"Hello," he calls. His voice is pleasant, too.

"Hello."

"You new in the neighborhood?"

"Yes."

"Welcome. I'm Dane." He smiles. Even from the street I can see the whiteness of his teeth.

"Hello," I say again.

I want to leave, but my feet seem stapled to the ground. He is bare-chested and his pajama bottoms hang dangerously low. He pulls them up and shrugs. Was I staring?

"I better go," he says. "Nice meeting you."

"Bye, Dane," I answer, and miraculously my feet are released and I continue on my walk.

When your life has had few events to occupy it, it's amazing how a simple encounter can seem like an entire three-act play. I replay it over and over in my head while I continue on my way to Mr. Bender's house. Dane. White house. White pajamas. White teeth. There was nothing frightening about it, except the way I was frozen on the street.

Persona

Finding his house is easy. Left. Left. Left. A ten-minute walk at most. He is surprised to see me but invites me in.

"Coffee?"

"I can't drink. I mean I don't drink coffee," I say.

Mr. Bender stirs cream into his. He offers me juice, milk, bagels, and muffins. I say no to them all. "I'm on a special diet," I tell him.

"Allergies?"

"No. Just special."

He nods. It is a nod that says, yes, I know. What does he know? He says there isn't a thing you can't find out about your neighbors on the Net. Has he found out something about me?

"Did you get your pictures of the pine serpent?" I ask.

"Yes. Dozens. I'm trying to choose the best ones to send to my agent."

"Did you get some pictures with the birds?"

"A few. But the few were fairly amazing. I got lucky."

"May I see them?"

"The pictures?"

"No. The birds."

Our footsteps make whooshing sounds on the rain-soaked ground. Puddles spot the pathway into the garden. With his long stride, Mr. Bender steps over them, but I step in them. "I don't know how many there'll be," he says, "with the storm and all."

All I want is one.

We sit on the log bench. He's right. There are not many. Only two, the rest still huddled away from the storm. But the two that come will land only on his hand.

After twenty minutes, he puts the birdseed away and we walk back to the house. He pours himself another cup of coffee and I shuffle through photos of the pine serpent.

"Don't worry about it, Jenna."

What makes him think I'm worried? And why should it matter so much that a small brown bird lands on my hand anyway? What makes him think I care?

"Some things take time," he says.

Too many things take time. I've lost so much time already. A year and a half might as well be a lifetime for me. "I don't have time to spare," I tell him.

He laughs. "Sure you do. You're only seventeen. You have lots of time."

I set the pictures in my hand down on the table.

I never told him I was seventeen.

"Where did you find that out, Mr. Bender?" I ask. "On the Net? Am I one of the neighbors that you find things out about?"

He refills his coffee mug. "Yes." He's not apologetic.

"You're not embarrassed about your snooping?"

"It's not snooping. I need to know about my neighbors."

Maybe so. Maybe I do, too. "Then I have a confession to. make," I tell him. "You're not the only snoop. I did some checking, and I found out a few things about you, too."

"Oh?" His brows arch, and he sits down opposite me.

"Have you had surgery, Mr. Bender? Or maybe you simply have excellent genes?"

"Meaning?"

"You look like you're about forty-five. Fifty at most."

He doesn't reply.

"But Clayton Bender the artist was born eighty-four years ago. You either hold your age really well, or — ?"

"You expect me to fill that one in?"

"No. I've already figured out you can't be him. No one's genes are that good. I just don't know who you really are. A serial killer, maybe?"

He smiles. "You've got quite an imagination. Nothing that dramatic, I'm afraid." He takes a long sip from his mug. "But still serious enough it needs to remain a secret. Only a few people know. My agent, for one. He helps build the quirky-artist persona to keep people away. You're right. I'm not Clayton Bender, but I took his name almost thirty years ago."

"Your own name wasn't good enough?"

"The name, yes. But the life that went with it, no."

"Where's the real Mr. Bender?"

"He passed away."

"Did you kill him?"

He laughs. "No, Jenna, I promise you his passing was quite natural."

"How did you meet him?"

He stands and walks over to the kitchen sink, pouring the rest of his coffee out. "I ran away when I was sixteen. I had no other options." He turns back to face me. "I got mixed up with some people who could do me some serious harm. A friend gave me some money and his car, and I ended up on the other side of the country on Bender's doorstep. He was a loner out in the desert and needed a worker, so I helped him out and he helped me, no questions asked. I stayed with him for three years."

"He was an artist then?"