Shielding my face from the light, I tried to make my voice calm. I hoped my homesick tears were hidden, that my cheeks wouldn't glisten in the light. I wanted very badly for him not to see I had been crying. "Yes?" "I'll have to know why you're out on the streets at this time of the morning," the proctor said. "There's a curfew, you know. Unless you can show cause...." Oh God; I had completely forgotten the city's curfew! "I--I'm sorry, Officer. I'm new to the city and I didn't realize...." "You're transient? Where are you staying?" "The Statler Dormitory for Women," I answered meekly. "And why are you out at this hour, so far from the dorm? That's down near 34th Street, almost thirty blocks south." "I know. I couldn't sleep--" His eyes narrowed at that; had I made a mistake? I plunged on: "--and I wanted to see Central Park. I didn't realize there was any harm...." "I guess not this time, Miss, but you'd better get back to your dorm. Take this pass." He scribbled a few words on a pad and then detached a slip of green paper for me. "You can take a train down to 34th Street. Now." "I'd just as soon walk, sir." He stared at me for a moment and then I turned and started for the nearest subway entrance. It had been horrible, those first few days in the Dorm. I'd never dreamed that a sane society could be so ... not cruel, but _unthinking_. Back home in Woodstock we were all supposed to be sane too, but neither Father nor Mother had ever forced any rigid rules on me. They had let me roam the woods, scuffing the dry leaves in autumn, drinking water from the creeks in my cupped hands. They hadn't objected when I was gone for hours. Usually I was just sitting on a log and staring into the sky, and what harm was there in that? They had encouraged my painting. "It's supposed to be a sign of escapism," Dad said, "but there are a lot worse ways of escaping." He made an easel for me, and I used tubes of house-paint tint-colors and stretched canvas and burlap over frames Dad made. He even gave me a book of reproductions of the Old Masters that he'd saved. Life in Woodstock had been pleasant for me, I realized now, even if it had often seemed lonely. I couldn't have told the proctor that I'd really woken up from a dream about Bob before I'd gone out walking. I'd seen Bob's face so clearly, standing in the night, unable to say anything to me. Suddenly it had seemed that my voice was stopped too, and I'd woken up gasping.... I boarded a local train, not caring that an express would be much faster, and began the trip back to my cubicle at the Statler Dorm. If only they hadn't taken my parents.... * * * * * I had succeeded in setting up a makeshift easel in my room at the Dorm, and was working on a painting, wearing some of Dad's old clothes, when the proctors broke in. One of them pointed a small indicator at me, glanced at it and nodded.