He was overwhelmed by warm air scented with cigarette smoke, beer and cologne. In the dim, reddish light he made out a long bar where clusters of men gathered around stools talking and laughing. There was a scattering of tables on the main floor and a long shelf against the back wall where other men stood, mostly in silence, beers in hand, scanning the room purposefully. Rod Stewart sang Maggie May on the flashing Wurlitzer jukebox. Apart from the absence of women, the bar seemed not much different than the college bar his brother Matt had snuck him into when Bill had visited him in Urbana.

He had only taken a step toward the bar when a big hand pressed his chest, stopping him and a deep voice rumbled, “Let’s see some ID, kid.”

The man was broad-shouldered and muscular in a tight, black T-shirt and jeans, but his bearded face was not unfriendly.

“Um, I just got here from Chicago,” Bill said, hoping that name dropping another big city would get him past the bouncer.

“Yeah, well, welcome to California, but I still need to see that ID. Drinking age here is twenty-one.”

Bill pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed the man his driver’s license, still hoping for a break.

The man sighed, “You know I can’t let you in, Bill. Cops are always looking for a reason to shut us down. Can’t have any underage drinking.”

“What if I just get a Coke?” Bill said, encouraged that the man had called him by his name.

“No minors on the premises. That’s the law. You can hang out with me for a few minutes to warm up, then you have to leave.” He returned Bill’s license to him. “So,” he continued, conversationally, “how long have you been in the city?”

“This afternoon.”

The man did a double-take. “Wow, fresh meat. Stay here and don’t move. Oh, I’m Pete.”

Pete went to the bar and talked briefly to a handsome bartender who glanced at Bill, nodded and smiled. He reached down to the bar, got a glass and filled it, then handed it to Pete who returned to his station.

“Have a Coke on the house, kid,” Pete said, handing him the cold glass. “What brings here out here? School?”

Bill thanked him for the Coke and considered how much to tell him. “Yeah, school,” he said, uncertainly.

Bill replied with a skeptical, “Uh-huh. Where you staying?”

“Um, I don’t know yet. Are there any cheap motels around here?”

Pete frowned. “Are you a runaway, kid?”

The question dissolved his fragile confidence and sudden tears burned his eyes. In an unsteady voice, he said, “Um, my family… I had to leave because—” He got no further and started to cry.

Pete took the glass from his hand, set it down and bear-hugged him. “Hey, Bill, it’s going to be okay.”