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           Thetrolley’schime!Thehisslikeascfountainspigotasitletdownandtookupitsstep,andstartingofthedreamagain,asonitsailedalongitsway,travelingahiddenandburiedtracktosomehiddenandburieddestination...

           Kick-the-canaftersupper?"askedCharlie.

           "Sure,"saidDouglas."Kick-the-can."

           ThefactsaboutJohnHuffagedtwelve.aresimpleandsoonstated.HecouldpathfindmoretrailsthananyChoctaworCherokeesincetimebegan,couldleapfromtheskylikeachimpanzeefromavine,couldliveunderwatertwominutesandslidefiftyyardsdownstreamfromwhereyoulastsawhim.Thebaseballsyoupitchedhimhehitintheappletrees,knockingdownharvests.Hecouldjumpsix-footorchardwalls,swingupbranchesfasterandcomedown,fatwithpeaches,quickerthananyoneelseinthegang.Heranlaughing.Hesateasy.Hewasnotabully.Hewaskind.Hishairwasdarkandcurlyandhisteethwerewhiteascream.Herememberedthewordstoallthecowboysongsandwouldteachyouifyouasked.Heknewthenamesofallthewildflowersandwhenthemoonwouldriseandsetandwhenthetidescameinorout.Hewas,infact,theonlygodlivinginthewholeofGreenTown,Illinois,duringthetwentiethcenturythatDouglasSpauldingknewof.

           AndrightnowheandDouglaswerehikingoutbeyondtownonanotherwarmandmarble-roundday,theskyblueblown-glassreachinghigh,thecreeksbrightwithmirrorwatersfanningoverwhitestones.Itwasadayasperfectastheflameofacandle.