Free Sleepside: The Collected Fantasies by Greg Bear

storm he found a dummy inside it, wrapped in old blankets and dressed in cast-off clothing. Made out of straw and old sheets, he said.”
    â€œOh.” He saw the lump of rags in the lightning and shivered.
    â€œDo you think Richie made it?”
    He shook his head, too tired to think.
    Sunday morning, as they came awake, they heard Richie playing outside. “You’ve got to ask about the kittens,” Karen said. Thomas agreed reluctantly and put his clothes on.
    The storm had passed in the night, having scrubbed a clear sky for the morning. He found Richie talking to the Sheriff and greeted Varmanian with a wave and a yawned “Hello.”
    â€œSheriff wants to know if we saw Mr. Jones yesterday,” Richie said. Mr. Jones—named after Davy Jones—was an old beachcomber frequently seen waving a metal detector around the cove. His bag was always filled with metal junk of little interest to anybody but him.
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” Thomas said. “Gone?”
    â€œNot hard to guess, is it?” Varmanian said grimly. “I’m starting to think we ought to have a police guard out here.”
    â€œMight be an idea.” Thomas waited for the sheriff to leave before asking the boy about the kittens. Richie became huffy, as if imitating some child in a television commercial. “I gave them back to Julie,” he said. “I didn’t take them anywhere. She’s got them now
    â€œRichie, this was just yesterday. I don’t see how you could have returned them already.”
    â€œYou don’t trust me, do you, Mr. Harker?” Richie asked. The boy’s face turned as cold as sea-water, as hard as the rocks in the cove.
    â€œI just don’t think you’re telling the truth.”
    â€œThanks for the roof last night,” Richie said softly. “I’ve got to go now.” Thomas thought briefly about following after him, but there was nothing he could do. He considered calling Varmanian’s office and telling him Richie had no legal guardian, but it didn’t seem the right time.
    Karen was angry with him for not being more decisive. “That boy needs someone to protect him! It’s our duty to find out who the real parents are and tell the sheriff he’s neglected.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s the problem,” Thomas said. He frowned, trying to put things together. More was going on than was apparent.
    â€œBut he would have spent the night in the rain if you hadn’t brought him here.”
    â€œHe had that shed to go back to. He’s been using the rags we gave him for—”
    â€œThat shed is cold and damp and no place for a small boy!” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “What are you trying to say, under all your evasions?”
    â€œI have a feeling Richie can take care of himself.”
    â€œBut he’s a small boy, Tom.”
    â€œYou’re pinning a label on him without thinking how... without looking at how he can take care of himself, what he can do. But okay, I tell Varmanian about him and the boy gets picked up and returned to his parents—”
    â€œWhat if he doesn’t have any? He told Mrs. Hammond we were his parents.”
    â€œHe’s got to have parents somewhere, or legal guardians! Orphans just don’t have the run of the town without somebody finding out. Say Varmanian turns him back to his parents—what kind of parents would make a small boy, as you call him, want to run away?”
    Karen folded her arms and said nothing.
    â€œNot very good to turn him back then, hm? What we should do is tell Varmanian to notify the parents, if any, if they haven’t skipped town or something, that we’re going to keep Richie here until they show up to claim him. I think Al would go along with that. If they don’t show, we can contest their right to Richie and start proceedings to adopt him.”
    â€œIt’s not that