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Springtime in Arkansas is as comfortable as any place on earth. With the harshness of winter but a memory, the pace of life slows and the aroma of moist earth and wildflower blossoms overwhelms the senses. In Mountain View, the historic village sees more visitors as the tourist season gets into full swing. Bus loads of students arrive almost daily. Perhaps it is the teachers trying to leave the students with a good feeling about school by getting them out doors for a fun learning experience. Twelve year old, Patty Hatfield will not soon forget her visit to the village.
The first time anyone in Mountain View remembers seeing the boy known only as William was on May 30, 2002. Perched on the old farm wagon that sat on the stage in the village was a barefoot boy. He was wearing only a pair of brown bib overalls that he had nearly outgrown. They were held up by the right shoulder strap. The left strap had no buckle and had been torn or cut off. He had dark brown hair, looked to be about 10 and had no teeth. His fascinating music had first attracted their attention.
The musicians who play regularly at the village had taken a break and left their instruments, a fiddle, base, banjo, mandolin and a couple of acoustic guitars on their stands on the stage. When no one was looking, William had chosen a guitar, climbed to the wagon seat and begun to play. Soon passersby began to stop to listen to the unusual music. Even while watching him, it seemed that there had to be two or more people playing. The whispering began almost immediately. "He's down from the hills."
Beginning of chapter # 2
Robert Anderson awoke at 6:00 AM on Saturday, September, 15th, feeling surprisingly refreshed but still fully clothed. Yesterday his life had changed forever. He lay there, looking at the paisley wall paper decorating room 212 at the Holiday Inn, Syracuse and thinking about the events of the last few days. The World Trade Center, President Bush declaring war on terrorism, and ... yesterday. A slight tremor went through him as he thought about yesterday.
Bob had awakened at 6:00 AM as he had every morning for years. He dressed in Khaki pants, a faded red knit shirt, white athletic socks and his well worn gray running shoes. He would feed Elvis the cat and Tweep the parakeet as he made his usual breakfast of rice krispies, wheat toast and of course, the all important, glass of orange juice. He exited the house through the garage. Putting a rubber band around his left pant leg and pushing the button on the garage door opener which was taped securely to the handle bar, he eased the bicycle past his Lincoln and was heading down the long driveway for his morning ride. He listened to the satisfying sound of the garage door closing behind him as he turned East onto Willow Road toward the bike path. The path was very convenient. It crossed Willow Road a half mile from his house and went all the way to downtown Syracuse, passing his office on the way. Bob would not see the Lincoln again ... the garage, the house, Elvis and Tweep would all be memories by the time he returned.
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