Remy found nothing to tempt her appetite at Booeymonger, a small Prospect Street deli several blocks away. She sipped bottled water while Faith and Alex dove into sandwiches the size of paperback dictionaries. On the way back, Faith tried unsuccessfully to point out landmarks. Cafe Milano, one of the city’s talked-about restaurants. The lovely and gracious Prospect House, once used to house foreign dignitaries. Remy was unimpressed. A block from their house, Remy finally spoke. “There’s that man again.” She froze midstep and pointed. “He’s digging through the trash. That’s sick.” Despite the hot weather, the man in question was dressed in overalls and a sweatshirt. He was bearded, with grizzled hair that straggled past his chin, but even though he was old enough to be spending his waning years on a Florida golf course, he appeared—at least from a distance—to be a healthy weight for his large frame. Faith and David had struggled to instill compassion and sensitivity to the plight of others in their children.
