This book is fiction. The characters are made up from whole cloth, and any resemblance to real people is imaginary or coincidental. A group of Alabama Quakers moved from Costa Rica in the 1950s, but I know almost nothing about them. A few other events are based on real happenings, altered beyond recognition. The institutions in this book are real, and so are the places. For narrative convenience the supporting details are invented, modified, or used anachronistically -- even geography, weather, and vegetation. It's a story. I made it up.

I apologize to the people on 15th Street whose lots I have borrowed, to put on them entirely different houses populated with imaginary characters. There's room to share, I think. I've never been in the real houses, or met the people who live in them, so there should be no similarities.

The book is not yet complete. Chapters remain to be written and edited, and some parts of the text contradict other parts. One of these days, I hope, all these problems will be fixed. In the meantime, bear with me, and trust me when I say that this is a far greater bother to me than it could possibly be to you. I'm working on it.

Thanks to Alice, Alyn, Amy's Mom, Bill, Cate, Charley, David, Deborah, Janis, Jim R., John M., Lauren, Lenore, Margot, Meghan W., Olga, Rebecca, Tim C., Tom, Whitney, the Scriptorum group, the Rockhurst bunch, and the staff at Hattie's. I bow to you all, a full prostration, forehead to the floor. Even deeper thanks to the members of the Penn Valley Society of Friends, and above all to my family. "Love" is not word enough for what I feel.

This book is dedicated to my son, with love and hope.