But there was one hardware merchant who seemed almost as raggedly dressed as the kids themselves. Ron got to know him fairly well, since he had the best collection of tools and machinery parts in the entire market area.

His name was Dewey, and he was an old man with a rough gray beard and a million tiny wrinkled lines around his eyes. His hair was gray too, almost white. But it was still thick and shaggy. His eyes were very light blue, and almost always looked sad. He was big and burly, with a thick heavy body—strong not fat, powerful arms, and hands that were large and tough. Even though he seemed very old, Ron thought he could handle Dino or even Al without much trouble.

Just about every week Ron would go to the market. He’d push and worm his way through the yelling, arguing crowds of kids who clustered around the food counters and walk quickly down the side street where there weren’t as many kids and everything was quieter. They sold clothes here, and tools. Finally, Ron would come to Dewey’s hardware counter.

The old man was almost always perched on a rickety wooden stool, looking as if he were half-asleep. But when he saw Ron, he’d smile and talk for hours.

“Yep,” he said, one afternoon, “I been watchin’ you for just about two months now. Not many kids come around this end of the market. Too many of ’em working out how to kill one another, not enough of ’em caring about how to build things up.”

Ron felt almost embarrassed, standing there in front of the wooden sidewalk counter. Dewey smiled back at him from the other side, leaning back dangerously on his stool.

“I . . . well, I’m really from Outside,” Ron mumbled. “I got stuck here at the end of the summer.”

The old man’s shaggy eyebrows lifted a bit. “Oh? That so? Huh! You’re not the first one to get caught in that net. Dyin’ to get out, I suppose?”

Ron nodded. “Guess so.”

“Wish I could help you,” Dewey said. “I can’t get out my—”

The rumble of a truck’s engine stopped him in the middle of his words. Ron heard it, too. He turned to look down the street.

“Who’s still got gas for trucks?” Ron wondered out loud.

“Muslims,” Dewey said. His voice sounded funny. Not scared or even worried. Just grim.

An open-backed pickup truck nosed around the corner and drove slowly down the street toward them. Ron could see two black kids in the cab and another black standing in back with a rifle in his hands. Another truck followed the first one. And then another.

“Get back here,” Dewey said.

Without even thinking of arguing, Ron went behind the counter.

“Inside.” Dewey jerked a thumb toward the door of the building that his stand was in front of. “Get inside and don’t come out ’til I tell you.”

Ron glanced at the advancing trucks and then looked at the old man. His face was completely serious. Ron went to the doorway and pushed on the metal and glass door. It swung smoothly and Ron stepped into the shadows inside the building. He found himself in a lobby, almost like the lobby of the hotel he had stayed in so many weeks earlier.