There, between the railway terminal and the ferry dock, he found a diner. He sat in a booth, drinking coffee and eating a slice of cherry pie—this being the season for cherries—and waited for Dawn.

Distinctive as she was, he didn't recognize her until she was almost at his table. She'd grown another inch or two and now, even in flats, was taller than the average man. But it wasn't just that. She'd been through things that had changed the way she held herself, the way she moved. And not for the worse. The coltish farm-girl enthusiasm of 1932 Dawn had been replaced by a cool self-possession, wary without being afraid.

They both knew there'd be no hugging or any other such display of mutual feeling. There were only so many circumstances in which a thirty-year-old bachelor engineer could be seen conversing with a girl who was still young enough to attend high school. The cover story they'd used in Indiana—that she was his country cousin in town for a few days' visit—wouldn't fly here. And the truth of the matter—that he had no interest at all in women—couldn't be spoken aloud, even in San Francisco. He rose to shake her hand, then gestured to the opposite bench. If anyone connected with the steel company happened to see them and asked questions, he'd say he was interviewing her for a secretarial position.

"Dawn's dead," she announced.

"I saw an article in the paper. From North Dakota. Fancied it might be you." She raised an eyebrow at that. She was learning how to use her face—saying things without words.

"As soon as they figured out it wasn't Bonnie Parker, they lost interest," he added.

She nodded, then reached for the menu.

"So, what should I call you, young lady?"

"Av—Aurora." She stumbled over the first syllable, unaccustomed to saying her own name.

"Your dad used to call you that when you were speaking together in Russian," he recalled. "Pronounced it with that `v'—`Avrora.' But Aurora it is." He shrugged and grinned. "I'm still just Bob."

The waitress came over and sized her up, giving Bob an excuse to do likewise. That summer in D.C. he'd watched her "bootstrap," as she called it. Starting out little better than a hobo, she'd scavenged, or hand-sewn, enough decent clothes that she wouldn't get thrown out of a beauty parlor. Eventually she'd climbed the ladder to the point where she'd been able to go full Cinderella at a ball with army generals and society matrons. Since then she'd been through a few cycles of boom and bust. Bob estimated she was about halfway to recovering from the latest crash. Midmorning sun coming in the diner's window revealed a streak of heavy foundation on one side of her face, covering something she didn't want seen.

She looked tired, stretched out, older than she was. But the eggs and hash she ordered would help her fill out that dress if she kept at it. He considered asking her when she'd last eaten a square meal but decided against it.

"Still have your violin?" It was a bit of a silly question, since all she'd brought in was a little suitcase.

"Lost it in the fire. Probably for the best."

"You're a real chip off the old block." Even as he said this Bob winced, thinking it was a little close to the bone. But she just gave him a wry look. He had to keep reminding himself that she was just eighteen.

She'd glanced toward the cash register a couple of times. Bob now understood she was looking at the newspaper rack. "I've been a little out of touch these last couple of weeks. Visiting family. No newspapers where they live. Any news about Bonnie and Clyde?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid the Barrow Gang has been knocked off the front page by competitors. Dillinger escaped. Machine Gun Kelly got sent away for life. He'll probably end his days on Alcatraz."

"What's that?"

The food had started to show up. Bob understood that Aurora was, between bites, prompting him to talk so that she could shovel food into her mouth. So he explained the new management of Alcatraz, and what they planned to do with the place. He went on to fill time with reminiscing about what had happened in D.C. He filled her in on contacts he'd made with the International in these parts, mostly across the bay in Berkeley.

A man came in and sat down in the next booth. After that, Bob just talked about the bridge project. When Aurora was finished eating, which didn't take long, she showed no hesitation in letting him pay for her meal and then buy her a ferry ticket. These were prerogatives of womanhood that would never have crossed the mind of girl-Dawn in blue jeans but that she now accepted as her due.