Sandlot Investment Company

Standard Disclaimer: This is a mostly fictional portrayal based on mostly purely coincidental artistic license taken with a factual accounting of some brief events that may involve potentially explicit language and possibly graphic gay sex. If you are underage and/or offended by such, please exit now. You can email your critique to me at PointGuardMo@AOL.com (mailto:PointGuardMo@AOL.com)

SandLot Investment Company Part III by Christopher Robin Readers Comments from Initial Posting: * * * * * * Most certainly worth the read. Ingeniously written. Different, refreshing. Absolutely full of passion. I can not at all tell the age of you , the author.

I love that. What an incredible story. I can not wait until the next installment. Although if they are all that lengthy, I can be patient. - dvldog * * * * * * OMG! I cried off and on thru that whole thing! It was W O N D E R F U L! I really HOPE that that wasn't the end?!? Thanks for writing AND sharing it .. strange as it may sound, in a way it has changed my thinking .. -Hugs, Jack * * * * * * Thank you for entertaining me with your posting of "The SandLot Investment Company". I really enjoyed the story and appreciate the time and effort that you put in to it. I look forward to reading more of your writing in the future. -Thanks, David in Colorado * * * * * * Definitely the strangest story I have ever read on Nifty, but I liked it a lot. -Jon, Salt Lake City * * * * * * great story....altho i will tell you i got a little confused with chapters 2 and 3, but then i figured out from where you were writing. clever! anyway, wish i could find someone like david/robert!!! thanks for sharing via the nifty site. -randy, san juan capistrano, california * * * * * * This is the first time I have written to an author about a story on Nifty. Chris's school assignment story and the way you continued the primary story moved me to tears as it all unfolded. Thank you for such a strong story. -Sincerely, Eric * * * * * * You can't end the story there!!! please!!! take it from a guy who fiddles with words too.. you have a gift. a very rare gift. you captivated me from the start. words really fail me now, about this story. except, YOU CANT END IT THERE! The boy with the brown hair, and wire rimmed glasses?? oh my god.. great touch!!! literally sent shivers down my spine! -Bear Hugs, Jim * * * * * * Incredibly different and original. Couldn't believe I found it on Nifty. -Jack * * * * * * Great job. Hope there is more to the story. -Bob * * * * * * Sandlot is a jewel. Thanks for sharing it with us. I hope you have many more to come. The imagination in SandLot is a bright spot on nifty. -ciao, Bill * * * * * * Chapter 4 Hi Guys, It's me again, Chris. It's been quite a while since I wrote anything to you guys or added to my story. Maggie showed me where she wrote chapter 3 and how she used my email account to post the story on nifty. Neither one of us liked the way all the formatting was lost in translation. I mean, she said she read the instructions just like I did; neither of us, it seems, could figure out what we were supposed to do. I guess part of the problem is our version of Word maybe doesn't match up to the instructions or something. If any of you guys might want to help us out with some tips, well, you should know, we'd love you for it. Anyway, Maggie is a pretty good story teller, huh? She told me she called Captain Mueller and he gave her the part on what it was like down there on SandLot Island last summer, plus she and my Dad have always been tight. So, yeah, I think she did real good on her homework, if you know what I mean, besides, she's pretty good at describing what other people are seeing so I was especially glad she had offered to help me out. I just wish we could get the formatting cleaned up. I do have to tell you, though, I think Maggie got a little carried away there with her last scene. I mean, it's true Trey and I really did hit it off right away and that mirage thing, well that was real too. It's just that well, I wouldn't really ever say, you know, that I was going weak in the knees on account of his "captivating smile" or "dark brown puppy dog eyes". She was getting all carried away on that part is what I figured and she had already posted the story before I could make her change that part. I mean what do expect, after all, she's a girl. Its okay, I mean I guess I really do like Trey in a way that is kind of different than I usually like most people; guys, I mean. Maggie says we have this connection, me and Trey, and I guess she's mostly right about that. She also says "he's so sweet", but I just think he's about the nicest friend I could imagine having, especially since my uncle is gone. I do catch myself becoming kind of uncomfortable whenever we are wrestling around, or just doing horseplay, and well, I don't want to spell it out here, you know, but I find that interesting, don't you? Maggie said it was like we were introduced by uncle Robert and I'd already sort of figured that out myself. I'm not that smart when it comes to things that are out of this world like that but I guess I can't argue with what happens right before my own eyes. Anyway, the reason I decided I would add to the story of the SandLot Investment Company is on account of two or three different things that happened. The first one is that I went down to Florida for Thanksgiving with all the staff down there and that was, well, I don't know how to describe what it was like. I mean, if I said it was great, that would be true, but it would only describe it maybe 5% of the way. It really was like falling into the swimming pool and feeling the comfort and exhilaration of the water as you plunge beneath the surface, come back up and float there. Only instead of water, it was like sort of taking a swim in love. I mean this sincerely, it was indescribable. My friends down there, the ones I've known for some time and even some of the newer guys, well it was like they could reach out and caress my soul. I never felt anywhere near as close as that to my friends up here, not like that, well, maybe except for Trey, but that's different. It was amazing, really it was, and I don't care if someone does think I'm crazy. Maybe I am, but all I'm doing is telling you exactly how it was, best I can. I'm sorry for getting sidetracked all the time. I think I got that from you-know-who, but what I was going to tell you is that when I was down there, I found Uncle Robert's Journals. They were locked in the safe in his study and I don't think they've ever been read by another living person. So anyway, I' ve been reading some of them and what I have read so far really and truly blows me away. I decided that a lot of it would go good with this story if I sort of shared certain parts of what he had written down. I guess he was keeping a journal ever since he was only ten years old. There are over a hundred books and it's all in his writing and since he didn't have the best handwriting, well, it takes me a while to get going. I think after a while I'll probably get use to his style and it'll be just like it was him reading and it'll go faster. I don't mind though, not one bit, because the way it is now, I guess it's like I get to spend some more time with Uncle Robert, even if I can't really reach out and touch him in a physical way. I said there were two or three reasons I was thinking of continuing with this story and his journals was one. Another reason is, I guess you could say, I'm learning the business. The markets are really interesting to me and I go by the office here every chance I get so I can watch what's going on and maybe learn something new. I've started spending more time there than I guess I ever spent working on the farm. I did play football this past season and I'm back on the court now for basketball. We were eliminated in the regional championship in the football playoffs but the only reason is because Tyler Watson, you may remember him, he's our defensive leader, middle linebacker, and, well, he got his knee bent six ways to Sunday on a play in the district game and we ain't got anyone as good as Tyler when it comes to making sure the defense is firing on all positions. Anyway, we had almost 400 yards passing in that regional game, another 168 yards rushing, scored 56 points and still lost by a field goal. It was a great game and all, but sometimes you can do everything right and if you don't have a Tyler Watson on the field with you, it just won't be enough. He felt bad, I guess, not that it was his fault or anything, so we gave him the game ball. We all signed the ball and wrote a message to him on it that said, "We missed You." He gave us a hard time, but I think he really liked that. I know, I was getting sidetracked again. I guess I just got too much of my uncle in me, but anyways, I was saying I was learning the business. There are two aspects of the business and they are equally important. What we do and Why we do it. What we do is trade over 1,000 highly liquid equities on the New York, American and Nasdaq stock exchanges and over 50 futures contracts on the commodity exchanges in New York and Chicago. We also have traders in options, bonds and currencies but I haven't got that far along yet. Still, all of it mostly works the same way. There is what is called an electronic trading platform. It allows you to see real time every single trade as it is happening on the exchange, just like you were right there on the exchange floor in person, and then you can either jump in or not. There are basically two different approaches to use in trading and they have to do with how you make your decisions on whether you want to buy or sell. One is called fundamental analysis and the other is technical analysis. These are the most common, though I've heard there are others like throwing a dart at the stock price report pages of a wall street journal tacked up on the wall. I don't really recommend that latter approach, though I 've been told a lot of times it works about as well as what most people do in trading the markets, sometimes better, seriously. So once you have your analysis approach to help you make the decision as to what and when to trade, you have to determine How you will trade. You can trade discretionary, meaning, you personally make the decisions on when to pull the trigger one way or the other based on your observations at the time, or you can system trade by letting a computer do all the trigger work for you. We can do both, but almost all of our trading is done in the systems style. So anyway, all this transaction information, price and volume, comes into the trading platform and we program our computers to do instantaneous analysis and immediately either generate a buy, sell or stand aside signal. It's all automated. I've been learning the programming part. It was all Greek to me when I started but now I know about inputs, functions, variables, assignment statements, loops, operators, conditional statements, reserved words, nesting, and arrays and how to write a procedure. Matt tells me I'm just getting started and I figure he means I've still got a whole lot to learn. I can do four different types of procedures but the strategy type procedure is the only one that makes money. The procedures I've done so far aren't very sophisticated, maybe a few dozen lines of code each. The real ones, running real time, some have several hundred lines of code and it all happens in the blink of an eye. We use technical analysis for timing and then the other three types of procedures help us do statistical analysis so that's how we decide what, when and how much to either buy or sell of this or that. The only fundamental analysis we do is on what's called the macro picture, i.e., the big picture. If we are in a bull market for something, we use the bull market procedures, vice versa for a bear market or if we are going sideways. That's it. That's what I've been learning in the business so far. Now the other part of the business is Why we do what we do. I am sure you know that there's a lot of people in the world who are not very fortunate, and other times, people, who otherwise would be doing well, sometimes fall on hard times. Most of the people, hundreds of millions, even maybe more than three billion of the people on our planet don't have much of a chance at getting by. They do everything they possibly can just so they and their families can survive in the most meager of circumstances. That's all they have and likely will ever have. You may find this hard to believe, but millions of those people, eighteen million is the World Bank's number, mostly kids, will die every year just from poverty. In our country, opportunity abounds, but in most places in the world, people are not so lucky, for whatever reasons. Sometimes people have opportunities but because of other things, like physical, mental or emotional problems, or even some disaster or something, they fall on hard times too. There are, relatively speaking, a few people around the world who devote their entire careers to just helping these various types of people in need. I guess they're some of our most inspiring heroes, once you get to know some of them and some of the things they do. At SandLot Investments, we have about a dozen full time staff people who each are assigned to one of these groups, like the ICRC for example. Our person, guy or girl, looks at all the projects their organization is doing and the ones where we can help, he or she recruits a team and we at SandLot fund them and their project until they are done, then we just start the process all over again. It just keeps going and going, kind of like the energizer bunny. Our person on that team will average between fifteen and twenty projects each, at any given time. Anyway, that's why we have SandLot Investments, to support, as best we can, the efforts of all those heroes. We don't have any investors and we don't manage anybody else's money. When my uncle first got started, he would put over 60% of his net profits into the SandLot Trust Fund and over the years it has grown and grown into this massive amount of money. Today, still over 60% of our profits stay in this fund. We do more and more projects every year. Now this is what I find distressing; one of the greatest organizations I now know of is the United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF). Last year, two-thirds of their funding came from world governments and the other third came from private donations. Now, SandLot is not that big right now, but even so, if you added up everything we spent on these various projects this past year alone, it would be more than 25% of all worldwide private contributions to UNICEF last year. I'm not saying this to make SandLot sound great or anything, it is to me, but the reason I mention this is so you will know how relatively little support the world's greatest heroes have from the most privileged in our society. It's really baffling, at least, that's how I see it. I thought of something else, and I figure you might too, so I might as well mention it. We could empty the trust fund tomorrow and help out a lot more people right now, tomorrow night, but what then? We wouldn't have any capital to trade with, so after that, we'd be back to square one, starting all over. No, the plan is, since this is a perpetual trust, we will continue doing more and more projects and growing the trust, and given the growth trajectory we' ve maintained for the past 5 years, well it will only take us another forty some-odd years to be in a position for SandLot to always be there for any of these organizations, on any continent, any and every time they need us. That could be in my lifetime. There ain't anything else I could ever dream of doing that I would even consider. Now I understand why Uncle Robert spent so many hours in the office down there when he was still alive. I told you before that Gramps and my Dad said Uncle Robert was a dreamer; well, I think now that I know more, I would rather say that he was a visionary. The numbers of those people in need continues to grow but there will come a point, mathematically, when we will hit the inflection point. When we get to that marker, the numbers of those in need will finally start declining, but only if we continue to increase the support we give to the efforts we are presently engaged with. Right now the curves are still headed the wrong way, but

the day is coming, and will hopefully come sooner rather than later, where we will see a change in the way those numbers stack up. Supposedly, a visionary is one who has foresight, some would say, pursuing the unrealizable, the impossible dream. Well, you should know, I've looked at the numbers on both sides of the ledger, so to speak, and I don't think Uncle Robert's dream is impractical at all. I mean, you've got to have faith, right? I mean, if you want to move mountains? My uncle had faith, I know that. My friends working down there in Florida right now have faith, unshakeable faith, and now I have faith too. It's really quite contagious. Ain't that great? Finally, the third reason why I thought I ought to continued writing the story is that Maggie and Trey "absolutely loved it". Personally, I don't know anything about what makes a good story or a bad story, but they're really interested so I'm going along with them. They did make me agree that we could only read what each other had written after it was posted. No editing allowed within our little click so that way it would be as honest an accounting as possible of what was unfolding around us, at least in our own respective eyes. Trey has started working on the next chapters. He said he didn't know when he 'd get finished with them but when he does he'll post my letter to you guys as a way of introducing what he's recorded. I am sure that when he does get through writing his version of events, I'll be about as nervous as you can imagine as I read the first installment presented by the brown haired boy in the wire frame glasses. Later Guys, Chris

SandLot Investment Company Part III Continued by Trey Simmons Chapter 5 He was just sitting there, seemingly unaware of the presence of the many faces and voices clattering on around him, that boy I had heard so much about for so many months. He would pick at the food in front of him, occasionally looking up when someone asked for his attention, nod a response as he willed himself to display, at least, yet mostly, a half-hearted interest to the interrupter, and then go back to rearranging the vegetables on his plate. It made me feel so sad, distressed even, with a gnawing emptiness, strong and deep within my own soul, just sitting there among these people, mostly strangers to me, not being able to go over to that boy and lift him out of what seemed, the sinkhole of all miseries. Robert Alexander had, on numerous occasions, and without any expressed invitation from me, rendered my feeble brain senseless as he'd wax on and on, excitedly inundating me with an encyclopedia of the many features, facets, and perhaps, the entire historical record of his young nephew. That boy, as far as I had ever been told, did not have even a single fault in the world, not that his uncle mentioned, at least none that I recalled. I had seen the pictures, hanging prominently in the family room at the Harbor Beach estate, but, and I can honestly reveal this now, looking at a picture of that boy sitting there, just at the next table over, is far from the effect one receives when confronted with the living, breathing, real life version of the authentic model. It really did necessitate an inordinate marshalling of my normally abundant self-control for me to deny the overwhelming impulse to rise from my chair and present myself as a savior to the blond haired godling, sitting there just beyond my reach, lost in his loneliness. Six long forgettable weeks have elapsed since my parents uprooted me from the Mecca of my paradise on the southeastern coast of the sunshine state. I had, involuntarily, been relocated to what I have accepted as a concentration camp in this heartland twilight zone, far away from the easy living and loving that had graced the only other fifteen years of my existence. Finally, after the seemingly endless torture of my recent isolation, here in the so-called show-me state, I sat within "spitting distance" of, quite probably, the only link I would ever find in this place to the world of life and love I had been force to abandon at the beginning of this suffocating nightmare. Those terrible days were almost certainly coming to an abrupt end, and I was hoping without further adieu, as I frequently, in these moments, found myself, fascinatingly, preoccupied with the side profile of the sun drenched boy sitting there, seemingly, almost within inches of my touch. It would be less than candid of me if I declined to confess that my wandering mind stimulated some sensations in my anatomy which are, oftentimes, best left not described, at least in polite company. It seemed the better part of wisdom, at the moment, and in the absence of a cold shower, to perhaps take a walk, and so I slipped the confines of the gathering there on the lawn and set out to explore the well-trodden path leading just beyond the big red barn.

• • • * * * I stood on the banks of the little creek straining in the dimming light, unaided by the scattered fireflies, to get a full picture of this land which had spawned not only Robert Alexander, but the boy back there that had been the object of my undivided attention for the last two hours. I'm guessing that that field on the other side of the creek was soybeans and the one over from it, I knew was corn. I'd heard the locals in town talking about harvest time and I knew that season would be starting any day now. The creek was maybe thirty feet wide on average, some places a bit more. I couldn't tell anything about the depth but just down the bank there was an area that looked to be a swimming hole. There was an old tire that hung from a rope tied to a tree branch which hung out over the center of the creek. Looking back at the farmhouse, it was, I guess, about two-hundred yards from where I stood and the barn was almost exactly in the middle. I noticed that my folks were talking with Chris and his father as they walked back toward the house and so I figured now was a good opportunity to present myself to the only other person in fallout range who could relate to a refugee from the fort down south. My rise in discomfort having dissipated, I headed back up the path toward the barn, wondering if maybe I should be wary of snakes or something. Just as I got far enough up the path, right as it weaved itself passed the barn, I saw Chris running hard in my direction. I immediately thought I must be in danger, being a stranger in this place. There was something here that I hadn't been warned about and now I was in mortal danger and my rescue was likely going to be mistimed, given how hard he was running. I don't know why, but I just froze on the spot. Now, I have been training in self-defense since I was seven years old, but the snakes we were taught to defend against didn' t slither along the ground in the eve on a farm in some remote town barely noted on a map. I knew I was under the influence of panic but it was going to take a few more breaths before I could regain my composure. Chris had stopped running and was now walking almost leisurely, directly, towards me. Maybe it wasn't so bad, I thought; maybe I'd survive to see another sunrise after

all. I took his outstretched hand as we shared introductions and the moment he touched me, the panic completely disappeared. It was in an instant. I was thinking of conversation but the only thing I could muster was an apology for not having said hi earlier. I was really quite embarrassed to have experienced a panic reaction to something unknown. I guess extreme sports doesn't do too much to prepare you for your worst fears, in my case, that being snakes in the grass, the real kind. I wanted desperately to make a good first impression but I'm sure my face must have been crimson in color as we chatted and began the walk back toward the farm house. He wanted to go into town for some ice cream and the thing I liked most about that was, finally, my long agonizing solitude in this outpost of civilization was about to end. He was very warm and friendly, not just the good natured farm boy; his smile was sincere and when his arm landed around my shoulders as we continued walking, I felt like I'd found my very own savior, not that I still didn't harbor secret thoughts of offering similar services to my new found best friend here, this blond, bronzed jock with the unearthly deep blue eyes.

• • • * * * That night he took me for a spin in his gun barrel gray, rocket powered coach, and when I say spin, I'm not speaking metaphorically; he hit the accelerator maybe a tad too much when we reached the main highway and though we had started toward town, we immediately found ourselves facing in the other direction, laughing like we were still convinced we had the world by the tail. I did have a great time that night. It was like I had finally made it back home. Chris could talk a mile a minute, reminding me a lot of his uncle in that way. Occasionally, a friend, classmate or some well-wisher would stop at our table to offer him a greeting, mostly ignoring me. He was polite with every one but he never missed a beat with whatever he was going on to me about. I can't remember half of it; all I remember is the music of his voice as he went on and on, making me feel like I was the most important person he'd ever met, at least, the most important person in that little farm town, right then, that night. When he finally said goodnight and dropped me off at my house shortly after Perkins ice cream parlor closed, I was on top of the world and my folks can vouch for that. I won't say anything here that will get me into trouble but I do think you should know that when I finally crawled under the covers that night, I was relieved and that's with a capital Relieved. I was looking forward to tomorrow for the first time since leaving the fort for this wilderness, that day, these long, long six weeks ago.
• • • * * * The next morning I was awaken as someone ripped open the drapes in my bedroom and allowed the beaming rays of sunshine to fill my otherwise peaceful slumber chamber. Squinting, I reached for my glasses on the nightstand and then found myself greeting the morning, special delivery from the smiling blond boy from the farm just outside of town. "Hey sleepyhead, how late do you sleep around here? We've got to get a move on or before you know it, the day will be gone and the cows will be coming home," teased the smiling Chris. "We don't have any cows, I don't think," was all I could think to mumble, while trying to block the sun from my eyes. "Well, neither do we, but that's what my Gramps used to always say if I wasn 't up before the sun. I thought we'd go into the city today; maybe do some shopping. I need some clothes for school on Monday and I think I want to upgrade my wardrobe. I figure you're just the consultant I need." "I need to grab a shower first," I said, trying to figure out how I could get to the bathroom without embarrassing myself. I had woken with the usual morning wood, but something Chris had no way of knowing is that I never sleep in any night clothes, not a stitch. Chris turned back to the window and was looking out at the garden my mom had just had to plant shortly after our arrival here in this hotbed of horticulture, even though, I have since learned, the season for planting had, at that time, long since passed. I used this moment of his distraction to slip out of my bed and over to the open closet door where hung my bath robe. "Nice butt," came the words that sent a flood of hot blood rushing to my face. Without thinking, I craned my head over my left shoulder to look at my behind and in so doing twisted my body just enough for him to see more than I had planned. "And full of excitement, too," he said, grinning ear to ear as my eyes were reflexively drawn to the boy standing there just beside the large window. He appeared to be inspecting the fifteen and one half years of my physical development, now on prominent display for all visitors as I stood there in my favorite suit, the kind not on sale at any store I was aware of. "Good dream," I lied, as I hurriedly donned the shield of my bathrobe. "I' m going to grab a quick shower and then I'll be ready," I said, walking toward the door, suppressing the urge to ramp to full throttle in my dash to the privacy of the adjacent bathroom.
• • • * * * It's been over a month now, since that night under the stars, when that striking blond boy with the deep blue eyes walked into my life, wearing his ever present smile, at least in my company. He's probably the most popular kid in the entire high school, an apparent achievement that is hard for me to believe he ever aspired to, though I'm certain he would now readily delegate it to another. From the first day of school his local friends found themselves forced to adjust, rather abruptly, and acceptingly, to the expected appearance of the two of us, side by side, on most, if not all occasions when either of us were in public. He commands the celebrated football team here, the offensive side, from the pocket of protection he frequents, to launch an aerial assault on the regional rivals of my newly acquired classmates. The post practice hours after school, once almost exclusively my gift, have, in the last couple weeks, increasingly been stolen by my father and his colleagues at the SandLot office here in town. Brad Cutler has been teaching Chris the technical side of SandLot; programming computers and trading various instruments, both subjects that have yet to capture my interest. Lisa Hall has commandeered another substantial portion of his time, formerly shared with me, as she indoctrinates him on all the logistics and operations the company pursues with various relief organizations. Today, we had finally found a few hours to be alone together in what I was certain was the first occasion in well over a week. It was a seasonably warm afternoon, that Sunday in early October, as Chris and I laid there, basking in the fading heat of the autumn sun there on the bank of the creek down at the swimming hole. We had been here a few times before; swimming, wrestling, swinging from that old tree and dropping down into the cool branch water. I found a large amount of pleasure in our times out here, in the middle of nowhere, just him and me, and I guess the birds and bees, though I never had any problem with the bees. A couple times, earlier on, we had actually gone skinny dipping, but now that the air wasn't nearly as warm, we'd taken to wearing trunks, not that I ever complained about being too cool. I took my cues from him and never complained, for the truth is, I was abundantly grateful to have someone to spend time with out here in this remote settlement on the outmost reaches of civilization's frontier. I guess, I was feeling some tinges of frustration in regards to my "bosom buddy", as we are frequently described; He seems to be slipping away from me, not much, but enough so that I did notice that something inside of me often feels a longing for his presence, when he's not there. I have my defense classes and I've added another instrument to the tool box of my musical interests; but nothing I find, to otherwise occupy myself, seems worthy of the comparison to the rise in my soul when in the company of my best friend. "What are you thinking about?" softly asked Chris, turning onto his side to look at me. He used his right arm to fix a prop for his head and laid there, slowly studying my eyes, offering me the gentle sincerity of his loving smile. I glanced at him, saw the eyes, held the contact for a moment, then looked back to the patch of harmless clouds floating overhead in their ocean of blue. "I was just thinking, you're working too much. At least, that's what I was thinking," I answered softly, glancing again into those warm tender pools of mesmerizing affection as they held their steady stare on me for a moment longer. His let his eyes fall to the small space of earth that separated us as we laid there on the grassy slope of that creek bank, "I'm sorry," he whispered apologetically, then returned to my eyes, wincing as he spoke slowly and just a bit louder, "it's just that there is so much going on and so much that needs to be done." "Yeah, but you're a kid," I argued, "You should finish being a kid before you become a workaholic. I figure you'll have plenty of time later in life to spend working yourself to death." In the most tender expression I'd ever seen from him up to that point, he reached out with his left index finger and softly touched my lips. I was immobile, holding my breath even, feeling the feather-like touch of his gentleness as I looked into his eyes. There was a surreal beauty there and it seemed to mask some sad remoteness, something well hidden deep behind those lens which now glistened more than before. "One of these days," he whispered, "I'm going to make it up to you," he said, promisingly, before taking his finger away from my lips and placing it back down by his side. I swallowed a couple times and returned to my study of those floating pillows moving across the afternoon sky in their journey to some place off to the east. He rolled off his side and again laid on his back, joining me in my seemingly fascination with those puffy patches of white gliding along some unseen highway suspended there a mile overhead. I knew what was in my heart; I was almost certain I knew what was in his. If only I could safely bridge that last short gap, I was convinced the reward would be well beyond addictive. The truth is that sometimes the smallest cleft can only be traversed with a colossal leap and, in this moment, the ability to perform a feat such as that, seemed to be the only thing lacking in his athletic prowess. I made up my mind, right then, right there on that creek bank, beneath the autumn sky, I would wait. I guess there might be even more in my heart than I suspected, because the truth is, I couldn't imagine ever wanting to be with anyone else, ever, in the world, not like we were here, and not like I hoped we would one day be. I found myself treasuring that promised future as the one thing I could claim which could surpass the sum of the values of all other things I had ever known.

As the days turned into weeks, and football season morphed into basketball season, he took to spending even more of his free time, outside of school and his sports, over there on Concord Street, immersed in a world very foreign to me. He did seem to have me penciled in to his grinding schedule at least, for a few hours, a couple nights a week, but mostly I wanted more and didn't much understand what was standing in our way. We were always together at school and I never missed any game he had, but our time alone, just him and me, and maybe those birds and bees, seemed to have all but evaporated. We'd go out to dinner, sometimes to the movies, and even on a couple occasions, bowling, but there was always a crowd and the entertainment I was looking for is best enjoyed in private. He never denied me the splendor of his smile and more often than not, he tease me a bit, in an intimate sort of way, suggesting that perhaps he knew more about my weakness than he'd previously revealed. I loved those occasions, the ones where he really did seem to be having so much fun. It was then, on those times, when he seemed most alive and unencumbered with all the goings-on over there on Concord Street.

• • • * * * Thanksgiving, the small staff at the SandLot office in town locked the doors and headed south to spend the holiday with family and friends in the place where we had previously called home. I went with my folks to stay with my Nana, my mom's mom, and Chris' parents were joining him at the Harbor Beach property. There would be the usual company holiday dinner Thursday evening at the peninsula estate but Friday, he had promised, I thought maybe threatened, to take me for a spin in the ocean in one of the Lightnings. As that fateful day rapidly approached, I had found myself remembering that spin he'd taken me on the first night we'd met. Those thoughts did little to ease my growing apprehension, not that I'd ever consider saying no to being alone with my blond haired friend.
• • • * * * Cruising along the waterway, which has a 5 mph speed limit, he switched on the silent mode for the exhaust and I thought perhaps, he would take it easy, us not being real racers or anything even close. In recent years I had spent much of my leisure time in pursuit of the ultimate thrill in extreme sports, but racing boats had, thus far, never made it onto my agenda. Even though he had taken a driving course two summers ago, I mostly viewed my pilot here as a rookie at best, and on that score I figured I was being generous. I was concerned that tackling the ocean waves at high speeds could be a bit even beyond what I considered extreme. He assured me that the waves this November morning were well below the limits of the Lightning, though I'm not sure I was convinced. As we left the waterway speed zone, moving out into the Atlantic, he switched off the silent exhaust mode and motioned for me to get up. He hit a switch that lowered the bottom cushion on our two bolster seats and the helm was changed from sit-down to stand-up operation. With no time to waste, the Lightning came up on plane quickly and effortlessly. I had this striking sensation that we had been lifted right out of the water, as we sped along the tops of the white crested waves at what the gauge indicated was 30 mph. Reaching what I assumed was a suitable distance from the coastline, he turned the Lightning south and glanced over at me and made another throttle adjustment. In seemingly less time than I had to take a breath, the speed gauge jumped to 50 mph. Again, he looked over at my rigidity, this time giving me this sort of lazy, evil grin. With his left hand, he pointed to the throttles, and he held his forefinger and thumb a couple inches apart as a sign of measurement. I figure this meant we had that much throttle left and as his hand dropped back to the throttles, I thought to myself, "Hang on, son." But even as that thought was translating into action, the sound of the engines jumped an octave and I was literally pushed into the seatback behind me by the acceleration as Chris pushed the throttles to the stops. My ears were filled with the seductive sound of pure power as the engines roared. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the needle dance upward on the speedometer, 60, 70, 75 mph, until it hovered just above the black 8 on the dial. Chris again glanced across, and this time we were twins with big grins plastered across our faces. We were one with the Atlantic as we raced along at eye-watering speeds. You can call the Lightning a performance sport boat or an offshore racer, but one thing I figured out pretty quick that November morning; this is a grin machine. Pack the cockpit with the grouchiest people you know, and they'll be laughing and giggling moments after you peg the throttles.
• • • * * * We returned to the estate shortly after lunch and after a quick bite he led me through the stately library to what had been Rob's private study. There was a large safe in the corner behind the desk, which any casual visitor would

have guessed to be just another of the many walk-in closets found throughout the immense house. Mahogany bookcases lined the inside walls of the safe/closet, and on the shelves were quite a number of sea green books, all identical in appearance. He explained that within those binders was a manuscript that Rob had meticulously maintained, each page penned in his own hand, covering virtually his entire life, documenting countless events and thoughts as he deemed worth recording. And though I wasn't near as fascinated with his marvelous discovery as him, I did have to concede that it was, nonetheless, an amazing accomplishment, readily recognizing the commitment it would take for anyone to assiduously pursue such an effort. After about two hours of looking through his new ` Priceless Treasure', I finally decided to ask a question that had been on my mind for quite some time. "Can I ask you a personal question?" I asked. "Sure, anything, I'm running a holiday clearance sale on answers this afternoon, couldn't sell them for ten cents last week but I can let you have as many as you want for, oh, make me an offer." he looked over to me. He was smiling. "Did you ever talk to your uncle about, uh, personal things, like what's right and what's wrong and stuff like that?" I asked. "Yeah, lots of times, why? Something bothering you?" he asked, laying his book down. He rolled the chair back a bit from the desk, propped his feet up, rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and brought his hand up to provide a support for his chin. "Well, you know there's like a lot of gay people who work for SandLot down here and I guess many of them were hired by your uncle. So, I was wondering if you guys ever talked about stuff like that." I was trying to be diplomatic, realizing this could be a mine field. "Not directly, no. Is there something in particular about that on your mind?"

he asked, pushing me to get away from diplomacy. "How do you deal with all this stuff the preachers back home are saying, like who's going to heaven and who's going to hell?" "Well, I guess, some of them mean well. Others are just, well, in the words of the great teacher, they are hypocrites, a den of vipers, snakes, your favorite kind," he said, winking at me, "they worship the god of lies. Some are

just blind and don't know it. They read the sacred scrolls and think somehow

this makes them religious. The scrolls say that they will be forever seeing but never perceiving; they will always be hearing, but never understanding.

It's really sad. The spirit which they worship, the spirit which they carry inside them is the same spirit of those who demanded the execution of the great teacher." "I don't understand. What do you mean?" I asked. "Well, I think there's two types of people that fall into the category you' re really talking about, those that demean gay people. One group, I would say is ignorant. They don't know any better. The ancient texts say that the letter kills but the spirit gives life. This ignorant group is the letter practicing group. They also fall into the forever seeing, never perceiving, always hearing, never understanding group. The second group, the snakes, they' re into religion for selfish reasons, earthly reasons, like greed, selfish ambition and they come up with things to teach to get people to follow them instead of encouraging people to follow the truth. In the words of one of the ancient writers, they exploit people with stories they have made up. He just calls these people false teachers and we most certainly have an abundance of them in the world today, especially in our country. Now having said that, I think it's quite possible, even probable that there are just as many gay people as straight people who have no interest in the truth, percentage wise, I mean. So, I don't you should discriminate one way or the other just because some is gay." "How do you deal with it? I mean how do you know what's right or wrong?" "That's a tough question. This is what I can tell you and mind you, for all you know, I could be as blind as anyone else. It's important for me to know that you don't think I have all the answers, not even that many. If you really want to know the truth you have to seek it out on your own. I don't mean that we can't discuss things and I shouldn't tell you what I think or vice versa. I mean you have to find the truth for yourself. I know it sounds like I' m just repeating myself. My uncle said if it wasn't inside you, there was no way it could be the truth, and that's what I pretty much believe. So, I'm reluctant to say too much because what I believe and what you believe can be a bit different and still both of us can be right." "No that's fine; I understand, I just want to hear what you have to say," I said, trying to encourage him to continue. "I can give you a list of enough things that I think are wrong that you'd be convinced I don't think anyone is without fault. The truth is that's exactly right. There are no degrees of being right or wrong, not in spiritual terms, human, yes, but not spiritual, at least not that I have learned. One of the ancient writers, the one who was the teacher's best friend, said if anyone says he never does wrong, that person is a liar and the truth is not in him. So, if we're going into the judging business, we're all guilty. I think that's why the teacher as well as some of those ancient writers say, don't do that. Don't get into the judging business or you'll probably end up just making it impossible for yourself." "Okay, but still, how does that help you decide what is right or wrong?" I asked, trying to dig a little deeper. "The ancient writers said that one man considers one thing sacred, another man considers another thing sacred, but each one should be convinced in his own mind. But if you doubt, you have a serious problem because whatever you're doing is not something you believe in and that makes it wrong. He goes on to say that everything is permissible but not everything is beneficial. That same writer says on a personal level, everything is permissible for him, but he will not be mastered by anything and I think that's the key. I guess, I see us as having two natures, a human nature and a spiritual nature. The human nature is mostly instinctive and driven by desires that are just in the genetic code, maybe with some environmental influences from generation to generation. The spiritual nature is something that transcends time and space. The human nature will pass away but the spiritual nature will endure forever. So, I guess what I basically believe is that we have to make a choice between whethe r our master is something in the human nature or something in the spiritual nature. That's it." "So that would be like choosing between lust and love?" "Yeah, I think so. Of course, there are many other things in the human nature that can enslave us, like maybe greed, jealousy, selfish ambition, drunkenness, hatred, things like that. There are many things about the human nature that we have to watch out for if we want something different," he paused and gave me a quizzical look. "Don't you find it interesting that hatred is just an expected part of human nature? It's wild, isn't it?" "I assume you always try to do the right thing?" it was a question and I waited to see what he would say. "I'm not perfect, not like you," he winked, smiling mischievously. "No. I'm serious," I said, yet appreciating his playfulness. "I think everything for me is permissible, but I won't be mastered by anything. What's more, the scrolls say that the entire scared texts can be summed up in one command, `love your neighbor as yourself'. Also, one of those ancient writers said that love covers over many, many wrongs. So, I'm not worried about being wrong as much as I want to avoid enslavement to things I'd consider selfish for myself and I want to live a life motivated by love, genuine love for others." "Thanks," I said. "For what?" "For sharing." "Well there is one other thing we have to be careful of. We should never do anything that causes someone else to get side tracked in their pursuit of an understanding of the truth and that's why I don't usually feel comfortable talking about stuff like this. The sacred texts tell us that we should make every effort to do those things which lead to peace and mutual encouragement between people who may otherwise tend to disagree. Now, here's the tricky part, sometimes when you get into discussions like this it's human nature to become conceited, even provoking and envying each other so the scroll writers, being wise and all, advised that whatever you believe about these things, you might be better off keeping between yourself and God," he smiled. "Well, thanks anyway. I don't think you'll get into any trouble with what you said. I mean, unless the room is bugged," I said, returning his wink. That was pretty much the end of our conversation and he went back to reading his uncles manuscript while I pretended to be just as interested. I did persuade him to take me for another exhilarating spin in the ocean later that afternoon, not that that particular argument required much exertion on my part. Chris loved the ocean and what's more, he had an unquenchable appetite for speed, the swift kind, be it cars, boats or the sports he played back in our little farm town. The only area where velocity didn't seem to matter with the lovely blond boy was in getting to where I'd like for us to be, a place that often seemed quite distant at the pace he seemed to have chosen.

That one day, the Friday after Thanksgiving was all the time I had with Chris while we were in Florida. I had made the Thursday evening dinner, earlier, with all the staff, our family, as it is more widely accepted, but even then Chris had seem to be swamped as the demands for his attention had seemed endless. I had promised mom I'd spend Saturday with Nana and the rest of our family, though a few of my old friends did stop by, mostly expecting my company for a bash that night. I guessed I had changed a bit, since moving to the frontier and if I hadn't been aware of it before, my old friends made sure I noted it now. It wasn't that I talked different, though I had picked up a handful of expressions that had them highly amused; it was more that the party animal spirit had somehow faded away, back there in the land of corn and soybeans, sometime when I just wasn't paying that much attention. I even passed on a couple date invitations that once upon a time, to have had either, I would have willing pledged all my worldly possessions. I think the real reason I said no to my friends of old was somehow I just didn't see my new friend in that circle and I wasn't going anywhere without my new friend, even if it was only in spirit.

• • • * * * Nothing changed when we got back to Missouri, except maybe now, I was competing for attention with not only basketball and Concord Street, but the newly discovered "priceless" journals of Robert Alexander as well. Chris was consumed with studying those books; and consumed and study are well chosen words. He didn't just read them; he was taking notes. I still got my two "dates" most every week, though they were "chaperoned" so I don't have any stories to tell that might ought to best remain private. The last day of school before I was to return to Florida on Monday, this time for Christmas vacation, he did something quite unexpected. It was after our win on the court on Friday night, a game that had been one of the more exciting. Before he left for the locker room, he requested my company, formally, mind you, as his guest at a prestigious Italian establishment in the city for the following evening. The entire nature of our little three minute conversation there in the middle of the court, between the game and his shower, seemed awkward for him in a school boy sort of way. Of course, I was rather more than interested, though I had, by now, developed sufficient control over my imagination to inhibit delusions of ecstasy. Still, I went home that night with a genuine smile on my face, the kind that is not erasable. We rode in the spider to our rendezvous in Kansas City for this private dinner, just the two of us and some fine Italian cuisine in a rather formal and private setting. As we finished our dessert, me, my Tiramisu, him, the imaginative one, chocolate mousse cake, he began to hem and haw so I knew something was up, well, at least, now, I was certain. I just didn't know what to expect, so I wasn't going to hold my breath, at least not too much, not so as he' d see anyway. "Uh, it's only 53 more days until your 16th birthday, huh?" he sort of asked, I guess. "That sounds about right. I wasn't really counting, I mean, I haven't been counting every day, just most days. February 6th, Why?" "Well, we'll be in school then and, uh, well, I was thinking, maybe, uh, I could, uh, um, you know, uh, well, I just wanted to do something, maybe for your birthday, I mean if you wanted? And we could? So that's what I wanted to, uh, say, only I know it's sounds confusing as hell, at least to me it does, so I'll understand if you tell me just to get you a tie or something." "No, that's fine, really, what'd you have in mind? I'm easy" I said, somewhere between smiling and laughing, becoming about as nervous as he was and not doing a whole lot better at hiding it. "Well, here's what I was thinking and if this isn't a good thing, uh, you should tell me, okay?" I nodded, more than once, actually, several times. You might say I was eager, that is, if you wanted to be pretty much right on the money. "Well, I have to fly down next Friday for the company Christmas party and then I'll come back right after that, because we have the tournament next week, plus my parents want to stay here for the holidays. So I can't leave again until Wednesday, but I don't have anything between then and Tuesday after New Years when school starts back. So I was wondering if you could maybe do something during those few days." "Sure. I haven't made any plans and since it's you, I'm sure the folks won' t mind. What did you want to do?" "Have you ever been camping?" "As in tents? Stuff like that? No. But there's always a first time for everything; right?" "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure. I'd love to go camping. I've never done it. Is this going to be like wilderness camping or are we going to be in a cabin or something? " He sat there, just looking at me, almost studying me. I tried to relax as the seconds passed and then more seconds passed. "I have this island," he said softly, not speaking with certainty, just telling me what he was thinking. "There's nothing on it. I mean, no people, no development. My uncle bought it before he died. I thought we could take the yacht over on Wednesday as soon as I can get there and then stay until New Year's Day. I mean, there really isn't anything on the island. It's totally private to me and well, I just thought, you know, your birthday will be soon and I wanted to be able to do something special for you. We can take supplies and the yacht will be close by, but it's just going to be us on the island, I mean if you want to go?" "I want to go." "Cool." We didn't talk anymore about our upcoming camping trip. We bantered back and forth, about basketball, about school, his work, my music, my being able to take him with my karate any day of the week, his willing to bet the farm I wouldn't make it past round one. We'd never been so silly, and we were both wearing those smiles that you just couldn't hide, even if you did try. By the time we were in the spider headed out of KC, I'd already forgot how many more days it was until my birthday, but Wednesday week was only 11 days away and I wasn't sure wearing a smile for 11 straight days wasn't going to get one of us, me, at least, nicknamed the joker.
• • • * * * We were in the comfortable study there at the estate getting ready to go aboard the Sea Stallion. Captain Mueller seemed pretty pleased to finally be able to take the beauty out for a spin. His wife was traveling with him and they planned to make a few port calls between our drop off and pick up times. Chris had a satellite phone so if we were to need anything we could call anytime. Chris had been studying me since he arrived from the airport and I was biding my time until he decided to "spill the beans". As I sat there beside the desk, him behind it, he reached for my hand and gently took it in his, bringing me to full attention and sending shivers down my spine. "I have to tell you something," he said, ever so softly. "Okay," I half-said, suddenly all ears. "I would never, never do anything to hurt you," he whispered very slowly. His eyes were pure sincerity and more, so much more. "Uh, I think I know that," I said, speaking not much louder than him, not much fast either. "I have a lot of responsibilities," he said, speaking very low, very soft, and very slow, still holding my hand, and looking into my eyes, "and they're not something I don't want, because they're unbelievably important, and so most of the time I know you're disappointed that I work a lot. I'm sorry," he whispered, "but only because it disappoints you. I have to do what I do. I think it's who I am and who I will always be. I just don't want you to ever get hurt and I know I couldn't bear it if I was the one to hurt you." "I love you," I whispered. It was reflexive. I didn't plan it and my eyes were definitely full of excess liquid as I sat there staring into his. "I know and I love you," he whispered back. "So these next few days on the island are for you and you only. What ever you desire, I want you to be happy, but I would never want you to get hurt. I'll probably never have much of a

private life, only when I'm on the island. Can you understand?" "I think so," I whispered, nodding my head. I had the strangest sensation that there was no world, nothing that existed outside the connection between him and me in this moment. We were on a plane all to ourselves and I was spellbound as I swam in awe amid the affection of his beautiful blue eyes. "Are you okay?" his voice was so gentle; I was hypnotized. "Yeah. I'm good," my words were more breath than sound. He stood from his chair, there at the desk, and as he lifted my hand, my body joined him standing there, all of its own accord. He gently drew me to him, our eyes never leaving the other, I was in a trance, his face was moving towards mine, his lips touching mine, I felt faint, I took a chance, he answered and we kissed a kiss to be remembered for long enough and then some. When after, what might have been many light years, had passed, I found his eyes again looking into mine and I was still in a trance. He smiled so soft, so lovingly. "I'll always love you," I felt his words on his breath, barely hearing the sounds; "I could never not love you, ever." "I know," I whispered back, still mesmerized.

• • • * * * Chapter 6 It was on Friday afternoon, the week of my birthday, just an hour before school was to be dismissed for the week that we were all summoned to a school assembly in the old auditorium. The new construction was now complete and Mr. Barnes, our principal, had decided we'd have a little decommissioning ceremony before bidding that final farewell to the place which had witnessed so many graduation exercises, school plays, concerts and the like, and of course, our twice monthly school assemblies, for all these many years. We all piled into the auditorium after the 2:10 bell, each trying to find a seat. Chris sat to the left of me; I was on the outside aisle. As Mr. Barnes walked to the microphone there in the center of the stage, I turned to Chris, "are you working this evening?" "Yeah, I've got some reports I want to look at after practice and I promised mom I'd be home early tonight. I'll probably just spend some time with them this evening, probably read some more." "Any chance you could come over in the morning?" I asked, hiding my disappointment. "I'd like to spend some time together with you too, and, you know, sort of talk for a change." "Sure, I'd like that too. I'm sorry I've been so busy. I guess I've been missing hanging out with you too. It's just that there's so much to do. Anyway, as soon as I get going in the morning, I'll come over and we can have the whole day," said Chris, then winking, suggestively added, "the whole night too, if you insist." He was smiling and making eyes at me, being about as playful as I'd seen him in the last few weeks, a sight that would always trigger my grin mechanism, as I figure he well knew. I punched him on the arm as the principal began speaking and the auditorium grew quite. "Some of you know who Robert Alexander was," said Mr. Barnes, "and if you don't, well, just ask your moms and dads. I doubt there's many, if any, who didn't know Rob or know about him." he continued, looking at us with a kind of professorial expression, studying us, maybe to see if he could tell what we were thinking or even if we were thinking. He went on, speaking in a low, thoughtful tone, as if remembering something with some difficulty. "Rob and I were students here together, a time, long ago, during that period when primitive life was first forming on this planet, right after the ice age." Laughter filled the auditorium. He had spoken those words with the utmost sincerity and reflection. It wasn't so much that what he said was funny; it was how he said it. He was absolutely believably serious. He set you up and the punch line was all in the delivery. "This will be our last assembly in this old auditorium," he said, looking around the old box shaped room, it's four-hundred plus seats now filled to overflowing. "I can remember sitting in here, right beside my friend Rob, when we were your ages. Next week, our new facility, provided for in one of Rob's gifts, is where we'll be meeting from now on. Since we don't have Rob with us anymore, I thought maybe we'd try to coax his nephew, our own Chris, into maybe saying a few words on this occasion. Chris?" Chris looked at me, sitting in the seat to his right, winced, as he slowly got up from his seat and climbed over my legs to reach the aisle. I watched my friend as he slowly walked toward the stage, ignoring the many pairs of eyes following his every pace down the aisle. Chris climbed the steps and walked over to the where Mr. Barnes stood near the microphone. He stood there for several long seconds, looking at us, him looking deep in thought, us wondering what he was going to say. "My uncle was a very special man," he finally began, still looking deep in thought. "I've been privileged beyond anything remotely imaginable to have not only shared his companionship for most of my life but now I have the journals he kept ever since he was in the fourth grade, up until the day before he was killed," he paused as the faces of, I suppose, just about everyone in that old auditorium, faded to a more somber expression. "Uncle Robert committed his life to helping others, whether it was scholarships for students here or facilities for the school or so many other things that it would be impossible for me to list in the short time we have. That being the way it is, I want to, instead, tell you briefly who the real Robert Alexander was, the one I knew and loved beyond measure and the one who wrote daily in a journal from the time he was only ten years old until the day before

he was taken away, just weeks before his forty-fourth birthday." "My uncle was on a mission with his life. You couldn't begin to know or understand who he was without knowing and understanding that mission. So that is what I want to tell you about, if you'll give me just a few minutes," he paused for a few seconds and let silence again settle in the old auditorium. "By far the most frequently unfulfilled human rights in our time are social and economic ones, such as everyone's right to a standard of living, adequate for the health and well-being of oneself and one's family, including food, clothing, housing, and medical care," he said, gazing intently into the audience. He continued, "In one of Uncle Robert's journal entries, there was a clipping from the World Bank which said, that because extremely poor people are often physically and mentally stunted due to malnutrition in infancy, unable even to read and write due to lack of schooling, and much preoccupied with their family's survival, they can cause little harm or benefit to the politicians and officials who rule them. Such rulers have therefore little incentive to pay attention to the interests of the poor and will cater instead to the interests of agents more capable of reciprocation, including foreign governments, companies, and tourists." He stopped talking again for a few seconds, just looking out at us from up there on that stage. "The World Bank estimates that one fifth of all human beings, 1.2 out of 6 billion, live below the international poverty line, which it currently defines in terms that corresponds to about $82 per person PER YEAR at market exchange rates. This means that on average, the global poor can buy as much per person PER YEAR as we can buy with $326 in a rich country or with $82 in a poor country. These are the poorest of the poor." "The World Bank provides statistics also for a more generous poverty line that is almost twice as high, $130 per person PER YEAR. 2.8 billion people are said to live below this higher poverty line. This much larger group of people, nearly half of humankind, can then, on average, buy as much per person PER YEAR as we can buy with $518 in a rich country or with $130 in a poor one." "Now I want you to think hard about this and try to see it in terms that are most real to you. If your parents only had $518 to spend on you, for food, clothing, water, healthcare, school expenses, electricity and housing for an entire year, what kind of conditions do you think you would live in?" "Imagine no one in our town had any more money than that to budget for each member of their family for an entire year, every year. What sort of condition do you think our town would be in?" "The consequences of such extreme poverty are foreseeable and extensively documented: 790 million lack adequate nutrition; one billion lack access to safe drinking water, over 2.4 billion lack basic sanitation, and approximately one billion adults are illiterate. More than 880 million have no access to basic medical care. Approximately one billion lack adequate shelter; 2 billion have no electricity." His voice hit a faltering note and the thought struck me there, sitting in my seat, that these were not just numbers to him. "Fully one third of all human deaths are due to poverty-related causes, such as starvation, diarrhea, pneumonia, measles, and malaria, which could be prevented or cured cheaply through food, safe drinking water, vaccinations, rehydration packs, or medicines. One quarter of all 5 to 14-year-olds work outside their family for wages, often under harsh conditions, in mining, textile and carpet production, prostitution, factories, and in agriculture." His body language conveyed the burden of a great weight; his voice was almost mournful as he laid it all out for us there in that crowded assembly. Leaning into the microphone, he continued, whispering in a soft voice, seemingly filled with so much regret, "In just the time that you and I have been alive to reach this point in our teenage years, well over 250 million people, mostly children, have died from poverty-related causes." Not a sound was heard at that moment in this historic old room. His gaze had fallen to somewhere on the floor, just there in front of the stage. Finally, after some moments of growing discomfort, he cleared his throat a couple times, swiped at his eyes and continued speaking, now in a voice, more normal, yet still edged with sadness. "I've been told that of all the people that have ever lived in the history of the human race, 40% of us are alive today. That means the total number of people who ever lived on this planet across all time is around fifteen billion and six billion of us are alive right now." Chris, again, fell silent, biting his lower lip as his eyes slowly surveyed the faces of all of us sitting there in his audience. "I guess, as far as I know," he swallowed, "most of us in here go to one of the churches here in town with some regularity. You may not know this, but the latest scribes of the ancient scrolls mostly wrote in the Greek language that was popular in that day. They didn't have the word church. That was something we got from the translators. The Greeks, and therefore that last group of writers in the sacred texts, about two thousand years ago, used the word, ecclesia, which simply means assembly." As he said the word, he had stretched out his hands to either side, seemingly pointing collectively to all of us sitting there. He lowered his hands and continued, "It is said, there will come a day, when each and everyone of us, all the people ever to have lived, will have to stand in a great assembly with everyone else and face God to answer for what we have and have not done while we lived on this planet." Again he paused, scanned our many faces, and then continued, slowly shaking his head. "Most people have no clue who God is. It's pharisaical, some of the images, the religious leaders and teachers of scripture, draw for their increasingly gullible parishioners." "One of the writers in the ancient scrolls clearly had the prescience to see this development because he warned that there would come a time when some men would not put up with sound learning; Instead, he said, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to tell them what their itching ears want to hear. They will turn their ears away from the

truth, he said, and turn aside to myths." "Now some of our wisest men today are theoretical scientists. These great thinkers and learners are some of the pioneers on the frontier of all our known knowledge. Their discipline defines the total universe as the summation of all particles that exist and the space in which all events occur. Just as a crime detective can trace the origin of a bullet from the holes in a wall, these scientist can tell us a lot about the universe." "One of our more modern writers, writing shortly after the turn of the last century captured the concept of the universal mind, of which we are all a part." "There is, without a doubt, much that we do not yet know, and some of what we know, we do not yet fully understand, but I am convinced, beyond any doubt in my own mind, that each of us, me, you, and all these people suffering out there; we're all connected to each other." "We need each other and if we ignore this need, it's frightful to contemplate what our fate, indeed the fate of the entire universe, may one day be." His voice was becoming stronger. "This same writer in the ancient scriptures proclaimed that it is in God we live and move and have our ever being'," he paused and no other sound could be heard in this theater at that moment, just stone cold silence." "That's clue number one," he declared. "Elsewhere in those sacred scrolls, and on many occasions, we are told that God is in us'. Even the name given to the greatest teacher of all time simply means, `God with us'. That same teacher declared that if you saw someone hungry and gave him nothing to eat, it was the same as denying food to the teacher himself, same for someone thirsty, homeless, sick, naked or in prison. The golden rule, which we all know by heart, is the final clue. I mean, seriously, my friends," he was raising his voice, almost shouting. "Are we so willfully blind that we cannot add two plus two and see the writing on the wall? Those people starving to death out there tonight; they can not be ignored, not forever. We either face them now or their spirits are going to haunt each of us, you and me, for eternity," he yelled the words out, emphasizing each one, "THEY-ARE-GOD!" The pregnancy of his pause sucked every last ounce of any remaining comfort from those of us sitting there in his audience. I figured we all knew we were completely exposed, to ourselves, to each other, and most definitely to that boy up there on the stage, which we all loved and admired so damned much, showing us all the passion in his heart. We were all rich, well beyond rich in relation to all those statistics he'd just rattled off. What's more, rarely, if ever, did any of us seriously contemplate the true condition of those less fortunate than ourselves. Somehow, we' d been able to apply the golden rule in a way that didn't include us ever seeing ourselves as those most in need. We had no understanding, no empathy, no love or relationship with any of them and I presumed, consequently, no love or relationship with God. I knew from my own experience that we mostly turned our heads, ignoring the horror, and yes, the pain of those sad, sad pictures that occasionally interrupted the otherwise entertaining images and sounds coming from our television screens. I guess I'd always thought those pitiful people, kids mostly, were just being exploited for some charlatan's fundraising effort; now, I couldn't avoid facing how easy I had come to be able to turn away and not allow myself to really see, with any understanding, the horror of those, mostly, ghoulish scenes. Chris' voice dropped to something barely above a whisper as he leaned close to the microphone and, with a face of agonizing and unbearable sorrow, fixed his eyes on those of us sitting there in that auditorium. "I was hungry," he pleaded, briefly patting his chest with his fingertips and speaking in a soft tone dripping with anguish, "and you gave me nothing to eat," his head shook a little, seemingly with unbelievable sorrow, as he paused again, his face slowly drifting to the other side of the room, increasing agony growing in his every feature. The moisture, appearing suddenly on his

cheeks, shimmered as it reflected the glare of those stage lights. "I was thirsty," there were tears now rolling down his cheeks as his body let go some gentle sobs, "and you gave me nothing to drink." It was obvious that Chris was feeling a pain of such depth, the mere act of witnessing his struggle was opening hearts around the room right then, there in that dimly lit audience. It was as though he had completely transformed himself from the beautiful blond boy we all loved so very much into one of those incredibly mournful images that we frequently hid from any sight. I, too, was losing it. I couldn't even come close to holding back the tears, now staining my own cheeks. I could hear the sniffles all around me and I knew I was far from alone. There were so many people in that room crying right now it was like we were all seeing, not the Chris we thought we knew, we were seeing Chris as those little kids, all those starving, helpless people out there gazing back at us, seeing us each where we sat and they were pleading; and we knew we had failed them, somehow, everyone. It was a haunting spectacle. I wasn't sure I'd ever again be able to force it from my brain, at least not anytime soon. "I was a stranger, homeless," he whispered, shaking his head and crying openly, "and you did not take me in." "I needed clothes," he said, sounding hopeless, desperate and totally helpless and his breaths were short as his chest heaved with emotion, "and you did not clothe me." His entire body seemed to beg for an answer to the question, "Why?" "I was sick," he was struggling mightily to keep going, "and you did not look after me." "I was in prison," he whispered softly, "and you never came to visit me." In my mind, I could see all around me for as far as space extended what looked like the faces of those fifteen billion souls, every other single human to have lived, asking me, Why? As he finished speaking, he just stood there, looking through us. Not a soul moved in that auditorium. No sound was heard above the soft crying of the many students sitting there feeling the same emotions as that boy standing up there, frozen in place, right where he was when he said his last word. We weren't listening to just Chris any more. The voice I heard, I think the voice many, maybe most of us heard, right then, right there, in that old auditorium, piercing deep into our hearts, was coming from the faces of those millions and billions of desperate people, men, women and children, from around the world asking, pleading, in unison, "Why?" It was a cry that echoed in my mind and turned my entire self image to disgust. I was more sick with each passing tick of the clock and I was hoping that voice would go silent, once again. It was the voice of that great teacher from long, long ago. As I gazed at my beloved friend standing there on that stage, I knew it wasn't so much that I was hearing the anguished words he spoke; I was listening to the voice of God and I knew my whole world changed in that instant. I'd never again be the same. Mr. Barnes took a step as though he was moving to the microphone but Chris raised his hand to indicate he wasn't finished so Mr. Barnes hung back. Once again, the student body, sitting there in those seats with me, found themselves watching the beautiful blond boy there on the stage and waiting with wonder for what he might add to his, thus-far, heart wrenching remarks. "I want you to close you eyes, if you will," said Chris in a soft encouraging tone. "Just as you sit there, close your eyes and chase all thoughts from your mind." He waited for several seconds in the silence as most of the sniffling was fading from the audience. "Picture in your mind the person you cherish most of all in the whole world,"

he continued, speaking slowly and in a soothing tone. "Get as vivid an image of that person in your mind as you can possibly manage." Again he waited. "Now, I want you to imagine that person in the circumstances that we've been talking about. That person that you love so dearly is starving, no food in many days and he or she is begging you for food. What are you going to do?" he waited. "The same person is thirsty, no water to drink. Trapped because of a storm or something, been without water for days and you know, because he or she has been calling you on the phone begging for your help. This is the person you love above all others. What will you do? What lengths will you go to in trying to get water to the one you love so dearly?" "The same person is sick, this person you can't imagine living without. He or she needs medical attention. Will you help or will you ignore the sounds of his painful crying? What will you do?" "Your special love has no place to live, no shelter from the rain, cold or dangers from either the weather or the mean streets? Will you send them on down the road because you just don't have room for them to stay even in your garage?" "Your precious love has been arrested. Will you abandon him or her now? What if you believe the person is guilty? How strong is your love for this person? Is your love stronger that his mistake? Will you forgive? Will you visit him in his prison?" Again, he waited. "I'm confident that most every one of you would do anything possible, perhaps even give your own life for the one you cherish above all others. This is

what I want you to understand if you can try. That is exactly how you and I should strive to treat every other living human being on this planet, as though we loved them the most. In so doing, you put yourself squarely on God's side and the suffering you help to ease will be counted on your behalf as a treasure deposited in heaven, where its value will never decline. You can be rich beyond your wildest dreams, rich in a way that will stretch across all time, before and after, and even beyond. Remember this moment, if you choose, every day for the rest of your life and at every opportunity you find to be of service to someone in need." He paused for just a moment. "That is who my Uncle Robert was and is and will be for all eternity. The most common thing that is said about my uncle is that he taught people how to love," he finished speaking, walked straight to the steps, down off the stage, crossed to the outside aisle and headed towards me. As he made it about half way down the aisle, applause started, students began standing, the applause grew louder, Mr. Barnes was applauding; I think every single student was now standing. I scooted back so he could return to his seat past my clapping hands, and the applause continued." Mr. Barnes stepped to the microphone and said softy amid the applause, " Thank you, Chris. School is dismissed." And the applause continued.

• • • * * * John Alexander knocked, then slowly opened the door, "Chris, are you awake?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah. What is it Dad?" said Chris, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Matt's on the phone. He says, it's important. He really needs to talk to you," said John, handing the cordless to his son. "Hello," said Chris, speaking into the receiver. "Chris, we have a situation here at the office. I think I'm going to need some direction on this one." "What is it? What's the matter, Matt?" said Chris, moving to sit upright on the edge of the bed, his feet landing on the floor. "Sheriff Rollins called me at home this morning, said there was a disturbance down here. Well, I came on down and there were over forty students from your school in the parking lot outside the front door. It looks like they were camped out there overnight. Anyway, they all want to sign up to do something to help you out in what we've been doing in the SandLot Investment Company. What do you want me to do?" John watched as Chris sat there on the edge of his bed, not saying anything now, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes a bit glazed over. "Chris?," asked Matt, on the other end of the line. "Call Jack in Florida. Tell him that we're putting together a team of students to go to Sumatra in Indonesia to build homes for the Tsunami survivors this summer. Tell him we'll need some folks from Habitat for Humanity to supply some trainers right away. Get a list of the supplies we need for training and get them expedited in. Call the school board and tell them what we're doing. Tell them, there is to be no publicity. Then, for each student that signs up, have Lisa call their parents and make sure there's no problem. Tell Jack we need logistics for, how many students did you say?" "Well, there looked to be about forty or so when I first got here, but there' s several new ones showing up this morning. I guess we've gotten another two dozen since I've been here." "Okay. Right. Tell Jack, we need a logistics contractor mobilized first thing Monday morning. The outfit will need to be flexible until we get the full picture finalized. Matt, the reports I was looking at last week said they still had eighty-thousand people homeless just in and around Sumatra. Tell the parents and students we're going over there and pitch in. Call Shauna in New York. This is her project. Tell her, if it's possible, I'd like her to fly out right away and take charge of kicking off this entire operation. She'll know what to do better than us. Anything else?" "I'm sure there'll be a million other things, but the important question is answered. We'll make sure the right people are on board to make this happen. Thanks Chris. Are you coming in this morning?" "Actually, I was going to meet Trey. He had something he wanted to talk to me about." "Trey's down here, Chris. He was at the head of the line." "Okay. Yeah, I'll see you in about an hour," said Chris as they exchanged goodbyes. He clicked off the phone and turned to look at his Dad, silently standing there near the bedroom door. "Your mother and I are planning a long vacation this summer," John said softly. "Think we could get a ride with you guys?"

• • • * * * I was thinking about that February afternoon, just at the end of that school day, back then, when our student body was washed over by that cosmic wave, the one unleashed by my celestial playmate. He was lying here now, right beside me, on these pristine sands, here in our favorite harbor, on this, our isle of Eden. We had set our sails for this port, right when that final bell rang, initiating this magnificent week we call spring break. It was to be the only time we'd have here, between now and sometime well past the coming summer, a time to be filled with the service we planned to offer, at a place, almost exactly, on the other side of the world. I finally had all the time I desired to be alone with him, this companion of my dreams, for his office was just across the hall, there in the building on Concord Street, and most evenings it would be one of us turning out the lights and locking the doors, sometimes him, oftentimes me. Our activities there in the suites of the SandLot offices were not something that could not be discussed in polite company, but the better part of humility required that we be discreet. Remembering that one little speech that fateful Friday, seemingly ages ago now, I realized he had literally swept me completely off my feet and as I now made my home in the heavens with him, I knew my feet would never again touch the earth of my birth. I guess, I could say, I had always been lost, but now, I am found. There were many things we didn't know, and other things we didn't understand, but what we knew, and what we understood, and what we were learning, was just enough for our spirits to celebrate our kinship with the angels in heaven. It was a foreign celebration to that I had known in my youth, my days at the fort. Our celebration was in giving of service to anyone and everyone we encountered. That teacher, so revered by Robert Alexander, and now by us too, my own godling and me, once said, that if you desired to be great in the kingdom of heaven, you could reach your goal, but only by becoming the humble servant of all humankind. That was our quest, his and mine, now and until we reach that great assembly, for the final time. I rolled onto my side so as to again survey the wondrous loveliness of my cherished partner as he lay there on the sands, no fig leaves obstructing his beauty. "How many houses do you think we can build if we are there for the full ten weeks?" I asked. "The record time for one house by Habitat here in the U.S. is three and one-half hours but they had a crane and everything prestaged and probably about 200 people. I guess it'll depend on how many people end up going with us, how long they're willing to stay and if we'll be able to mobilize some heavy equipment. I'm guessing right now, but if we can do a sort of staggered assembly line, someone excavates, next the foundation, then framing, the roof and so on, well, if we can get going, and we've got enough people, we might be able to complete one house a day after maybe the third or fourth day. So, if we' re lucky, maybe between 60 and 70 houses for the entire project, again, contingent upon the number of people and a few other variables. I'm figuring we' ll probably spend about 500-700 man-hours per house." "Wow, 60 out of 80,000. It doesn't seem like we will even be making a dent, huh?" "Actually, that's the number of homeless people around Sumatra, so figure the real number of houses needed is between twenty and thirty thousand. Besides, we won't be the only ones doing this. Last spring break, there were over 8,000 college and high school kids, just here in the U.S., building houses for habitat. All total, the entire worldwide program has built a little over 100,000 homes since it got started. Remember a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." "Yeah, okay, but we got to get at least 60 houses so we will have made a couple steps on that thousand mile journey." "I think that's a good goal to shoot for, but it'll take some long days," Chris said, then, cocking his head to the side and giving me this very questioning look, as he quizzically studied my eyes, "I didn't think you thought a kid should be spending all his time working cause he was going to have plenty of time later in life to work himself to death?" "Yeah, well, some things change, you know. I mean, I never expected to hear the voice of God speaking through my best friend either. Something like that, you know, kind of makes you forget all the stupid stuff you might have thought before. Just out of curiosity, how much money will this take?" "Well, we'll have costs for travel, living expenses, materials, supplies, tools, equipment, and land, among other things. I figure when we add everything up, we'll probably only be able to spend, at most, five million, maybe not even half that." "That's not really that much money is it?" "At the most, it will probably be less than 2% of what SandLot will spend on projects this year. Still, this will be one of the biggest, if not the biggest, projects the company has ever done, in this short amount of time. Volunteers are usually what are hard to come by. If we wanted to build more houses, money isn't the obstacle; it's finding the workers, the volunteers." "Will these be the only houses SandLot helps to build this year?" "No. Shauna usually has about twenty projects going at any given time. Some are just a small number of houses, but some are larger. Pakistan is larger. I think they've got people building all year long there; so they'll come close to hitting fifty houses on that project this year. Again, it all just depends on how many workers are available. Afghanistan will probably be close to fifty as well." He raised himself into a sitting position and brushed the sands from his back, "I think it's getting cool," he said, furrowing his brow just a bit, looking around paradise harbor, this place, only ours. "We should probably go back to the shelter and get warm," he said, giving me one of those grin starting smiles. "Yeah. We should go get warm," I grinned.
• • • * * * We stood on the tarmac, my hand in his, as we watched the arrival of the C-130 cargo plane bringing us another full load, 42,000 pounds of supplies, some of what we would need for the next five weeks. We were half-way through our project here on the fifth most populous island in the entire world, and we were running a good bit ahead of our original target. We all had a quick celebration late last night, well past the witching hour, as our inspector put the seal of approval on the fiftieth house we've finished in the first half of our summer in this mountainous province of Aceh, here on the northern tip of Sumatra. Aceh guards the entrance to the most important sea-route of Asia, Malacca Strait. Almost all traffic over sea between West and East passes this sea lane, and Aceh has been a most popular land for Arab and Indian merchants for centuries. Most of our group, eighty-nine strong, works at least twelve hours every day, seven days a week. There were at least a dozen of us who were pushing eighteen hours on average each day and I was never absent from my place at the side of my partner, whether he was sweeping floors, pulling electrical cables, running pipes, hammering nails, collecting trash or helping to prepare one of the meals for our crew. We were a four-handed operation, whatever our assignment, and when we crawled into our sleeping bags in the wee hours each morning, I'm sure we snored in unison. We were standing beside the huge Sikorsky CH-53 heavy lift helicopter that would take the handoff from the Hercules C-130 and ferry us back up near the point of this magnificent island so we could rejoin our friends and co-workers, just in time for the evening meal. I don't know when we started holding hands like this. We had spent a day in Pusan, South Korea on the trip over and I guess seeing so many people there walking down the street, hand-in-hand, regardless of gender, just as natural as you please, made it seem like that was just the way things were suppose to be. We were not the only ones, in our ever increasingly proficient construction gang, that went about often with hands clasp to some one or the other of our band of merry homebuilders. We had seventy-two students and seventeen parents from our little farming community back in the states deployed here in our desire to make a difference. We had all become very close to one another, working almost in synch, perhaps a result of the two months of thrice weekly training we undertook before mobilizing for this effort, the main event, as we had often called it back then. We had made quite a few friends, here in these mountains, with a growing number of the members of this Moslem community. The joy in the faces of a small family, leaving the shelter of their hillside tent to move into their newly built house was a gift unmatched by any I had ever before received. Several of the local teens and even many of the children frequented our worksites, often pitching in to lend a hand, for hours on end, coming back day after day, and joining our new found practice of handholding as we shared the labor that brought families into a new home, a labor of love. "One day, I am going to fly on an aero plane too," said Kahlid Jarrar as the eight year old boy stood in the open hatch of the giant helicopter watching the Hercules taxi toward us. "Of course you are," said Chris, dropping my hand and abandoning my side as he stepped over to Kahlid. The small little boy climbed from his perch there in the bay of that big bird onto the shoulders of my blond friend, without hearing the slightest invitation or making any such request. It was a common sight around our camp, Kahlid riding the shoulders of Chris, more often than not. Sometimes I was the honoree, permitted to carry the little prince from here to there, but most often, Kahlid was at Chris' side, handing him the next nail or holding a dust pan, even stirring the mortar. Kahlid had been orphaned in the disaster that swept this part of the world that fateful day, the one right after Christmas back in 2004. He had survived on handouts for many long months, but now, he had found a new home, at least for a time. Every evening, mostly in the very early hours of the morning, as I crawled into our tent, the one I shared with Chris, there he'd be, this little black haired carmel-colored boy, asleep in his own cozy bag right where he'd first place it, snuggled between ours. Most mornings, I'd wake to his twinkling eyes and grinning smile as he'd always rise first and greet his two " roommates" with gifts of hot steaming coffee, brought from our little " chuck wagon" there at the camp. I guess I'd fallen in love twice now, since leaving the world of my childhood down there at the fort about this time, now a year long past. I was already dreading the day I knew was soon coming when we'd have to say our goodbyes to the little prince as we returned to the states and our next year of school.

I wasn't certain I'd handle it very well. I had lost a big part of my heart to that boy, that little bundle of questions, awe, giggles and love. He was our shadow and where ever we went, I'd always be looking around to see that he was there. I knew it was going to crush me, probably him as well, when we'd eventually part. I just wasn't sure about Chris and how he'd react. He seemed to have become tougher these past several weeks, in an emotional way, but his love for that little boy inspired every single member of our traveling construction ensemble. One morning, I guess it was about three weeks ago now, I had woken a bit early and caught Kahlid holding a cup of coffee in each hand, squatting on his sleeping bag in between us. Bending down, he gently kissed the still sleeping Chris on the cheek, then sat back down on his sleeping bag, holding the travel

mugs, one in each hand, as he waited for us to awake. It was the most precious moment, the most innocent picture I think I had ever seen in all my life.

I watched Kahlid sitting there now, on Chris' shoulders, bending his head down to just the right side of Chris' face as the two chatted on undisturbed by the roaring engines of the Hercules as it taxied to a stop a few yards away.

They were lost to the world as they excitedly talked on and on, occasionally one pointing to something out on the air field, other times, the other doing the pointing. When the pilot killed the engines of the C-130, Chris, reached to remove Kahlid from his shoulders but the boy didn't want to go. "I have to help unload the plane," gently explained Chris to the little boy. "I will help you then," said Kahlid, accepting Chris' assistance as he climbed from his saddle. The two walked over to a forklift and Chris settled into the truck, helping the little boy up so he could stand just beside the seat. As Chris started the engine and moved toward the opening rear hatch of the giant Hercules, the little fellow again locked his arm around Chris' neck, looking very focused and ready to go as he was going to help Chris transfer the pallets to our waiting helicopter. I couldn't help but laugh as I stood there watching, feeling all for the world like it just couldn't get any better than this.

• • • * * * While almost every parent in our entourage would have jumped at the chance to take the little prince home, it was well known that the government here had blocked foreign adoptions because of the outbreak of predators that had come preying on these precious and vulnerable babies. A week before our depart ure, Chris' mom finally succeeded in finding a local family that was willing to provide at least a foster home for Kahlid, though when so informed, he was none too pleased with the idea. "I am going home with Chris. He's my brother now. Tell them Chris. I will be your brother and live with you and Trey," he said as John, Sara, Chris and I sat at the picnic table informing him of his new home. The tone in his voice and the expression on his face was one of total expectation. He had evidently sometime long since decided just how it was going to be and this change in plans did not at all meet with his approval. "They're a good family," said Sara, radiating gentleness, as she sought to soothe the little boy sitting across the table right there beside her son. " They're loving, kind, and very friendly. They have another little boy almost your age. You'll have your own bed; You'll be able to go to school and you 'll have someone to play with." Kahlid scooted closer to Chris, wrapping both his arms around his "brother's " right arm and held on tight. "Chris, tell them, I must go home with you to your house," he repeated with emphasis, looking up into the face of my best friend, fully expecting his instruction to be carried out. Chris, gently unwrapped himself from the increasingly confused little boy, stood up from the table, reached down and scooped up Kahlid in his arms and walked away toward the other end of the camp, not saying a word, as we watched the two disappear somewhere in the rows of tents. The truth is, since being informed two days ago by his mother of her success at last, Chris had barely said a word. He mostly just nodded and he kept his jaws set tight. I knew how he felt; I pretty much felt exactly the same way, the only difference being, I hadn't buried the love of my life in the near recent past as had my best friend. When the two came back, some long minutes later with Kahlid riding in the saddle, it was obvious both had been crying, though they made an effort to hide the evidence from us. Chris helped the boy to dismount and they both sat with us again at the picnic table. "Chris gave me a cell phone. I can call him anytime," said the very sad little boy, his eyes fixed on the table top, joined there with those of my friend. "Thank you Mrs. Sara for helping me to find a home," he said the words, but it was an effort. Chris didn't believe him, I didn't believe him and I' m fairly certain neither did either of Chris' parents. "But Chris is still my brother, even if I can't live with him," the boy said, still looking at the table. I could see Chris press his jaws together even tighter and I had to look away. Kahlid would spend one more night with us and then his new foster parents would come tomorrow morning to take him to his new home. Not a single member of our camp was anxious to leave but we had already delayed our departure three days past that scheduled, acquiescing to the consensus of just one more house, then one more, and another, finally forced to break camp after we had completed house number ninety-two and gained ten times that number of new friends. Many of these new friends had come out for our camp's farewell dinner earlier today and as the only remaining campers now left, Chris and I said our farewells to the circle of people still standing there at the landing zone. Kahlid had spent the day, mostly riding in the saddle, though, we'd been denied the pleasure of any of his smiles. When he did finally make his dismount, Chris bent down and our little prince wrapped his tiny arms around my friend's neck and held on for some time, gently sobbing into the blond boy's shoulder. We climbed into the helicopter and fastened our seatbelts without Chris once looking back at Kahlid, standing there in front of the crowd as our new friends waited to see us off. His new foster father stood just behind him, gently holding the boy's shoulders, one with each hand. Beside me, Chris, stared straight ahead, jaws clinched tight and I could see the strain in his eyes, even with only my side vantage. The aching I felt in my own chest and the tightness in my throat, I was sure, was likely magnified by some challenging degree for Chris, as he had been the one Kahlid had trusted most out of us all. To break that little boy's heart was something I was certain would create a pain I wasn't sure Chris could, for long, endure. As the pilot lifted off, I looked back out the window, watching the little boy standing there, holding his cell phone close to his chest, tears streaming down his cheeks and I too had to look away. "Chris?" I asked, seeing the strain in his face, holding back the flood threatening my own eyes. "It'll be all right," he gasp past the hurt, and I knew we needed some time, both of us, just to let the initial ache pass a bit before we could really talk about that or anything else for that matter. As the rotors whirled overhead and the pilot headed south for our rendezvous with the eastbound jet, I reached for Chris' hand and squeezed it tight. He clutched mine even tighter and as our summer building camp faded in the distance, we held on fast to each other, the pulse of our hearts pounding as one, as we shared the pain of our success.