two ancient buildings, and stepped into the darkened interior. Ginger emitted several splendid yelps and bounded across the concrete.

Holding the door open, he stood inside and with rolling eyes took another look beyond the courtyard to the sidewalk, the parked cars, and an old lady making her way slowly down the street on two canes.

The 6 x 12 foot slab of concrete formed a dismal alley between two buildings in Manhattan, was lifeless and forlorn, surrounded by candidates for the wrecker's ball. Not a weed had sprouted in that place. Not a glimmer of the day's weak sunshine could penetrate that crevice which had become a haven, a realm, a home.

Shortly, the door opened and he came out, his stomach leading the way, pressing forward against the crumpled shirt. Ginger trundled between and around his careful, heavy steps. Their progress across their courtyard was syncopated by his eyes which again were drinking the scene, making sure his dream had come true, was still a reality.

And between his fingers dangled a book, his index finger inserted between the pages. As he and his dog reached their place by the fence, he slowly lowered his mammoth form to the step and Ginger settled down on top of his feet. He positioned his book for reading, inclined his head toward the book, but never turned a page. His posture was for reading, but he couldn't lose himself. How could he close out where he was, the new, the exciting New York, and all the life around him which he felt so fervently, as if it were being transmitted to his body by unseen currents.

His eyes kept rolling toward Lexington Avenue.

His right hand kept reaching down to tickle the brown animal.

He watched boys alone as they passed by, boys with boys, and boys with girls. His eyes followed them all, from his motionless reading position.

He stared at the drain in the middle of his courtyard and it occurred to him that almost 37 days had passed since he had escaped to New York. It would be 37 days at quarter of twelve midnight tonight since he had gotten off the bus. No rain had gone down that drain, perhaps some dirt, some dust. And this day had been a dreary one. The sun had bleakly, intermittently come through the New York clouds which now rolled westward toward the Hudson River. They reminded him of the cotton candy they always had at amusement parks back home.

Home. This was his home now. In his New York courtyard, he closed his book. He was on the brink of something, something real for himself at last. What, he couldn't fathom. His life had been the imprisonment of his soul back

home... the thumbscrews on his spirit, on him... back... home. He had finally left them. They didn't know where he was. They would never know. He was ready to live, now, free, his every breath for life to happen to him.

Dusk came early as the sun sank behind the 15 and 20 story buildings to the west of Lexington Avenue. Ginger whimpered and goosepimples stood prominently on his forearms. A cold day, he thought. But his heart was warm and glad.

He rose and buttoned the top of his shirt. He walked, briskly for a heavy man, toward the door. The little brown animal, its feathery tail standing high, got there first.

"Are you cold, Ginger? Are you hungry? Do you want some supper?" he asked. He bent down very carefully, bending his knees a little, and scooped up the dog, kissed it noisily and closed the black door after them.

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