Blake shifted in his seat, feeling suddenly embarrassed about his own cynicism of a moment ago. "No," he agreed, "I don't suppose it is."

Harris's voice took on a heavy note of authority. "So as far as I personally, and this company as an entity, are concerned, since the accident happened here, we have a moral responsibility. Ricardo Ramirez will be taken care of, and there will be no cutting of corners. Whatever he needs, he'll get, and for as long as he needs it. If it comes to the worst, the company is prepared to set up a permanent annuity for him." Once again his eyes met Blake's. "His mother says Rick intends to be a doctor when he grows up. He has the grades for it, and he seems to have the drive as well." He paused for a moment, then went on. "Keep that in mind when you start thinking about how to set up a trust. I should imagine a boy like Rick would have treated his mother pretty well, all things considered. In the event that he can't, we will."

Blake Tanner blinked. The implications of what Jerry Harris was saying could be enormous. "Have you talked to Ted Thornton about this?" he asked.

Harris smiled thinly. "I didn't have to," he said. "It's Ted's policy. And it's a policy," he added, "that I happen to be in one-hundred-percent agreement with.TarrenTech made this town. We are, one way or another, responsible for everything that happens here. And we don't shirk that responsibility."

When he left Harris's office that morning, Blake Tanner had a new respect for the company-and the people-he worked for. Silverdale, he was beginning to suspect, was not simply going to be a new step in his career.

It might very well change his life.

Mark Tanner found himself walking home alone after school. He had waited in front of the building for Linda Harris for twenty minutes, and when she hadn't shown up, he'd finally wandered around to the back. Just as he'd rounded the corner of the building, the door from the boys' locker room had flown open and the football squad, dressed in practice gear, had trotted out onto the playing field. He'd called out to Robb Harris, but either Robb hadn't heard him or had chosen to ignore him. He was about to call out again when the coach appeared and Mark realized that perhaps neither had been true. For as the coach had approached the squad, all of whom were standing in a neat formation, he had suddenly stopped and glared at one of the boys in the rear rank.

"Fifty push-ups!" he'd shouted. "Now!"

As Mark watched, the boy had immediately dropped to the ground and begun pumping his body up and down. It wasn't until he'd already completed ten of the push-ups that Mark realized what the boy's infraction had been.

He'd waved to one of the girls on the drill team, which was already in the midst of its practice session on the next field. "Holy shit," Mark whispered to himself. He started to turn away, then heard Linda calling his name. Looking up, he saw her waving to him.

"Hi," he said as he walked over to where she was standing with three other girls and two boys. "I was sort of looking for you."

"Cheerleading practice," Linda told him. "And then I have to go over to the library. Want to wait for me?"

Mark shook his head. "Can't," he said. "Mom needs me to help her with the unpacking." He hesitated. "Do you practice every day?"

Linda smiled and shook her head. "Just three days a week, and once during the evening before a game." Their eyes met for a moment, and then, feeling himself reddening, Mark turned away.

"Well, see you tomorrow, I guess," he mumbled.

He didn't see Linda smiling after him, nor did he see JeffLaConner, who had paused on the football field for a moment, staring speculatively in his direction.

Instead of going directly home, Mark decided to walk down Colorado Street to the shopping district, look around for a few minutes, then cut back over to Telluride Drive. He walked slowly, gazing at each of the houses as he passed, his mind already framing the ornate Victorian-style buildings in the lens of his camera. Almost every one of them, he decided, was worth a picture.

Calendar shots, that's what they looked like.

He filed the idea away, wondering what you did to sell pictures for calendars.

A quarter of an hour later he came to the small collection of buildings, all facing on a little square, that served as Silverdale's downtown section. Like the rest of the town, the commercial area looked like something out of another century. It was a series of free-standing buildings, most of them of wood-frame construction in a style that reminded Mark of a western movie. Wooden sidewalks, raised above the narrow, bricked street by a couple of steps, connected the buildings, and there was a large parking lot laid out behind the Safeway store. The street itself seemed only to be used by pedestrians and a couple of dogs that lay sunning themselves in the middle of the road. Mark stopped to scratch one of the dogs. When he looked up, he saw a camera shop, the nameSpaldings emblazoned in bright blue letters over the door. The shop was small, tucked into the narrow space between the drugstore and the hardware store.

It was then the idea came to him.

If he had a job after school, there was no way his father could insist that he go out for sports.

Straightening up, he tucked his shirt neatly into his jeans, then walked into the camera store. From behind the counter a friendly-looking man with gray hair and wire-framed glasses smiled genially at him.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked.

"Are you Mr. Spalding?" Mark asked.

The man nodded. "None other. And who might you be?"

"Mark Tanner," Mark replied. "I just moved here, and I was wondering if maybe you needed some help. Just part-time, after school and maybe on weekends."

Henry Spalding's brows arched skeptically. For a moment Mark was certain he was going to be turned down flat. Then, to his surprise, Spalding cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well, actually, I've been thinking about some help. Ski season is coming, and that always brings some people around. Then there's Christmas, and whatnot." His gaze sharpened slightly. "But it's evenings I'd need."

Mark thought quickly. What difference did it make? If he was working in the evenings, he'd have to do his studying in the afternoons. "That's okay," he said. "That would be perfect."

Spalding disappeared into the tiny office at the back of the store and returned with a crumpled and stained job-application form. "Well, why don't you fill this out, and then we can talk," he said, handing the application to Mark. As Mark fished a pen out of the bottom of his book bag, Spalding regarded him speculatively. "What team are you on?" he asked. "You look kind of small for football. Tennis, maybe? Or baseball?"

Mark shook his head, not looking up from the form. "I'm not on any of the teams," he said. "I'm… well, I guess I'm a lot better at photography than I am at sports."

Suddenly Mr. Spalding's hand appeared in Mark's line of sight, pulling the application back.

"Not on any team?" he heard the man asking, and looked up to see Spalding gazing quizzically at him.

"N-No," Mark stammered. "Why?"

"Why, because it makes all the difference in the world," Spalding told him. "This is Silverdale, son. Here, we support our teams. And that includes making sure they get first pick of the part-time jobs." Then, seeing the look of disappointment in Mark's eyes, he tried to soften the blow. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give the school a call tomorrow and sort of see what's what. Maybe nobody on the teams will want the job here. And if they don't, then you can surely have it yourself."

Mark bit his lip and managed to thank Henry Spalding before he picked up his book bag and backed out of the little shop. But as he started home, he knew that there would be no job for him at Spalding's camera shop.