Third step

Though he was on the far side of the mezzanine, Kathy fancied that she could hear him huffing and wheezing as he ran toward her. And she waited. Crouching. One second, two seconds, three. When he came within grabbing distance, the game was on-all that passed for sport in the life of a homeless child. She ran for the grand staircase, shooting past him and making the fat man spin. Sneakers streaking, slapping stone, the little blond bullet in blue jeans gained the stairs, feet flying, only alighting on every third step. Laughing, laughing. At the top of the stairs, she turned around to see that the chase was done-and so early this time. Her pursuer had reached the bottom step and could not climb another. The fat man was in some pain and out of breath. One hand went to his chest, as if he could stop a heart attack that way. The little girl mouthed the words, Die, old man. They locked eyes. His were pleading, hers were hard. And she gave him her famous Gothcha smile. One day, she would become his prisoner-but not today-and Louis Markowitz would become her foster father ...»