But the man did not respond. He just lay there, breathing in shudders. Maybe he was sick with some deathly malady, and she would catch it, and die in horrible agony of a disease unknown to science.

She squatted. "Who are you?" she asked. The man reacted to her voice. He lifted his head again,

and uttered something alien, and sank down once more. He really did seem to be too tired to do more. He hadn't

even tried to grab her ankle or to look up her skirt. He didn't look diseased, just worn out.

That clothing was definitely strange. His language, too, was unlike anything she had heard before. Could he be a diplomat from some faraway little kingdom who somehow got off at the wrong stop and got hopelessly lost? Unable to speak the local language, perhaps with no local money, he

might simply be starving.

Or he might be hideously dangerous in a way she couldn't fathom. As an innocent fourteen-year-old girl, she definitely ought to get quickly away from him and phone the police. They could handle it, whether he was a diplomat or a crimi -- nal. That was the only proper course.

Colene felt the thrill of danger, and knew she was about to do something monumentally stupid.

She leaned close to his ear. "You must come with me. I will help you. I will help. Do you understand?"

His hand slid across the ground, toward the sound of her voice, the fingers twitching.

Maybe he was dehydrated. The day had been hot, though the night would be cold; that was the way fall was in Okla -- homa.

"I'll be right back," she said.

She straightened up, paused as dizziness took her because of the sudden change of position, then walked quickly back to her house. She went to the messy kitchen and fetched a plastic glass. She filled it water from the tap, and carried it out.

The man had not moved. She sat down beside his head, set the water down in a snug depression, and reached for him. "I'm back," she said. "I brought you water. Can you drink it?"

He tried to raise his head again. She put her hands on it and lifted; then she scooted on her bottom so that she could set his head in her lap. She held it tilted up, then reached for the glass. It was a stretch, and she had to lean over his head. Her bosom actually touched his hair.

He did not seem to notice, but the contact sent new waves of speculation through her. Wasn't this the way the Little Mermaid had rescued the drowning prince? Holding him close, helping him survive

-- until he recovered and married somebody else, never realiz -- ing what he owed to the mermaid.

The tragedy of not even knowing!

She got the glass and brought it to his face, which was now propped against her front.