The Orphan by Christopher Ransom Page B

north side. Some things looked achingly familiar, like the trailer park, with its wooden sign and the two lanes that forked around it so people driving in wouldn’t crash into the people driving out. Other sections of the neighborhood seemed strange, out of place, as if portions of this Boulder had been drastically changed overnight.
    Six blocks later, he reached the school. A wide, flat building made of tan brick, so short it was obviously made for elementary school kids. He could tell that much even before he saw the playground swings and climbing dome and the low-mounted basketball hoops. He might have gone to this school, but if so it was a long time ago.
    Hollow, partial memories of school returned: the cafeteria smells of baked cheese pizza, steaming green beans, sour milk cartons. He remembered drinking fountains, desks bolted to chairs so you could never adjust how close or far you were sitting to the desk itself. A teacher, some man with a brown beard who always wore brown corduroys and thick-soled shoes, but he couldn’t remember the teacher’s name, or his face, or any of his classmates’ faces, if he had ever had real classmates.
    He was tempted to sneak inside and see what else was familiar, but he couldn’t risk that. The last thing he needed was for some teacher or the principal to shake him by the arm, ask why he wasn’t in class, who were his parents?
    Good questions, but not ones he wanted to answer now.
    He found the bike racks on the far southwest corner, barely visible from the classrooms on the west side. There were two rows, with only five or six bikes hooked into the spars, which meant the odds of one of them not being locked up were slim. He approached slowly, nearly tiptoeing, before realizing this would only make him appear more suspicious, then walked purposefully, like any kid who’s just been let out of class early and is in a hurry to meet his mom at home for a doctor’s appointment. Yes, that was it. That’s what he would say if any adults came out to harass him.
    The first two bikes had steel chains coated with a rubber sleeve, one of them as thick as his wrist, and he knew he would never get through those. They were dumb bikes anyway. One was a long yellow ten-speed type with flowers painted on, and a low seat. Probably a girl’s bike. The other was too small, red with black plastic wheels. A bike made for a first- or second-grader, and Adam knew he would have to pedal like a maniac just to get the thing going ten miles per hour.
    Engine noise. A car approaching.
    Adam looked over his shoulder and saw a small white pickup truck coming toward the school. His face began to burn with shame and guilt and he was sure that if the driver looked his way as he passed, he would see everything Adam was planning as clearly as if it were painted on a sign.
    The truck shifted through the gears and increased speed, nearing the school’s front entrance. The driver was an older guy, wearing a trucker hat high on his head of shaggy gray hair. Adam waited for the red brake lights to glow but the truck continued on without slowing, and the man never glanced his way. Regardless, Adam’s heart pounded for another minute before he was calm enough to continue his thievery.
    On the next row was a BMX bike, dinged up and dirty white with silver wheels and a crooked seat, but it didn’t look too bad from a distance. Adam hurried to it, but his heart sank when saw that both tires were flat and the cranks and bearings rusted all to hell. Probably been sitting here for months, in the rain and snow, left for junk by some spoiled kid whose rich parents bought him a fancy new bike.
    Adam headed back, head down, so hungry and tired all over again he wanted to lie down in the next drainage ditch he saw and fill his mouth with dirt.
    Until his eye caught on something black. A thick smooth tire, black forks, faded chrome handlebars – another bike! It was all he could do to keep from running for it. Every part of it