Gone for Good Read Online Free PDF Page B

soil themselves. They often cannot find rest-room facilities. Enough said.
    Still sitting in the van, I wondered how to approach this. "Let me ask you a question."
    He waited.
    "You've never given me your take on what happened to my brother," I said.
    "That a question?"
    "More an observation. Here's the question: How come?"
    "How come I never gave you my take on your brother?"
    "Yes."
    Squares shrugged. "You never asked."
    "We talked about it a lot."
    Squares shrugged again.
    "Okay, I'm asking now," I said. "Did you think he's alive?"
    "Always."
    Just like that. "So all those talks we had, all those times I made convincing arguments to the contrary…"
    "I wondered who you were trying to convince, me or you."
    "You never bought my arguments?"
    "Nope," Squares said. "Never."
    "But you never argued with me either."
    Squares took a deep drag on the cigarette. "Your delusion seemed harmless."
    "Ignorance is bliss, eh?"
    "Most of the time, yeah."
    "But I made some valid points," I said.
    "You say so."
    "You don't think so?"
    "I don't think so," Squares said. "You thought your bro didn't have the resources to hide, but you don't need resources. Look at the runaways we meet every day. If one of them really wanted to disappear, presto, they'd be gone."
    "There isn't an international manhunt for any of them."
    "International manhunt," Squares said with something close to disgust. "You think every cop in the world wakes up wondering about your brother?"
    He had a point especially now that I realized he may have gotten financial help from my mother. "He wouldn't kill anyone."
    "Bullshit," Squares said.
    "You don't know him."
    "We're friends, right?"
    "Right."
    "You believe that one day I used to burn crosses and shout' Heil Hitler'?"
    "That's different."
    "No, it's not." We stepped out of the van. "You asked me once why I didn't get rid of the tattoo altogether, remember?"
    I nodded. "And you told me to fuck off."
    "Right. But the fact is, I could have removed it by laser or done a more elaborate cover-up. But I keep it because it reminds me."
    "Of what? The past?"
    Squares flashed the yellows. "Of potential," he said.
    "I don't know what that means."
    "Because you're hopeless."
    "My brother would never rape and murder an innocent woman."
    "Some yoga schools teach mantras," Squares said. "But repeating something over and over does not make it true."
    "You're pretty deep today," I said.
    "And you're acting like an asshole." He stubbed out the cigarette. "You going to tell me why you've had this change of heart?"
    We were near the entrance.
    "In my office," I said.
    We hushed as we entered the shelter. People expect a dump, but our shelter is anything but. Our philosophy is that this should be a place you'd want your own kids to stay if they were in trouble. That comment stuns donors at first like most charities, this one seems very removed from them but it also strikes them where they live.
    Squares and I were silent now, because when we are in our house, all our focus, all our concentration, is aimed at the kids. They deserve nothing less. For once in their often sad lives, they are what matters most. Always. We greet each kid like and pardon the way I phrase this a long-lost brother. We listen. We never hurry. We shake hands and hug. We look them in the eye. We never look over their shoulder. We stop and face them full. If you try to fake it, these kids will pick it up in a second. They have excellent bullshit-o-meters. We love them hard in here, totally and without conditions. Every day we do that. Or we just go home. It doesn't mean that we are always successful. Or even successful most of the time. We lose a lot more than we save. They get sucked back down into the streets. But while here, in our house, they will stay in comfort. While here, they will be loved.
    When we entered my office, two people one woman, one man were waiting for us. Squares stopped short. He lifted his nostrils and sniffed the air, hound-dog style.
    "Cops," he