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my binocs and keep walking. I see a red-winged blackbird pecking dried-out blueberries offa bush. I see some fishing line wrapped around a cattail. I see a seagull standing so still by the edge of the water it looks like a windup toy that needs to be wound up. I check out the sky, and it’s still daytime blue with no purple dusk swirled in. I check out the seagull, and it still needs winding. Up, blue sky. Down, stuck seagull. Blue sky. Stuck seagull. Blue sky. Stuck seagull. My careful observing makes me dizzy. I let the binocs dangle from the strap around my neck and just look with my eyes. And then I see him. A little man in a lumpy green jacket, sitting right in my perfect spot. His back’s against my tree.
    Without my binocs, I can only tell what he isn’t. He isn’t a fisherman, because he doesn’t have buckets and boxes. He isn’t a landscape painter, because he doesn’t have an easel. He isn’t a hippie singer, because he doesn’t have a guitar.
    With my binocs, he’s a she. She’s rubbing her face, and her hands are wrinkly and her hair is snarly and dried-out and really needs conditioner. Mom thinks conditioner is an unnecessary expense, but Dad says that she’s being overly influenced by the deprivation in her past and he would like his daughters to be freed up from that pain, which means that my hair is extra soft and shiny and smells like coconuts right after I’ve showered. The lady’s jacket is too big, and she’s kind of snuggled down inside it. Her eyes are closed, but she’s thinking, not sleeping. I can tell by the way her mouth twitches and her forehead isall scrunched up. She doesn’t look upset, but she doesn’t look peaceful, either. I guess she looks like she’s trying to figure something out.
    She’s got half a sandwich sitting on top of a plastic bag on the ground next to her. She must not be from around here, or she’d know that if you leave a sandwich out, the black ants call a party. Maybe her family all died and now she’s wandering around the country trying to find a new home with decent people who will love her. Or maybe she’s the one who’s sick and she ran away so that she wouldn’t be a burden to her family.
    I could sneak out food and blankets to her and help her make a home in the woods out of branches woven together with dune grass. Sometimes in the summer Rachel and I sleep outside in the woods or in the sand at the edge of the salt marsh, and if you remember that the crunchy night sounds are just chipmunks and birds, it’s really peaceful. I could let the lady stay in our toolshed with the snow shovels and flowerpots when it gets too cold. I’ll lend her my sleeping bag and old copies of
National Geographic
so she won’t feel too lonely at night, and I’ll bring her hot soup in a thermos when it snows. Mom’s been teaching me how to make soup, and so far I can make mushroom barley by myself, which is a good winter soup. The lady probably isn’t Jewish, but if she is, I’ll show her how to make a menorah by poking holes in a raw potato and sticking the candles in, so that shecan keep her tradition alive and feel connected to her ancestors. Dad says that it’s important for people to feel connected to where they’ve come from and to understand their past so they can make sense of their present, which is what his work as a psychiatrist is all about.
    Now the lady’s standing up and waving a stick so I’m sure to see her.
    “Hello!” I shout, waving back. Maybe she got disoriented in the sun and needs me to give her directions out to Route 6. Before she goes, I could let her borrow my binocs so she can check out the birds.
    I start walking toward her. She’s waving the stick harder.
    “I’m coming!” I yell. “I’ll be right there.”
    She’s waving her other hand above her head, too. She must be in some kind of a hurry.
    Like a speed walker, I take long steps and swing my arms until I’m right in front of her.
    “Hi,” I say, nice and gentle,