"The doctors said not, but what right did that boy have to play God and kill him? And how do any of us know that there won't be a new treatment or a new drug discovered, maybe next week or next month, that could have saved George? What justification can you have for a cold-blooded murderer like that?" Derwin looked down again at his hat and shifted his feet uncomfortably. The woman said, "George had a pension that supported us. But it stopped when he died. How am I going to live now? Who's going to support my children--or take care of them while I work?" There was still no emotion in the woman's voice, but tears which she disregarded ran down her cheeks. Derwin stood up. "I don't know," he said. "I was just wondering if what seems wrong to us might not seem right to him," he apologized. * * * * * The next morning Derwin stopped in at a store on Mahtomedi Avenue and bought a pair of trousers, a shirt, a set of underwear, and a pair of socks. Two doors down he stopped in at another store and bought a pair of shoes. He drove to the jail and shoved the clothing through the bars to the boy. "Here's something better for you to wear," he said and walked on to his office. The boy carried his bundle to the rear of the cell and began changing. He was buttoning his shirt when he glanced through the small barred window in the wall and saw Derwin crossing the street toward a corner lunch room. A flush of excitement appeared on his cheeks and he finished dressing hurriedly. Moving to the front of the cell he spread out his right hand and flexed the fingers several times. His face assumed an expression of deep abstraction. A faint haze began to waver along the edges of the hand, and its flesh appeared to move in small ripples. The boy pressed the hand against the door lock--and it passed through the metal. The lock gave a muted metallic click. The door swung open. The boy's hand returned to its normal appearance as he withdrew it, but it hung limp and pale. He massaged it vigorously as he stepped out into the jail corridor. He was careful not to let himself be seen when he left the jail. An hour later he had left White Bear Lake. When Derwin returned to the jail and found the boy gone he was not much surprised. He walked slowly to his office and picked up the phone. "Let me speak to the sheriff," he said.... "Gibbons?" ... "This is Derwin, out at White Bear Lake." ... "Fine." ... "The wild boy escaped about an hour ago. He's sprung his cell lock someway." ... "No, I don't know which way he went, but I figured he might head back to St. Paul." ... "O. K." ... "I wish you'd do me a favor. Ask your men--and the police--not to shoot him. I'm sure he won't resist when you arrest him." ... "I know." ... "I know." He sighed. "That's right. You have to do what you think best." He hung up. * * * * *