Each time you think of seeing your childhood house again you feel a leap of excitement. As a child might feel, daring herself to touch a wire that might give her an electric shock.

In Mohawk, in Catamount Falls, in Port Oriskany for years you have consoled yourself, and tormented yourself, with the prospect of returning to your old, lost house. Most of your dreams seem to originate there, in the room you’d shared with Katie. Even dreams of the present are likely to be set in the old house. Where am I? Where is this? Oh—yes . . .

Imagining Hadrian Johnson’s house is different. In life you’ve never seen it. Not once.

Vaguely you’d known where the Johnsons lived—Howard Street. And the boy’s grandmother on Amsterdam. And there was Delahunt. But you have no actual memories of these places. All you have are feelings—excitement, anxiety. Forbidden places. Not for you.

Of course, you’re not at all certain that Ethel Johnson still lives at 29 Howard Street. That any of the Johnsons still live there.

But Lionel isn’t suggesting a visit to Howard Street. Just walking over to Black Rock a few blocks away.

Katie has confided, once your parents moved out of the house on Black Rock a few years ago, they’d never returned to see it. Avoided Black Rock like the plague—Would’ve broken Mom’s heart to see it.

You know from Katie that Lionel has few friends in South Niagara. He works at the lumberyard, comes home. Doesn’t drive his own car, rides with a co-worker. Sometimes eats with Mom and whoever is visiting with Mom, most often just eats up in his room, door shut. Plays video games, watches TV. Something of a recluse, if that’s what you’d call it. But now, smiling at you, Lionel seems eager, hopeful. His face is animated. His watery eyes shine.

You tell Lionel yes of course—“That’s a great idea.”

Lionel is dressed warmly for this balmy September day. Long-sleeved dark pullover stiffened with dirt at the cuffs, khaki pants with many pockets, thick-soled hiking boots which he’s required to wear at the lumberyard. His skin is even coarser, seen in the light. His uneven teeth are faintly stained, yellowish. The thought comes to you, sympathetic and repelled—He couldn’t brush his teeth very well. In prison.

Lionel says OK but just one minute—he’ll be right back, has to get something—runs inside the house, returns carrying a brown paper bag, and inside three cans of beer cold from the refrigerator.

“Like, if we’re thirsty. OK?”

You notice that since he has become more animated Lionel is punctuating his speech with a nervous tic: OK.

And you laugh and tell him: “OK.”