“A bakery that had a funny name,” spat the stranger, as if Charlie was making fun of him.
“Hey, bud, you should be glad I remembered that much. Now how ’bout you tell me your name?”
“That is none of your concern,” the stranger answered before slipping away. In a few seconds, he had disappeared around the corner.
The day after the stranger had shown up, the newsstand had a brand-new sign: NO SOLICITING.
Now Charlie thought about the boy again.
“Eh, it’s probably nothing,” he muttered, flipping the page in the newspaper. “Lousy New Yorkers.”
CHAPTER FIFTEENTHE MATHEMATICIAN
Adam had guessed the venomous M would return one day. Although he hadn’t seen the man in a while—and he continued to keep a close lookout each day, walking to school and back—he was certain they would cross paths again.
He was right.
It didn’t happen right away. The core of winter was approaching. Schools closed for Thanksgiving break, and the windows of department stores displayed their arrays of winter hats and wool jackets. Every few days, flurries of fat snowflakes filled the city streets, but they didn’t stay on the ground for long. The real snowstorms lurked in the distance, unformed clouds of ice and gloom yet to come.
The candles from Francine had long burned down. Uncle Henry bought new ones, so the Biscuit Basket stood aglow, a warm and welcoming break from the cold for passersby. However, the new candles lacked the distinctive style of Francine’s striped ones. What’s more, as the saying goes, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The bakeries two streets over had also adorned their windows with shining candles. The candy shop around the corner had started producing candle-shaped lollipops. Even the coffee shop took part, and went one step further by placing tiny candles on each of its tables and advertising “romantic candlelit tables for two—perfect for a coffee date!”
Uncle Henry was unfazed. They still had a decent number of customers. The baker offered winter specials on batches of cinnamon buns. “The best cure for a chilly day,” he claimed, “is a piping hot cinnamon bun straight from the oven.”
He was absolutely right. The cinnamon buns sold out each day.
On Thanksgiving Day, Uncle Henry closed the bakery to have a special meal. Amidst the store’s bright candles, he and Adam had baked potatoes, fruit salad, cranberry sauce, and one-third of a whole roasted chicken (the rest was saved for later). It was the best supper Adam had ever eaten. They counted their blessings and marveled how just over a month ago, they had almost been evicted because they’d been short on rent.
Later that night, Adam stopped by the Hole to drop off leftover baked potatoes and fruit salad. The shelter was having its own celebration. The aroma of beef stew embraced Adam when he walked in, and had he not been stuffed to the brim already, his mouth would have watered for a bite.
Victor was eating with a small group of people around a table piled with mashed potatoes, two baskets of bread, and bowls of hot stew. Extra lamps had been set up in the corners, brightening the room with a warm, sunny glow. Today, the inhabitants of the shelter no longer wore troubled expressions, but were laughing and chatting like good friends. Despite their misfortune, in that moment, they were happy. The cheerful sight held Adam in place.
When Victor saw Adam, the old man wheeled across the room to greet him. “Hello, fellow! Wonderful day, isn’t it?”
“The best.” Adam handed the leftovers to Victor. “I ate so much I might explode.”
“That’ll be me by the end of tonight. Who knew there are so many foods I’m thankful for?”
Adam watched Victor put the food on the table for the others. A few of the people clapped Victor on the back. Grinning toothlessly, Victor returned to Adam.
“Will you be staying?” he asked.
“No, it’s almost bedtime. But thank you.” Adam glanced at the group at the table and thought of Francine. “Can I ask you something, Victor?”
“Fire away.”
“I was just wondering…do these people here have families?”
“The sad truth is, no, not really. A lot of them don’t have families or friends to turn to in times of need. But that’s what this place is for. Here, we become sort of a temporary family for each other. Even if we don’t know everyone’s names.”
“What about you? You don’t have a real family either?”
Victor shook his head. “Not in the sense you mean.”
Adam suddenly realized in all these years, he had never asked Victor about his background. He had only heard the old man tell other people’s tales, but never his own, aside from the stories about his leg.
“What did you do before you came to the Hole?” Adam asked.
“Hm, interesting question.” The old man paused for a few moments. “The story of my past is long and full of twists and turns. It would take twelve months to recount it all.” He smiled and peered at Adam. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Adam had never been past the kitchen before. He followed Victor down a dim corridor, the sound of his footsteps and Victor’s wheels muffled against the frayed carpet. Victor paused in front of Door 6, and used his key to unlock the knob. Inside was a cramped room even smaller than Adam’s tiny bedroom. It contained only a simple bed and a plastic bin of clothing.
Despite the barren space, it was clear that Victor had tried to spruce it up to make it more homey. Along the tiny windowsill were tiny pieces of dried flowers, arranged by type and color. Pasted to the wall next to the bed were posters of galaxies and solar systems. To Adam’s surprise, textbooks sat against the opposite wall. He tilted his head to read the spines. They were heavy textbooks on
