Last night the cops came and picked up Edward.

It was just past midnight. I was in bed, in the hazy twilight between sleeping and being awake. The doorbell rang twice, and then twice again. I was padding across the bare wooden floor in my bathrobe when the officer began rapping on the glass door with the butt of his flashlight.

I knew it was the cops before I opened the door. Edward's parents had come by that afternoon looking for Edward, and his mom had asked me if the police had come by.

My son brought Edward in like a stray puppy. He'd run away from his folks' apartment, and had been crashing at our house for four or five days.

Edward's fourteen and Daniel's fifteen. They're mods, or something; some arcane subculture spawned in high school by the pervasive media intrusion and the compelling genetic need to individuate and belong. They wear too tight girl jeans down low on their hips or lower. They ride skateboards. They're into punk rock, and emo, and the Beatles. Daniel has his lip pierced and wears his hair an inch long all over. Edward has a mop that falls into his face and frequently carries his head so it does just that.

I never talked to Edward much. Most of our dialog was intermediated by Daniel.

Why'd he run away, I asked.

His parents were always yelling at him, Daniel told me. Kind of like mom.

I'd run away from my ex-wife years ago, and my kids ran away when I finally quit the bars and had time for them. I couldn't blame Edward for running away if that were true. But I got it third hand.

The day Edward's parents came by looking for him they seemed pleasant enough. Late-thirties or early forties. Clean, and well-spoken, exclusively in Spanish, though I don't look like the type that speaks Spanish.

I was glad I hadn't changed from my day job clothes when they showed up at my door. I could just as easily been wearing the clothes I wear when I try to blend in with the junkies and street people in downtown Juarez . Instead I wore slacks and a Joseph Abboud shirt when I talked to them.

Yes, I said, Edward's been staying here. But he's not here right now. He's at his girlfriend's.

They thanked me, and shook my hand, and left.

I was surprised when Edward showed up with Daniel a little while later.

Did Edward's parents find him, I asked Daniel.

Yeah, he said. They came by his girlfriend's house.

What happened?

They talked for a little while, and Edward said he wasn't going home. Then they started yelling.

Daniel doesn't speak Spanish. The actual content of the conversation must have been opaque to him.

I don't know the real reason Edward ran away. Like a failed marriage, a person can't know the real reasons unless he's one of the principals. Even then, he might only know one side. But it's still hard to be a teenager, even in the best of circumstances.

Last Wednesday I came home for lunch and Edward was there, alone, in Daniel's room. He was listening to music on Daniel's laptop with his hair falling across his face.

I ate, and went back to work. My daughter called me in the middle of the afternoon.

Dad, did you know that Edward ditched school today?

Yeah, I said. I saw him there when I went home for lunch.

I told him if he were going to live here that he had to go to school, she said.

I guess my kids long to be the responsible parents they never had.

And then last night the cops came. One, actually. He was flying solo. I answered the door and he checked his note pad and asked about Edward.

Yeah, he's here, I said. Let me go get him.

Do you mind if I come in?

The maid came that day, so the house was clean.

Sure, come on in.

He followed me across the living room poking the beam of his flashlight into the corners and across the tabletop. He didn't turn it off after I turned on the overhead.

I opened the door to Daniel's room, where Edward was sleeping, and the officer poked the light in there.

There's someone here to see you, Edward.

Edward got up, fully dressed, and the officer started asking him questions.

Let's go out here, I said. My son's still sleeping.

In the space we euphemistically call the dining room, the cop asked Edward, Do you have some i.d.?

No.

Why'd you run away?

Edward shrugged.

Before they left, the cop told me, If he comes here again, you shouldn't let him stay. You can get in real trouble.

What kind of trouble?

They call it harboring a runaway. It's a class A misdemeanor.

I'm sorry, Mr. Wright, Edward said to me.

Don't worry about it, I said as they turned to go. Good luck, Edward.

He shuffled off, with his hair hanging down in his face.