The train had stopped now. He reached up, tipped his two bags off the rack above his seat, and, after waiting for a few passengers to trudge by, fell in behind two girls, who, like himself, were returning home from school. They wore heavy crew-necked sweaters, though it was quite warm, and many beaded necklaces.

“So then he asked me if I had a block or some such thing and started to talk to me real soft, but I didn’t fall for it a bit. He told me it was natural for men and women to do it.”

“That’s just exactly what he told me.”

“Well, anyway, all of a sudden, honey, I realized I wanted to kiss him more than anything. And after that, I just fell apart.”

“Me too.”

At the door, a smiling conductor in a frayed blue suit guided passengers down the slippery steps. He reached for Dewey’s arm, but the boy shook free politely and hopped the last high step to the platform.

Dymphna was bouncing up and down. With each jump she turned a quarter circle, and finally she was facing him. She saw and recognized him, waved her arms, and, still in flight, tried to tell his parents. Then she disappeared below a bank of people, and when next he saw her, she was no more than thirty steps from him, running, her arms spread wide, her coat flapping behind her. Grabbing him tightly around the waist, even before he could drop his bags, she hugged him. “Dewey! Hiiiii!”

“Hello. How are you?” He was too stunned by her attack to say anything else.

She did not let him go, rather she hugged him tighter. “Fine. Is that all you have to say to me?” She leaned back from him. “How do you like me?”

“You cut your hair off.” Over her head he saw his parents advancing, still holding hands, and he wanted to know what to expect. He bent close to her, whispering. “They’re REALLY holding hands. What the hell’s happening around here—miracles?”

She hugged him tightly again. “Yes! Yes! Yes! I don’t know how it happened. But it looks like we have a chance to avoid a ‘broken home.’ It’s wonderful.”

His parents arrived. Dymphna turned him loose and his mother came forward and hugged him. She sounded as if she were sobbing and he could not understand what she said into his chest, but when she stepped back to inspect him, her eyes were dry and she was smiling. She had aged; he had never remembered gray hair wisping over her ears, but saw it now.

His father stood behind her, hands behind his back. “How are you, Dewey?” He reached out his hand and bent forward, almost timidly, taking no steps, as if there was between them a trench two arm lengths across and bottomless.

“All right, Dad.”