The voice was soft and full of compassion, like a minister's might be. The man helped him to his feet and Stan lurched to the street and sat down on the curbstone. He tried to wipe away the blood with a tattered shirt sleeve but it still seemed to be running down his cheeks. Then he realized that he was crying. "Try this." He felt something pressed into his hands and wiped at his face with the handkerchief. "T-thanks." "Who were they, son?" "I don't know. I was just walking past the alley and they ... jumped me. I don't know why. Honest to God, Mister, I don't know why!" He felt close to crying again and shut up for a moment to try and control the convulsive heaving of his chest. Then he looked up at the man standing next to him. Black shoes, brand new. Neatly pressed gabardines. Tall and somewhat thin. Wearing a light, black topcoat like you might imagine a priest would wear. A tan hat, also brand new. Middle twenties, with the face of a saint. The face of a man you knew you could trust. "What's your name, son?" "Stan. Stanley Martin." He was still close to sobbing and the name came out with too many syllables. The man pondered for a moment and Stan thought he looked a little like a high-school principal trying to guess how bright a student might be. "We'll have to fix you up, Stan. Then we'll have to take you home." He helped Stan to his feet and guided him over to a black car a few yards down the street. Far away, there was the wail of a siren. "The cops," Stan said, hanging back. "I gotta tell the cops." "There'll be time enough for that later," the man said smoothly. There was the faintest suggestion of haste in his voice. "I oughtta wait," Stan mumbled, but the man pushed him gently into the car and Stan didn't argue. He lay down on the back seat, resting his throbbing head against the cushions and the side of the car. It was a big car, he thought vaguely. Like a rich man's sedan, with a glass partition between the driver and the passengers. He heard a hissing sound from somewhere and the world started to gray out. And then he suddenly wondered how he could be taken home if the man didn't know where he lived.... Just before he blacked out altogether, a voice said: "_I'm your friend, Stan. Say it to yourself and say it over and over. I'm your friend. I saved your life._" "You're my friend," Stan repeated dully, his mind slipping slowly into a pool of throbbing blackness. "You saved my life...." The last thing he saw was a quick glimpse of the city streets, the slowly rotting houses, and the bright splashes of green in the front lawns and the cottonwood trees. CHAPTER II His muscles were aching and sore and he felt sick to his stomach.