Free Memories of You by Margot Dalton Page A

“I’ll bet it’s really beautiful. Where does she live?”
    But the twins were losing interest in the conversation. Ari slid down from his chair and headed for the door, followed closely by Amy.
    “Hurry up, Daddy,” he said impatiently.
    “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Jon got up and smiled his thanks to Margaret, strolled to the back entry and put on his hat.
    “Pay attention to Margaret while I’m gone,” he told Vanessa, opening the kitchen door and starting outside. “And remind Steve that he still has a one o’clock curfew on weekends, and there’ll be some serious discussions between us if he doesn’t keep it.”
    “I’ll tell him,” Vanessa promised. “Have a good time, Daddy.”
    “Say hi to Tom,” Margaret called. “Tell him he’d better propose to Caroline before some other cowboy grabs her.”
    Jon smiled again at their laughter. He left the house, enjoying the mellow autumn sunlight, and strolled across the yard toward the hangar, where the twins were already waiting near the plane.
    I T WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT and the autumn air was getting chilly. Camilla pulled an old cardigan tighter around her shoulders and blew on her fingers to keep them warm. She was inside one of the main-floor rooms of a derelict apartment containing little more than a scarred wooden desk, a rickety file cabinet anda few cardboard boxes full of donated coats and blankets, as well as some emergency medical supplies.
    The street kids referred to this room as an “office,” but Camilla and the other volunteers were constantly frustrated by their lack of work space, to say nothing of the money and supplies necessary to provide any kind of worthwhile help to the city’s booming population of homeless youth.
    A ragged boy popped his head into the room, grinning widely, showing a couple of missing teeth. He was accompanied by a thin girl with hair cropped short and dyed a shocking shade of red. The girl was very pale, whimpering and hugging herself as she swayed on her feet.
    “Hey, Queen,” the boy said to Camilla. “How ya’ doin’?”
    “Queen” was Camilla’s street name, given apparently because of her regal bearing. Street kids shunned the use of given names or titles of any kind, preferring to reduce everyone in their world to a single level. They knew little about the everyday lives or backgrounds of the volunteers who helped them, and didn’t care. Nothing really mattered to them except the harsh realities of their own lives. They’d tagged Camilla with the name at once, and in the beginning it hadn’t been particularly friendly.
    But now, after more than five years of volunteering at the hostel almost every weekend, Camilla was a favorite with the kids. She never pried, never acted judgmental or disapproving. Instead, she listened quietly, sympathized and helped whenever she could.
    “I’m doing fine,” she told the boy. “Who’s your friend?”
    He put his arm around the girl to support her more firmly. “This is Rosie. She’s not feeling too good. Ate something that made her sick. But Queen, there’s real bad stuff on the streets tonight. So you’ll be seeing some kids sick from bad drugs.”
    Camilla looked up, suddenly alert. “What kind of stuff? Where’s it coming from?”
    “Dunno. But people are going down all over. It’s a bad scene.”
    Camilla sighed and looked at the papers on her desk, knowing she’d probably have a busy night.
    “Tell the kids I’m here if anybody needs help. Shouldn’t Rosie see a doctor?”
    “Are you kidding?” he asked in disbelief. “A doctor?”
    Camilla rummaged in her pocket and handed ten dollars to the boy. “Well, see if you can get her to at least drink something. Or maybe get her some clear soup, okay?”
    The boy pocketed the bills gratefully and made his way back onto the sidewalk, supporting his woozy friend. Camilla watched them through the cracked window, then returned with an angry frown to the stack of English papers she was