There’s a man sleeping in the corner of your office,” the boy said.

“I know.”

“He’s Chinese,” the kid said. “You want to know how I know?”

“He looks Chinese,” I said.

“But he could be Japanese or Korean,” the kid said, looking at Victor Woo, who was lying faceup on his bedroll with his eyes closed.

“He’s not.”

“Pale skin, small eyes, and his…”

The boy was seventeen, a student at Pine View School for the Gifted. His name was Greg Legerman. He was short, nervous and unable to sit still or be quiet. Next to him sat a tall, thin boy with tousled white hair and rimless glasses. Winston Churchill Graeme, also seventeen, was tall, calm, and sat still, looking at whomever was talking.

“Am I right? Winn, am I right?” Greg said to his friend with a laugh as he punched the other boy in the arm, punched him hard.

Winn Graeme didn’t answer. Greg didn’t care.

“You’re moving,” Greg said.

“How could you tell?” I asked.

“The six cardboard boxes over there near the Chinese man.”

“I’m moving,” I said.

It had taken me less than an hour to pack. I lived in the adjacent room, a small office space, and I owned almost nothing. We were sitting in the reception room, which had a desk, three chairs, and four small paintings on the wall. That was it. My friend Ames McKinney would be by later to pick up the desk, the boxes, the TV with the built-in video player, and the knee-high bookcase.