Free Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls by Jane Lindskold

hand.
    Despite her tenderness, fear that I will lose all of this makes me shudder.
    â€œYou okay, Sarah?” she asks.
    â€œThere’s no place like Home,” I say, struggling for her to understand.
    â€œDon’t worry, Sarah. I won’t send you back unless you want to go.”
    Reassured, I drift off to sleep, hearing the Jungle settle in around me. My dreams are peaceful.
    When night comes, with amazement Betwixt and Between tell me that Head Wolf had spent the day perched in the Reaches near my head, unmoving, but ready to battle my demons should they trouble my sleep.
    That evening we go out into a night already dark, crisp, and cold. Christmas lights shine from windows and reflect off the ice and dirty snow that clumps in corners and potholes in the streets and walkways.
    Professor Isabella is late to meet us and when she does, she is uncommonly quiet. Finally, Abalone coaxes from her that she had been at the funeral of another street person, an older man who had frozen to death when the damp from the grate on which he typically slept so saturated his clothing that the faint heat was not enough to keep him from catching pneumonia.
    â€œThey buried him in a pauper’s grave—unmarked except for a code number in case anyone ever traces him and matches whoever he was to his file. Only a few of us came and…”
    She trails off.
    I reach and touch her arm. “Now with his love, so his colde grave, alone withouten any compaignye.”
    â€œYes, Sarah,” she says. “You do understand, don’t you?”
    As we hurry to When I Was Hungry, Abalone tells Professor Isabella about Peep’s rumor.
    â€œOdd,” she says when the report is finished. “I’ve heardnothing about this, yet I’m certain that at least two of the Tabaqui who are usually by the Station are from the Home. No one has come looking for them.”
    Troubled, Abalone starts to slow, but a cold gust of wind pushes her along. We talk little more until we are at the table in the steamy soup kitchen, seated a bit apart from the rest. Jerome has noticed our arrival, but it will be sometime before he can join us.
    I am wiping the extra cream sauce from Between’s jaw when Jerome comes over. He carries a coffeepot and seems relaxed.
    â€œEvening, folks,” he says. “Getting too cold these nights for man or beast, so we’re going to be staying open with hot coffee and tea and a space for those who’ll doss on the floor or tabletop. Pass the word to those who might need it.”
    Delicately, he does not speak as if we need this help. I wonder if he will ever learn that Abalone has been anonymously dropping the kitchen supplies—a case of coffee last time. Suddenly, it occurs to me that her generosity may be the reason that the place is staying open later and I feel good.
    â€œSpeaking of getting the word,” Abalone says, “we hear that the Home is taking back some of the nutcases they pitched out.”
    Jerome’s dark face creases. “I haven’t heard any of that, Abalone. Rumor runs the other way—that we may lose more bed space. Your source good?”
    â€œThought so, spoke as if worried for Sarah, like they’d make her go back.”
    Jerome pats my hand. “No, you’re safe, Sarah. Odd company you keep, but you do seem to be doing just fine. Not like some. I saw two of your old pals. Remember Francis and Ali?”
    I nod, wrinkling my nose in distaste.
    He laughs, but memory stills the laughter in his throat.
    â€œThey looked terrible. Ragged and filthy, hungry, sick. It tore me to send them on with just a meal.”
    â€œWere they here?” Abalone asks and I know she means to find them.
    â€œYes…No, wait!” Jerome looks puzzled. “It was at the Home—a week or so ago. I remember because I slid them both double portions of pancakes and we never do anything that fancy here. Sorry, one chow line runs into