Well, well, well, who's this, you say?

You really thought I was gonna let Harry get away with his story even where it concerned me, huh?

No way!

He may be the writer of this story, fictionalized just that little and plenty riveting, I admit. But where it's my arc to cover, I will take the reins, thank you, and watch Harry wait on the authorial sidelines.

My name is Brian Lutwidge Dodgson, a fourth generation German American, born to a dealer of heavy vehicles with a drinking problem barely under control and a lady secretary at a real estate agency in Greenwood, Arkansas. During my growing years, I would never find proper food on the table. Instead, we would have stiffly cooked chicken pieces and dry, smelly beans from cans that had been on the shelf for months.

To cut the trash short, my parents were not really interested in wasting their time over a so-called son born with deformed legs. Their jobs were barely there, and the insurers wouldn't cover the costs for prompt treatment. Even though I learned to do everything by myself pretty fast, they always resented having to get me a caretaker in my early years. I hated the snotty Mrs. Driscoll too who was always whining over the fact that she had to take such lowly jobs since her husband wouldn't spare the money for a college course so she could actually do something useful in life.

Later, my parents didn't like my constant demand for pocket money so I could buy me some books at Patty's waste shop or could assemble models of planes and trains and high-rises. When the going got tougher, my father turned attention to business deals which did not involve the extra burden of a handicapped liability sitting at home.

So, they concocted an oily-tongued vacation that I totally fell for, and after a few sightseeing and business stops along the way, they dropped me by an obscure lake in Florida with a lunch bag and a blanket. I had gone to sleep dreaming of the upcoming promised stop in Orlando ...

They didn't even leave me my wheelchair, guys. I'm sure they sold it on their way back to recover a few gallons of gas. Guess, I shouldn't have fallen for Disneyland.

But you know what happened next. I struck gold with Harry.

So today, we're visiting the Medusa Hope Center in Rockwell City, or as they sometimes call it, The New City Centre. It's east from where we live, beyond the Miromar Outlets, into that recovered swamps area. We are going for another try to get my legs some attention.

I've been there with Harry a few times before without fruit. Every time they run us around in circles from this booth to that cabin to no avail. Once they even sent Harry to the big city to lawyer up for me. But the attorney office sent Harry right back to another hope center to get a sponsor first.

Harry has lost his temper a few times in trying to get me an examination or to get the ball rolling on some form of official guardianship. He internalizes his reactions so well, but I can see it in the whitening of the skin around his eyes and the way he bites and releases his lower lip in an on-off fashion. Virtual smoke comes out of his ears then, but the guy knows how to keep the lid tight.

Except today at soup-time, of course. Wow, that must have been hilarious. But I'm getting ahead of the narrative.

So we ride a train to Rockwell. Where we get off, there's a stretch of long lonely trails behind two gated communities that Harry calls 'last vestiges of an old affluence'. It's the shortest walk to Medusa.

I have my book out and I'm lost in it, so it's only with surprise I notice that Harry has stopped pushing and is now standing by the homeless row across the street snapping pictures.

The people of this row are supposed to be Harry's face friends - the ones you don't necessarily remember the names of. The first time we were here, Harry shared a few hi and hellos with them and some quick banter from across the street with a few before making the turn. Last time, we crossed over to their side and shared around a box of Girl Scouts cookies Harry had bought from Rohaina, Jaffer's sister.

This time … they all seem to be dozing in the hot sun, only creepily so.

My curiosity meter is clicking so I furiously roll the wheels of my chair to reach Harry. The sight calls to mind some random recent thing I heard but I can't think of what it is.

How strong is the heat that they've just slumped off loosely, their heads hanging, the limbs of one splayed about in awkward fashion?

It's not a good sight. They look like sleeping zombies clocked out in unusual poses except their flesh is not rotting … yet.

Harry is snapping pictures like he's done this all his life. That's when I remember. I saw Roxie uploading similar pics to the Homeless Tracker in the morning while she was cooking the infamous soup.

What's going on?

Harry gets back to me and hurries me to the shade of a tan-bricked building where we are supposed to turn to reach Jaywalker Circle. Before I can speak, he too stops to upload the pics to Homeless Tracker using a General Access Portal painted on the side of the building.

These homeless kids and their beating hearts. I am struck by this curious similarity between Roxie's and Harry's actions. Where's the plot headed, I wonder?

I know Harry won't say a word now but I will have plenty of time to be a pain in the ass about this row thing before bedtime. I have a feeling Roxie won't sleep again at the motel tonight.

So I go back to my copy of The Weasley Brothers' Misventures. Harry will no doubt wrangle over the next half-hour with the charity organization's crew and I settle in for another chapter of frivolity while he sweats.

I'm deeply lost in the latest prank orchestrated by the Weasleys on an unsuspecting Muggle family when a kerfuffle close to me rudely interrupts.

I find my chair parked inside the gates of the Medusa centre. A rough looking Arab security guard is pushing Harry out the gate, who's yelling to let him grab my chair first. Suddenly, I find myself being pushed out through the gates right at Harry's heels. Harry straightens up his shirt and his dignity and gracefully navigates me away from the curious crowd outside eyeballing us.

I feel how tense Harry's body and limbs are in the rigid way he walks my chair, straight ahead then a sharp mechanical turn.

I've lost my reading bug now.

"What happened, Harry? Tell me!"

He takes a deep breath and drives my chair up the curb. He pushes the lock and sits down on the cement tiles beside me.

"I tried calling your parents today," he says while examining a speck on his shoe.

"Why? You shouldn't have!"

"They only need to sign, Bri. I send them the papers, they sign, it's over."

"Did he talk to you? What did he say?" I meant my father. My mother is a useless stuck-up chain-smoker who was only gonna hand the phone to Dad if she bothered to pick up.

"No one ever picks up." Harry is looking at me now, eyes squinting in the sun. "I dialled early morning from a payphone at the junction. Gosh, it wasn't even 7am yet. When does your father get up? He's not Dracula, right?"

"Who knows at this point?" I had intended that to be sarcastic but it came out a little bit sad. "He's usually too hungover to get up before nine; I know that. Maybe they moved."

"This was the new number, Bri. Remember, I tracked their new address down a few weeks ago?" Harry has gotten up and is pushing me again.

"Maybe it's a wrong address. They moved somewhere else but shared a different number so no one can track them!" I feel excited at how clever I am!

"That may be the case ..." Harry agrees.

"Probably, they believe you're police bent on catching their asses, you know? For their crime?"

"Did I hear you use the a-word, Bri?"

"You didn't tell me what the Center people said." I hope he'll let pass my a-word slip.

"They threatened me, Bri. If I return one more time with you without proof of relation, they're gonna have me arrested and force you into that orphanage."

"No way. I'm not going there!" From what I'd heard of the Estero Village Orphanage from Jaffer and other friends, I was a thousand times lucky being with Harry. "Why the hell do police always arrest the wrong kind of people? They never have any idea of what's really going on!"

Ignoring my social commentary, Harry says thoughtfully: "I'll probably have to get in touch with WonderGurl. I didn't want to accept Lena's offer but, I guess, we have no choice …"

"That glitter-splattered girl?" I ask skeptically. Harry once showed me that girl's picture as someone in his office he liked. But I like Roxie better and I tell him so.

"We'll see. Don't become too attached to Roxie. I don't like her."

"I do! She cooks great. The soup she made today--"

Harry stops and moves a few steps away, one hand still on a handlebar of my chair to keep it steady. He's turned away from me, his other hand rubbing his forehead. He doesn't seem angry or anything, so I've no idea what's up. I'll find out about the soup thing later at night.

In a few seconds, he turns back, looking a bit sheepish.

"Sorry for that. I'm having headaches today. Can we get going?”

We get going but we stop once more at the turn. One of the homeless members of this row is no longer there. A few others have moved. One of them gets up before our eyes and yells hi to Harry as he walks briskly in the same direction as we turn, toward the bus stop.

Things don't look as unusual now as they looked a while ago. And yet Harry is not ready to let go of this as I'll discover when he comes back from the theater tonight.

***

A last note before I let Harry take the metaphorical pen away.

This one-way communication was nice and all with you guys. While I can't predict when I'll be able to use this opportunity again, even though I'll be constantly eating Harry's brain about it, I'm leaving you a gift.

Go on, read on.

[Disclaimer: I don't own this stuff but it might turn out to be a part of the bigger puzzle. So, enjoy and, if possible, decipher.]

The Fables of Saki and Elliott

Once upon a time, in a land of mischief, there lived a child who, through sheer force of will, could evolve into a rabbit.

All day the rabbit was content in following around the female bird of paradise who lived on a beech tree of the same garden he fed in. The bird would sing tales of faraway lands, fables of other savage creatures who were controllers of the garden, songs of unspoken pleasures, deluding happiness, and irrevocable dreams.

He could not make heads nor tails of all the bird chirped and yet he listened, taken with the rise and fall of her voice, with the cadence of her tongue, and with the melody she weaved, more powerful than the scents surrounding him, coming from the exotic fruits the garden birthed.

Other rabbits made fun of him and called him names. Even when he went to cavort and run through the burrows and playfully fight for the bok choy bulbs, they taunted him and called him a dreamhead.

When they saw him sitting amidst the roots of the beech, paws tucked in underneath, neck craned upwards, towards the high branches where the bird piped her tunes, they told him: One day his neck would turn so stiff, it would simply fall off should he try to move it.

But he would be too lost in the flickers of light her singing wove around his senses. He felt transported to a different world, away from the wrath of the roaring lion or from the haunting jibes of the haughty peahen who sometimes strode into the garden demanding every being to bow to her.

One day, his bubble of serenity was burst. He hopped onto his legs and jumped around. What had happened?

The bird's singing voice had changed into a cry of pain. Her voice stopped and the eerie silence was followed by feathers falling softly on the ground, resplendent in their azure and vermillion hues. As he went to examine them, a drop of blood fell on his paw. He looked upwards and heard soft aching moans as the bird withdrew from view into the denser, leafier branches.

He sensed she wouldn't appear again until the pain left her heart.

Angry, he ran around and spotted his friend rabbits prancing with more energy than usual. Under the raspberry bushes in a corner of the garden, he found a sling. A small hole had been hastily dug in the soft, dark soil to hide it. He knew what had happened.

He gathered all the small stones he could find littered under the bush and crept to a part of the garden where the other bunnies were playing. Out of their view, he climbed an almond tree and settled with the sling and pebbles at a branch where he could aim at all of them with ease.

They squealed at the sudden pelting. The tiny, sharp stones stung and pierced. There was chaos but the bunnies also stood their ground in their will to find the perpetrator, as the stone shower soon dwindled to nothing.

But before they could look at the right branch he jumped with a howl, his claws strung tight, and began to paw them blindly. He never aimed at any of them. He just wanted them to see and fear. They did. In seconds, they were all gone.

He picked up the pebbles and buried them in the hole where he'd found the sling. The sling he took to a far corner of the garden he knew the bunnies never ventured to as a dingo lurked close by and could pounce at any moment.

His heart beating fast, he dug as fast and as deep as he could, the deep recesses under his nails filling with crinkly dirt, scratching his sensitive skin.

He buried the sling deep and hurriedly packed the dirt back in. He got out just as the thick hawthorn leafage behind him rustled and the dingo jumped.

But he was gone, far too nimble and a real climber, for the murderous dog's pursuit to be of any success.

As he reentered his side of the garden, he noticed the peahen, her neck held high in cocky self-love, looking his way with a condescending smile.

But he didn't care. He was determined to wait out the healing of the Bird of Paradise and have a wreath of golden daffodils ready for her on the highest branches of the beech he dared climb for her welcome.

So he nestled between the sturdy roots as usual and found his warm spot.

He would bide his time.