"My momma would kill me for bringing a stranger home—and a bum at that. Besides, I have to finish my paper route. I hardly have enough customers to make any money as is."

"You're right, Louis. Go ahead and finish your route. I'm fine. If I'm still here when you're done, we'll talk."

The youth started away, then returned.

"Oh, heck. I ain't got school anyway. My friend Omar doesn't even start his route until seven."

Avoiding the small pool of vomit, Louis helped Gabe to his feet, then let him brace against the fence until he was ready to take a step. Finally, arm-in-arm, with Louis taking some of Gabe's weight, they made their way up the block.

"I think Momma's still in bed," Louis whispered as they tiptoed through the front door of a modest clapboard duplex with peeling gray paint and a dirt front yard.

"I'll try not to wake her," Gabe said, speaking softly and following Louis into a small, neatly kept kitchen with chintz curtains and a Formica table. "I just need to wash my hands and face in the sink, and then I need a minute to think."

"Think about what?"

"About how to get ahold of my boss."

"You got a job?"

"In a manner of speaking."

With no ID and no phone numbers that he could remember, contacting the President of the United States wasn't going to be easy. It was possible to cut some sort of a deal with Louis for cab fare, but he would not have been at all proud of the boy if he agreed to part with his paper route money, no matter how good the deal sounded. Besides, the best he could do would be, filthy and soaked, to approach one of the uniformed Secret Service agents at one of the White House checkpoints and beg to be let in.

He took the phone from the wall and dialed information. As soon as he could, he would make up the cost of the call and then some.

"City and state, please?" the electronic operator asked.

"Washington, D.C."

"Say the name of the business you want, or just say, 'Residence.' "

"The White House."

Gabe could see Louis's eyes widen as he was patched through to an automated switchboard with another automated operator, giving him a menu of six choices, none of which was to speak with a flesh-and-blood operator, much less to the president.

"What's going on here?"

Startled, Gabe whirled. Louis's mother, in bare feet, wearing a thin, tattered robe, arms folded across her chest, was staring at him from the doorway to the hall. She was a dark, expansive woman, who probably looked quite engaging when she was smiling, which at this moment she most certainly was not.

"He's calling his boss at the White House," Louis gushed. "The White House!"

"And did you reach him, Mr.—?"

"Singleton," Gabe said, smiling sheepishly. "Dr. Gabe Singleton."