray’s VW, but Vishal pulled onto a side street and swung into a dumpster-lined alley between Gerry and Clement Street. He parked the car and climbed out, waving for Matt Reece to join him.

  “What gives?” Matt Reece asked as he unfolded from the passenger seat.

  Vishal opened the storage trunk and pulled out gloves, surgical masks, and a plastic hamper. He handed a set of gloves and a mask to Matt Reece.

  “It’s Dining Out night, remember? The buildings on both sides of the alley are the backs of restaurants and grocery stores. We’ll gather the good stuff they threw out.”

  “Do you take all your first dates dumpster diving? Maybe Ray Ray was right.”

  “Matt Reece!”

  He smiled. “Sorry, but you’re so fun to tease.”

  “Laugh it up, cowboy. It’s only my feelings you’re crushing.”

  “Why do they trash good stuff?”

  Vishal waved an arm. “Follow me and learn, cowboy.”

  They walked to the nearest dumpster while donning their masks and gloves. Vishal handed Matt Reece the hamper and pulled back the lid. A fly swarm rose up as a stench hit Matt Reece, backing him up a step or two.

  Vishal took stock of the contents, sifting through the upper layers. “Bingo,” he said. He lifted five bunches of slightly bruised bananas and placed them in the hamper. “This store can’t sell these because of the brown spots on the peels, but they’re firm, which means the fruit is still good.” He dug deeper and found a case of lettuce. “The outer leaves are moldy, but the inner leaves are ripe and crisp, but if the store snips off the outer leaves, the heads look small and shoppers won’t buy them. It’s a sad fact in this fucked-up country that millions of people are undernourished, yet we trash 40 percent of the food we produce. 40 percent! And most of that is perfectly edible.”

  They worked down the line of dumpsters, filling the hamper. Luckily, the VW had a second hamper in the trunk, and they filled that too. It was all vegetables. Vishal explained that meats and dairy products were too risky. Next, they swung by a food bank to pick up sacks of flour, sugar, and ground coffee.

  They drove to a volunteer center, where Ray Ray helped carry the food into the kitchen. He wore an enormous black T-shirt with lettering across the front spelling out “Fabulous Bitch.”

  “Did you leave that Wookie in Berkeley?” Ray Ray asked.

  “He was so embarrassed about riding in your car, he made a dash for freedom as soon as we opened the door,” Vishal said. “He’s now hanging with some homeless dude.”

  Ray Ray nodded. “He’s better off. The homeless dude is probably a real Brahmin.”

  Vishal stood toe to toe with Ray Ray, a hamper between them. “Look, skinny, Matt Reece’s feeling bad enough without your sarcasm. So zip it for once in your life.”

  Ray Ray lifted his hands like Vishal was holding a gun on him. “Hey, just trying to lighten the mood. You started it.”

  Volunteers dug into the hampers and got down to work. Matt Reece cleaned and chopped vegetables, tossing them into a twenty-gallon pot of stock to make soup. Vishal took charge of baking banana bread. Matt Reece kept his hoody and sunglasses on. Nobody asked why, but they stared. The irony was that one of the other volunteers had dyed his skin green and wore that same tank top stating he was Matt Reece Connors.

  Two hours later, he helped set up tables on the sidewalk out front and carried pots and dishes and paper plates and plastic utensils to the tables.

  A line of people formed. Matt Reece ladled out paper cups of soup. There was also green salad, boiled potatoes, banana bread, coffee, and peach pudding for dessert.

  It didn’t seem like much of a feast in Matt Reece’s estimation, but the gratitude in the people’s eyes was unmistakable. Adults and children seemed at the end of their rope, struggling to stay alive another week. Having lost everything, they were reduced to a pure human spirit, without trappings or pretenses. It made Matt Reece feel embarrassed by his earlier mood of seeing this city as a sham. There were plenty of quality people here. He saw them in every pair of needy eyes.

  Vishal stood beside him, dishing out pudding. As they worked, Vishal talked about homelessness, society’s safety net, and disillusionment. “Achievement and possessions are only dust,” he said. “When gale-force winds blow that away, this is what’s left.” He nodded to the people coming through the line.

  Those haunted eyes had a profound effect on Matt Reece, and so did Vishal. He watched Vishal’s profile as he serenely served each person. The man was a giver, donating his time to help him find Patrick, his energy to sift through garbage bins to feed the needy, and freely sharing his wisdom. Matt Reece was seeing a dance of the seven veils dropping one by one from a fragile soul, and what he now beheld was a glimpse of what lies behind that scarred facade, that vitality existing in the vast spirit of nature.

  One man came back for seconds. “Young man,” he said, “your soup sure hits the spot. Every bite takes me home.”

  As Matt Reece refilled the man’s cup, tears sprung to his eyes. He saw himself standing there holding out a cup, having lost everything—home, family, dignity, hope—and finding something consequential in the taste of something thrown away. Yes, like Vishal, there was nothing separating him from this weather-beaten soul. They were all, he thought, like vegetables in the dumpsters, tossed out because the peel was bruised but still firm and perfectly ripe and beautiful at their cores. It could make anyone weep.

  He felt grateful to be here with Vishal, and he began to hope for a lifetime of nights like this, stretching into the future like a beautiful highway through time.

  THEY WERE walking through neighborhoods on their way back to Vishal’s shop. There were many restaurants and bars still open and full of people. It was a beautiful night with a bright moon illuminating the sidewalks, making the city seem enchanting. Matt Reece felt a light breeze on his face, as light as a feather tip gliding across one’s lips, and he also felt a beautiful glow in his chest. Vishal reached out and took his hand. Vishal’s hand was firm and strong, their fingers locked and their wrists nailed together where they crossed. All the other sensations of that night faded, and he felt only the touch of their fingers and palms and wrists alone. And that feeling was so intensified, made so urgent, so aching and so strong by the solid pressure of their fingers and pressed palms that it created a current that moved up his arm and spread from crown to soles with a burning sizzle of wanting.

  And then Vishal pulled him to a stop, pressed the lengths of their bodies together, bent his head, and kissed him. He felt Vishal trembling as they kissed. He encircled Vishal’s waist with his arms. He pulled his head back and dropped his chin, and then kissed the soft part of Vishal’s disfigured neck, and that’s when he realized he was trembling too. Vishal wrapped his arms around him, lifted him off the ground, and spun him in a circle. Vishal pressed his lips to his throat as his feet found the pavement again.

  Matt Reece felt, more than heard, a moan coming up from his chest, and Vishal lifted his head and they kissed again, this time with a bit more roughness, a bit more urgency. Time stood absolutely still, and he felt the earth shudder under him.

  Vishal pulled away, and he brought his hand up to caress Matt Reece’s cheek. “Thank you for tonight. You were great with those people.”

  “The night’s not over yet. Maybe there’s more to come.”

  Vishal laughed, and Matt Reece saw his teeth sparkling in the moonlight. Vishal locked his hand with his again, and they kept walking in the same direction.

  It was nearly midnight when they entered the head shop to find Kenji standing at the counter, still dressed as a priest, shaking hands with Vishal’s uncle.

  Kenji turned to face them. “Nice dye job. It took me a moment to recognize you.”

  Matt Reece glared at him, wondering if he should run for it.

  Kenji glanced at the uncle. “Seems our boys were playing hard. They look done in.”

  “The young are the young are the young,” said the uncle. “They foolishly play until nothing is left, and then they sleep like the dead. Us older men, thank goodness, are wiser and save our strength for the long haul.”

  “The passport only took a few hours,” Kenji said to Matt Reece. “It’s amazing how this new software works. We’re moving up our departure time.” He handed Matt Reece a blue-bound booklet with golden embossing.

  Matt Reece opened it to the picture page and saw Kirby Cain from Saskatchewan staring back at him. He felt the last of his past slip away.

  Vishal’s uncle held up a set of keys and a stack of hundred-dollar bills. His voice shook with emotion. “Look, Vishal, in exchange for our silence, Mr. Toranaga is giving us his Prius and ten thousand dollars. I have the bill of sale for the car in my pocket.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Matt Reece said. “We’re done.”