sy to come by.

His father, raised in the depression and caught up in World War II, had
stayed in the army. "Never underestimate the importance of a good
billet," he had told Patrick more than once, an edict laid on him by
Sergeant Donald, a mythic presence from the days before Officer
Candidate School. Patrick's father never tired of quoting Sergeant
Donald as they moved from base to base.

His parents were patient and generally good humored about military
life. They escaped into books. When Patrick announced that he was
dropping out, his father seemed to think it was fine. "Don't burn any
bridges, Pat. You can go back to school later, if you want. Or come
work with me." His father was about to retire from the Army and was
planning to settle in Florida and work for himself as a handyman. When
his father wasn't reading, he enjoyed fixing things; he looked forward
to becoming a sort of anti-hero--Major O'Shaunessy to the rescue, the
tools, the truck, the little boxes of washers and screws and finishing
nails, the retirement checks punctually in the mail.

Patrick's mother fussed about Patrick's eating habits, but she wasn't
really worried. Patrick's sister, Molly, had earned a commercial
pilot's license before she settled down in Atlanta to teach English,
married to a hard working good old boy. Patrick, his mother felt, would
find his own way if he ate right and got enough sleep. Both parents
suggested books for his reading list.

Patrick was well along in the list. When he finished books, he mailed
them to Molly for safekeeping. Building the library, he would tell
himself as he doled out postage money. Another few days and he would
send the Darwin.

He was still looking at the blonde. She smiled slightly, and he said,
"I'm Patrick."

"Amber," she said. "This is my friend, Willow." Patrick nodded at them
both and moved a step closer.

"I like this place," he said.

"First time in the Depresso?"

Patrick laughed. "Is that what you call it?"

"That's what everybody calls it," Amber said. "How long have you been
in town?"

"About four hours."

Amber touched Willow's arm. "We're old timers."

"We've been here a month," Willow said in a low voice. There was a
brief drop in the noise level as the piano player crossed the room with
quick steps and went out the door. "There he goes," Amber said.

"Who's he?" asked Patrick.

"Dylan. He's Willow's hero."

"Dylan?"

"Bob Dylan," Willow said.

"No shit," Pa