The little boy looked up at Cy, shielding the sun from his eyes. It was mid-morning on a deserted beach on the western side of the Hawaiian island of Kauai, and the sun was already blazing. On this, Cy's first day in paradise, this strange little figure had approached him and fallen into stride with him. The little boy—who looked to be native Hawaiian or Filipino—reminded Cy of the gypsy children who roam the streets of Paris, appear out of nowhere and start talking to you, and the next thing you know you have no wallet in your pocket. But Cy suspected he was being paranoid, and possibly a racist bourgeois pig.

"Hi, Mister," the little boy said. He was wearing a ragged T-shirt, and cutoff faded-denim jeans.

"Hi," said Cy, somewhat suspiciously. "What's your name?" The boy seemed to Cy to be seven or eight years old.

"Ano," the boy volunteered.

Freedom's just another word... Cy, you are such an easy mark. This trip was supposed to be all about LETTING GO of obligations, remember? Independence? Freedom? This kid Ano has "BLACK HOLE OF NEED" written all over him! Don't be such a victim. (And we mean that in a beautiful, loving way.)

Warning: literary reference. There's a bit of Oliver Twist in the character of Ano ("Please sir, I want some more... poi?"), as well as shades of the Artful Dodger. He pulls at your heartstrings, you know... though he's got the sharp personality edges of a survivor. But hey, Charles Dickens -- the patron saint of the cyberseries -- this ain't.

"Hi, Ano," Cy said, shaking his tiny hand. The boy was painfully thin, and wiry. He was also extremely brown from the sun, and Cy, with his city pallor, envied him. Melanoma be damned.

"What are you doing?" the boy said. They continued to walk, and Ano evidently found it strange that Cy was picking up, and seemingly collecting, driftwood and fallen banyan twigs along the beach, as if collecting them for some purpose. "Oh, I don't know," Cy said absently. "Just walking."

In truth, Cy was just walking—he didn't know why he was picking up twigs—some primitive gathering instinct, maybe. It occurred to Cy that this was a weekday.

"Ano, shouldn't you be in school," he asked the boy, looking out to sea as he said it, barely able to feign interest.

"Oh, no," the boy said brightly. "We have off today."

Cy could immediately tell by the way he answered that Ano was lying, but what business was it of his that this little kid was playing hooky? Cy's parenting days were over.

"Do you live around here?" Cy asked, making conversation with the child.

As they walked, the tide was coming in and their feet were rhythmically swamped by salt water, slowing them down momentarily. Cy and Ano moved diagonally, farther up on the packed sand, away from the water, so that they could stroll more easily.

"Uh-huh. Me and my mom and my sister live way down there." He pointed straight down the beach, though Cy saw absolutely nothing but a grove of coconut palm trees in the distance.

"Where?" said Cy, scanning the horizon.

"There are some old plantation houses in those trees," the little boy said, suddenly sounding like a real estate agent. "Ours is the one closest to the ocean."

"It's just the three of you?" Cy asked, swatting a dragonfly away from his left leg. "Ouch," he said.

"Yeah," Ano responded. "I don't have a dad. It's just us."

"Does your Mom work?" Cy asked, genuinely wondering how a family with such resources could get by in absurdly expensive Hawaii.

"Yup, sometimes," Ano said. "Watch out. Jellyfish," the boy shouted, animatedly pointing down to the sand in front of Cy. Ano had saved Cy from a stinging blister—he'd been about to step on it. "Mom works up at the hotel during heavy season, cleaning rooms. But not lately."

"Oh," said Cy, wanting to change the subject. "You're lucky to live near the beach," he went on, now becoming somewhat suspicious of the child—and a little spooked by him. Cy had come here to be alone, and suddenly this urchin had attached himself to him. The boy made Cy think of his grandson, back in New Jersey—the child of his eldest daughter, from whom Cy had, sadly, been estranged for nearly eight years. Josh was his name. Cy had never even met Josh.

As they continued to walk, something caught Cy's vision out of the corner of his left eye. He turned and faced the ocean to see the World War II landing craft making its way across the channel. This was the vehicle that made the several-times-weekly trip from Port Allen, on Kauai's southern side, to the privately owned island of Ni'ihau. It was the only way to get to the "forbidden island," as it was melodramatically called—and you had to have permission to go there.

Cy watched the absurd vessel bob on the waves, its engine roaring, and he could see some native Hawaiians—who made up most of Ni'ihau's residents—standing on deck. They had bags of groceries, boxes of furniture and supplies, and one even had a goat on a leash. Cy waved, and two passengers waved back.

Cy then turned to ask Ano if he'd ever made it across the channel to Ni'ihau, but, as mysteriously and silently as he'd appeared, the boy had suddenly disappeared.

"All right, all right, I'll do what I can," Agnes Ramirez was saying, as she hung up.

Back at her reception desk at Hillyer, Jones, she was on the phone with a freelance producer hired by the agency to direct a Cummings Footwear commercial as part of pitching the account. It was the first time she'd ever known the agency to actually produce a commercial on spec.

The producer was asking for 12 identical pairs of Cummings Komfy-Step Aerobics Shoes—men's size 10, white—to be Fedexed to him on location in the Nevada desert. Everyone in the production department was either on assignment or not in the office, and the shoes had to be there tomorrow.

Agnes knew it was too late to call the client—she'd have to go out and buy them. As she took some money out of petty cash and headed out in search of neighborhood sporting-goods stores—she knew she'd have to go to several to find 12 identical pairs—she wondered for the umpteenth time if she really needed this job bad enough to put up with these headaches.

The towering fir trees were awesome, Bernadette observed, as she wandered down the pine-needle-carpeted path. It was only October, but it was freezing cold in Montana—she hadn't been prepared for this weather. The forecast even said snow. She was dressed in a ski sweater and leather gloves, but what she really needed was a parka.

It was the last day of her visit with Hollis, and they were taking one last hike around the property of his retreat before he drove her to the airport in Great Falls.

She'd walked ahead of Hollis down the path about 100 yards, and she turned around to see him coming up behind her.

"Hey, wait up," he laughed. "You're in better shape than I am."

That was an absurd statement, and meant to be funny. Nobody was in better shape than Hollis. But Bernadette didn't smile. Something was gnawing away at her, and she was afraid to admit to herself what it was: she didn't trust Hollis. She was feeling—not used, exactly—but somehow manipulated by him... and yet she couldn't say why.

Get back to where you belong. To the isle of Manhattan, that is. Please! This woman has never ventured farther west than the Donna Karan factory outlet in Secaucus, New Jersey -- and even THEN she suffered altitude sickness crossing the George Washington Bridge. Bernadette is out of her element in more ways than one.

The blunt fact was, she would soon know why. In his hiking boots, corduroy pants, and puffy down vest, Hollis could have stepped out of an L. L. Bean catalog, as he put his arm around Bernadette and they strolled down the path together, toward the cabin. "Bernie," he said, "I need to ask you something."

"Sure, Hollis," Bernadette said nervously, brushing the hair, with which the wind was playing havoc, out of her eyes.

"It's a big one," he said. "I don't know how to ask it."

Bernadette had a feeling she knew what was coming, and was praying to herself she was wrong.

"What is it?" she said casually.

"Bernie, I'm in trouble. Temporarily."

They stopped walking, and he leaned up against a tree. She faced him.

"What kind of trouble?" she asked, her stomach tightening.

"Money trouble."

She winced.

"I need your help," he said.