“So that was how they lived, homeless and alone. My friend won’t talk about the specifics except to say it was so terrible that he still cries when he remembers it. He lost his sister out there. She drifted away with some other homeless kids, and he never saw her again. When he was old enough to get work, he did so. Eventually, he got himself off the streets and into the schools. He got himself a life. But it took him a lot of hard years.”

Simon Lawrence shrugged. “He had never told this to anyone. He told it to me to make a point. What difference did any of this make, he asked me, to what he did now? If he told this story to the people from whom he sought money—or if he told the press—what difference would it make? Would they give him more money because he’d had a hard life? Would they give him more money because they felt sorry for him? Maybe so. But he didn’t want that. That was the wrong reason for them to want to help. It was the cause he represented that mattered. He wanted them to help because of that, not because of who he was and where he came from. He did not want to come between the donors and the cause. Because if that happened, then he risked the possibility he would become more important than the cause he represented. And that, Andrew, would be a sin.”

He stood up abruptly, distracted anew. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run. You’re staying over for the dedication tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

Wren nodded, rising with him. “Yes, but I’d like to …”

“Good.” Simon took his hand and gave it a firm shake. “If the newspaper’s paying, try Roy’s, here at the hotel, for a good dinner. It’s first-rate. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He was gone at once, striding across the lobby toward the front door, tall form scything through the crowd with catlike grace and determination. Andrew Wren stared after him, and it wasn’t until he was out of sight that it occurred to the journalist that maybe, just maybe, Simon Lawrence had been talking about himself.

Nest Freemark found a phone booth across from the park and dialed the number for Fresh Start. It was after five now, the sun slipped below the horizon, the last color fading fast in a darkening sky. Ariel was hovering invisibly against the building walls behind her, and the streets were filling with traffic from people on their way home from work. The park had emptied long ago, and the grassy rise was a shadowed hump against the skyline.

It was beginning to rain, a slow, chilly misting that clung to Nest’s skin. On the sound, a bank of fog was beginning to build over the water.

The lady who answered the phone was not Della, and she did not know Nest. She said John Ross wasn’t there and wasn’t expected back that day and she couldn’t give out his home number. Nest told her it was important she speak to him. The lady hesitated, then asked her to hold on a minute.