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I looked at her face, which was still devoid of emotion. Becky would make a good poker player. "Sure," I answered. "Let me go get my hat."California's Central Valley is a miserable place to be in August. During my three-week stay in Wheaton, the lowest daytime high temperature we experienced was 94 degrees. That was a particularly cool day. The average was closer to 98 and there had been two days where the mercury had peaked at 104. I was from Seattle where the hottest summer day rarely got much above 80 degrees and though I'd been to Wheaton before it had always been around Christmas when the weather was pretty much the same as Seattle's. I had never experienced oppressive heat like that before. It sapped the strength right out of you, leaving you drained and headachy. Becky had found it necessary to teach me basic heat precautions when we began having our daily rides; knowledge that the valley residents apparently were taught from birth. I had been completely unaware that this sort. The empty neighborhood belonged to the old man and the old tom and the buzz of the warm electric wires. Silence surrounded the old man. The smell of many gardens filled his nose. He smiled. He rocked. He heard gravel crunching. He heard a whirl. He guessed a bicycle. He stopped rocking. He waited and he listened for the whirl of the wheels to pass, but he heard a skid. He heard the crash of the bicycle landing against the earth. Footsteps landed on his steps. He heard them."Go away," the old man said."I will not go away," a girl's voice said. "I came here to talk with you."He opened his eyes. She looked down at him. The sun had burned her to a deep brown and bleached her hair to a mix of dark and light. Her hair came to her shoulders. She wore no makeup. She hadn't the need. Her dark eyes needed no assistance to make them attractive. The girl sat next to the old man."I do not wish to talk with you. I do not wish to talk with anyone. I wish to be alone with myself and the sun." I came.
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