“Not really,” Ron said.

Dewey shrugged. “Somewhere Outside there’s a Government computer with my death certificate coded into its memory banks, signed and official and everything. Just like all the kids that got stuck inside here. Officially, none of us exist. No social security, no IRS identification number, nothing. We don’t exist. None of us.”

But I’ve got an ID record, Ron insisted to himself. They know I exist!

“That was twenty years ago,” Dewey said, his voice sinking to a dark muttering. “Had a woman with me then. She was awful pretty. She died the first winter . . . got sick . . . couldn’t find a doctor, no medicine . . .”

The old man slumped against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, head down against his chest, empty glass slipping from his thick fingers. Ron took the glass and placed it quietly on the table next to the nearly empty bottle.

“I’ll help you to your bed,” Ron said softly. He couldn’t tell if Dewey was already asleep or not.

“Thanks, but I can make it by myself,” the old man replied, without opening his eyes. “Been getting myself to bed without help for twenty years now. Won’t be able to do it much longer, though.” Dewey’s eyes snapped open and he stared at Ron fiercely. “Tell you what. How’d you like to be my partner? I’m getting too old to keep alive all by myself. The eyes are getting real bad. You could live right here. We could fix a place upstairs for you, deck it out with furniture . . .”

Without even thinking about it, Ron said, “But I’ve got to get back to my home. As soon as they open the gates next summer—”

Dewey put a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Son, they’re never going to let you out. You’re not the first kid to get stuck in here. If you show up at a gate without your ID, you’ll go straight to the Tombs. If you’re lucky, you’ll end up in the Army. If you’re lucky.”

Ron shook his head stubbornly at the old man, but his mind whispered to him, Forever. You’re going to be stuck in here forever. He turned and stared out the broad windows at the darkened City, where only a pitiful few glimmers of light broke the darkness. Forever.

Dewey showed Ron to a bedroom. The old man walked very straight and sure-footed, in spite of all he had drunk. Ron felt as if he were the one who was staggering.

“Good night, son,” Dewey said, leaving Ron at the doorway to a small, clean, and well-lit bedroom.

Ron said, “If . . . if I come here to work with you—live with you—could I bring a girl with me?”

Dewey seemed to hold his breath for a moment or two. Then he let it out with a long sigh. “Some kinds of girls are nothing but trouble, you know.”

“She’s not like that.”

“You sure?”