About to speak his name, he stopped, he did not have a name now, did not need one more importantly speaking his name would be a mistake.

"Just put James on the phone." He challenged his brother's assistant to recognize him and admit the recognition but she was silent.

"Jonathan, in God's name what are you doing?" James' voice was hushed.

"I have to see you, I need your help."

"That's impossible, you know..."

"James, please." He was surprised by his own pleading, amazed that he had to plead with his younger brother. "Meet me in the park, you know the place."

He was lying on the grass slope when James arrived. The broad area where they normally played touch football at lunch times was deserted. James sat down on the grass next to him but seemed reluctant to be close. He said nothing.

"You weren't in court." It was a statement but came out an accusation.

"Yes, I was, I came late as they were taking you down. I waved, you didn't see me."

"You heard the sentence?"

"Your attorney told me. He also gave me a copy of the conditions, and then we talked about the penalties. Do you know what they are, what happens to me and to you if I help you, if any one helps you?"

"Know, know? Of course I know!" He shouted at his brother, he raved. "I don't care, I spent last night in a doorway. Nobody lifts a finger, everyone ignores me, I'm a human fire hydrant, people just walk around me."

"If I'm caught helping you in any way, I'll be made destitute. Your sentence will be extended by two months. Every time someone is caught helping you, giving you money, shelter, clothing, anything the penalty is repeated."

"I can beg though and sleep in doorways for two years but you won't help me?"

"I can't help you, Jonathan, and you can't afford to let me help you."

He realized that the sun was setting only because it was growing cold. He had not noticed his brother leaving. Standing wearily he began to walk back to the zone. He found a doorway, it could have been the same one, he was not sure. The sun woke him again to cold, a dull ache and stiffness next morning. It was shadowed by a shape. When his eyes focused he saw an old woman, she was holding onto a shopping cart and laughing at him through discolored teeth. He heard her say 'fresh meat, fresh meat.' as he struggled to his feet.

He woke not knowing where he was but the feeling soon passed. Scrambling out of the box, he urinated against the wall. He rolled up his sleeping bag and blanket and stowed them out of sight behind a grill in the building. The cardboard box collapsed flat, it looked like it was just another piece of trash. He began walking to work. He did not look essentially any different now than he had last summer. But there were differences, most done with Rosie's help, but not enough to hide his 'sentenced' status. He wore a sweatshirt under his coat and thick socks under the boots. The socks had holes in them when Rosie first gave them to him but she had sowed them closed with a needle. He had never seen any one do that before. Rosie had many skills he had never dreamt of. His coat was not tied with string but had a wide belt with a large metal buckle. The string now held his sleeping bag. His hair was short and so was his beard, both had grown long over the late summer and early winter until he had been caught in the first cleansing round up. It was then he found out why the clothes he had been given had such a strange smell. They had the same smell now.

He had been patrolling his beat, were he alone could beg. The homeless had forced him away from the profitable areas and even Rosie could do nothing about his isolation. He stood in the shadow of a building, it was a little warmer here and he could survey the walking crowds, watching for his few regular clients. It was a simple service, they gave him money and he did not bother them. His presence also stopped other homeless hassling them. Fighting and begging, two resolutions he had broken early. He had decided in those first few days that he would not survive by violence either against other homeless or what he thought then were the real people. He imagined there would be some code of honor amongst the homeless about stealing from each other. If there was such a code many of the stronger ones ignored it and it certainly did not apply to the 'sentenced.' He still had unhealed scars and bruises as a result. Rosie had taught him early, the only way to avoid violence and theft was to have nothing worth stealing or at least appear to. Having a few dollars was fine as long as you did not advertise; having more money was just an invitation.

He had decided not to beg after his experience the first day trying to raise enough cash for the phone call. It was humiliating to be ignored, treated as if he did not exist. He knew how the homeless were handled, he had done it himself when he was not destitute. Few people carried cash it was just not necessary so most had nothing to give homeless beggars. Those that did carry cash gave it to the beggars. Beggars could recognize these people they were mostly the older ones and some of the younger women. An unspoken bargain was made between beggar and client. Money was paid, never too much, and the client could pass unmolested through the beggar's patch. This was usually a walk between office and subway or sandwich shop. Deals were never done in view of doormen, security guards or police. The giving and receiving kept private with no recognition between parties, the homeless still did not exist.