“How the hell should I know? So anyway, back to Blondie. You just, like, saw her and knew? Well, I know you didn’t see her…”

“Actually,” he said suddenly, “I did. See her, I mean. I can.”

“For real? Not just make a picture from how she smells?”

“For real.”

“Well.” Janet rested her chin on her knees for a moment. “I don’t know dick about fairies. Except I remember this story from when I was a kid—you remember Sarah Storyteller? Michael’s grandma?”

“Sure. She used to read to all of us on the grounds, under those trees by the pond.”

“Right. Well, there was this one story—about fairies? They were little and invisible. They’d only appear if you caught them. And if you caught them, they’d grant wishes. So maybe Crescent appeared to you. You know, maybe that’s why you can see her.”

“Or maybe,” he said slowly, “she granted my wish.”

“Well, sure. That, too. I mean, whatever.”

“There’s that tender side again. My, Richard has been quite the good influence.”

“Oh, shut up. So what are you going to do?”

He sighed and shifted his weight. “Hope she flies back to me, I suppose.”

“Lame.”

“Mature.”

“I kicked your ass all over Faneuil Hall, you know.”

“Then my girl kicked your ass.”

“Oh shut up.”

Janet and Richard left, but Crescent refused. He’d tried to explain why she should go, but she wasn’t having it. “What, is this that dumb ‘if you love something let it go, if it comes back blah-blah-blah’ thing? Because that sucks. You said I could stay as long as I wanted, you welsher.”

He tried to disguise his joy. “Crescent, there’s something you should know—”

“Later. God, I’m starving. Listen, I’m going to run up ahead and see if those guys are serving breakfast yet.”

“It’s four o’clock in the morning.”

“I know, that’s why I want to check. Be right back.”

He shook his head as she hurried away, and then he realized they were quite close to the shelter where she’d been living. Maybe it was foolish to be concerned—she was a tough one to hurt, after all—but he decided to catch up with her anyway.

That was the last rational thought he had for a while. Stupid, really—the punk shaking Crescent like a maraca looked far worse for the wear. An obvious beta type—he needed to be led and, in abandonment, he couldn’t take care of himself. He certainly wasn’t worth getting worked up over. He supposed Nick and what’s-her-name had gone on to greener pastures…or easier marks.

“Jimmy, you idiot,” Crescent was saying, prying his fingers off her arm, “will you give it up? Grabbing me is not going to fix your life. Now buzz off.”

“It’s all your fault,” Jimmy was insisting. “Nick and Maria took off because of you.”