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“Who are you?” Greg hardly recognized his own voice.
What you Think?ou Think?
“I’m Lemon Brown,” came the answer. “Who’re you?” What y

“Greg Ridley.” What did Greg see
inside the room?
“What you doing here?” The figure shuffled forward again,
and Greg took a small step backward.

“It’s raining,” Greg said.

“I can see that,” the figure said.

The person who called himself Lemon Brown peered forward, and Greg could see him
clearly. He was an old man. His black, heavily wrinkled face was surrounded by a halo
of crinkly white hair and whiskers that seemed to separate his head from the layers

of dirty coats piled on his smallish frame. His pants were bagged to the knee, where
they were met with rags that went down to the old shoes. The rags were held on with
strings, and there was a rope around his middle. Greg relaxed. He had seen the man
before, picking through the trash on the corner and pulling clothes out of a Salvation
Army box. There was no sign of a razor that could “cut a week into nine days.”

“What are you doing here?” Greg asked.

“This is where I’m staying,” Lemon Brown said. “What are you here for?” “Told you it
was raining out,” Greg said, leaning against the back of the couch until he felt it give

slightly. “Ain’t you got no home?”

“I got a home,” Greg answered.
“You ain’t one of them bad boys looking for my treasure, is you?” Lemon Brown cocked

his head to one side and squinted one eye. “Because I told you I got me a razor.”

“I’m not looking for your treasure,” Greg answered, smiling. “If you have one.”

“What you mean, if I have one.” Lemon Brown said. “Every man got a treasure. You
don’t know that, you must be a fool!”

“Sure,” Greg said as he sat on the sofa and put one leg over the back. “What do you
have, gold coins?”

“Don’t worry none about what I got,” Lemon Brown said. “You know who I am?”

“You told me your name was orange or lemon or something like that.”

“Lemon Brown,” the old man said, pulling back his shoulders as he did so, “they used
to call me Sweet Lemon Brown.”

“Sweet Lemon?” Greg asked.

“Yes sir. Sweet Lemon Brown. They used to say I sung the blues so sweet that if I sang

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