“Okay. Let’s sit down and talk.” They squatted on the floor like three Indians.

For the first time, Ron saw that Al was tired. There was tension in his face. His eyes were blood-shot. Tight lines were etched around his mouth and eyes.

“Now lissen,” Al said. “We can’t feed no extra mouths all winter. That’s why I hadda get ridda ya. It’s tough enough gettin’ food fer all the mouths we got already without puttin’ on a dude from Outside. Catch?”

Ron realized that Al was trying to be honest. Maybe even fair. “What do I do, then?” he asked.

Al shrugged. “All I know is, we can’t feed no extra mouths.”

Slyvia broke in, “But Ron can help th’ gang! He can fix machines an’ stuff. Look, he fixed the air-conditioner. An’ th’ ’frigerator in th’ kitchen. He can fix anything. Right, Ron?”

“Well, not anything—”

She went on, “I bet he can fix th’ whatsit down in th’ basement that always blows out.”

“The generator,” Al said.

“You have a generator downstairs?” Ron asked. “So that’s where the electricity comes from.”

“It’s always conkin’ out,” Al admitted. “We hafta pay a guy from another gang t’ fix it, or else we go without power. Costs plenty, too.”

Ron nodded.

“Can you fix it?” Al asked flatly.

“I won’t know until I see it,” Ron answered. “But I’ve fixed generators before, and motors, and lots of other stuff.”

“Gun?” Al asked suddenly. “Can you fix guns?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know. I never tried. But if they’re not too complicated . . .”

Al eyed him suspiciously. “Okay. We’ll see. Come on down to th’ basement an’ take a look at th’ generator.”

They started to get up. But Sylvia stopped them for a moment. “Al, what happens if Ron can’t fix th’ generator?”

“Then he’s out. He either knows how t’ fix things or he don’t. If he can fix machines, then he can help us, an’ we keep him. If he can’t, then he goes out onna street.”

“On his own?”

“Yeah.”

“But he’ll die. They’ll kill him. Nobody can live on th’ streets by himself.”

“I know,” Al said. He wasn’t being cruel. It was simply a flat statement of truth.

It was an old, old generator, powered by an even older diesel engine that roared and clattered and spewed a fine mist of oil spray through the musty air of the basement. A dim light hung over the machinery. In the shadows Ron could make out a half-dozen drums of diesel fuel.

“How on earth do you get diesel fuel here?” he wondered aloud.

“Never mind,” Al said. “We get it. That’s all you gotta know.”

Ron shrugged and went up close to the machinery. The oil spray stung his eyes. He shouted over the noise, “How long does it run between breakdowns?”

Al waved a hand. “Coupla weeks. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

Ron could see that the generator was held together with little more than bubble gum and prayer. It vibrated dangerously. In time it would shake itself apart.