The taxi stopped at a spot on the old highway 500 yards from the truck stop drive and a like distance from the ramp to the northbound interstate. Adam reached around for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. The driver waved it away.

"Yeah, I got three little guys, but the oldest one's like you, can't walk. I wish I could take you where you're going."

"Damn, you're gutsy. Like my little guy. Five years old and ain't nuthin he thinks he can't do on them damn crutches."

The driver popped the trunk as Adam opened the door and slid to the edge of the seat, crutches in hand. He stood, fitted them to his forearms, shut the door and crutched around to the trunk, the knotted left leg of his baggy jeans swinging rhythmically beneath his knee. Extracting his sizable backpack from the trunk, he hefted it into place. Before shutting the trunk, so the driver wouldn't leave, he crutched up to the driver's window and tapped on it. When the driver lowered it Adam extended his hand and shook with the driver, saying, "Thanks, man. Merry Christmas."

"Nuthin, man. Have a good life." Adam crutched on back, shut the trunk, and the taxi was on its way.

It was 7:00 p.m., long since dark. Adam positioned himself by the roadway, set his backpack on the ground and pulled out the folded cardboard sign with its lime green Day-Glo foot-high lettering, "WASHINGTON DC." It was his fifth time around on this trip, through undergraduate and into grad school. The first cured him of feeling guilty about the kindness of strangers, despite the functional left leg strapped up inside his jeans. It was what he did, it was what he was.

This trip was his Christmas present to himself each year. God knows there was nothing worth speaking of coming from anywhere else. His housemates and others who knew him in his university life were used to the gimp phase of his year, when the November onset of chilly weather would have him crutching around for two or three months because of pain in his left hip, supposedly the aftereffect of a long-term childhood condition. Adam never even hinted at its nature, but the orthopedically knowledgeable might have decided it was Perthes disease, that he would some day need a hip replacement but that he was too young yet. Only Adam knew that the condition had never existed.

Nor would anyone have suspected what he was shaping himself up for each year. After his housemates had left for their family homes at Christmas break, Adam would strap on the broad leather band with the pocket that secured his foot snugly to his thigh, tie the leg of his baggy blue jeans and pull it over the fake stump, call a cab and head out on his dream trip. Two or three days of hitched rides would get him to Northern Virginia, where he would get the trucker - it was always lonely truckers who picked him up - to drop him near a Washington Metro rail stop. There he would call Uncle Ziggy to retrieve him at the New Carrollton terminal in Maryland. They would drive the fifty miles east, across the Chesapeake Bay, to Ziggy's place in the woods where Adam would spend whatever time remained before Christmas Eve, then the pair would show up at the nearby family home on the potato farm, as if nothing unusual had transpired.

Adam's family had a vague notion that Ziggy picked Adam up in Washington or Baltimore each year, from a plane or maybe a bus. They had no idea how Adam was paying his bills or his fare home. Truth was, there wasn't a lot of room to care. Adam was the first of thirteen kids born in twenty years on a farm that barely fed them. His father was an independent-minded cuss who often boasted in his cups, which were many, that he had fathered half the alphabet: Adam, Bertha, Carl, Daniel, Edward and his twin Frederick (Eddie and Freddie), Gertrude, Helga, Ivan, Jonathan, Katharine, Luke, and Maria. From the start Adam was different, living in a lonely mathematical world no one in his very verbal family understood. He never came into his own until he got the university scholarship in Texas.

Adam hated the farm. He was incurably awkward at chores, usually becoming part of the problem rather than the solution. As his siblings grew able to handle them his parents mostly let their dreamy, geeky firstborn go his way rather than put up with his ineptitude. From the time he was eight or nine years old Adam would often walk the mile-long lane out to the road, cross to the lane that opened opposite and continue the half-mile to Uncle Ziggy's cabin.

Sigmund Zygenfuss was his father's youngest brother, a recluse who made his living as a skilled leather crafter, a maker of saddles and tack and leather vests, of hand-tooled belts and pocketbooks, and all sorts of things that people seemed to want, all to order. He had a small but steady clientele and the only advertising was word of mouth. He always delivered the goods, got his mail at a post office box and never let his customers know where the shop was. What he made barely kept food on his little table and a roof over his head, but he had the riches of satisfaction in his work. He seemed to need little more.

When Adam hiked over, he would bring his schoolbooks and projects and do his work in the blessed quiet of the cabin. He and Ziggy enjoyed their silent companionship. At first Ziggy offered to take Adam with him on deliveries, but Adam never went. He treasured those solitary hours, in which he would often pick on the banjo Uncle Ziggy had shown him how to use, though Ziggy never seemed to play it himself, these days.

One of those solitary days when Adam was nearly twelve the wood stove was starting to burn low, it got uncomfortably chilly in the cabin, and it appeared Uncle Ziggy had let the stack on the deck outside the kitchen door run out. Adam stuck a flashlight in his pocket, knowing that was no power to the shed where Ziggy kept his firewood, which he had never entered before. Sliding the door open just enough to let himself in, he shone the light around the room, seeking the woodpile, when it caught the glint of metal on the wall opposite where he stood. It was a pair of crutches, the kind the hospital issued Freddie when he broke his leg falling off the barn, but bigger.

A fascination unlike anything he had experienced kicked in. His steps followed the beam of light across the room. Sizing up the crutches, he thought they were much too long for him, but then realized that they were at their maximum adjustment. He took them down from the hook they hung on and figured out how to squeeze the little metal stoppers to make the crutches eight inches shorter. He slipped them under his arms and felt that they were a perfect fit, except that the handpieces were at his fingertips. Undoing the wing nut to slide the first handpiece up between the shafts, he dropped the wing nut into the dirt. Several minutes of searching finally produced it and he finished his project.

No sooner had he begun crutching toward the door, using his right leg to walk and letting the left drag, than he heard the sound of Ziggy's pickup crunching down the oyster-shell lane. He hastened to hang the crutches back onto the hook and fill the carrier with logs. He was just shutting the door as his uncle pulled around the house and called from his truck, "Thanks. I forgot to bring any in this morning." Adam said nothing as he toted the logs to the house.

The next day after school Adam told his sibs as they got off the bus that he was going to Ziggy's and would be home for family supper, which was invariably at seven on the dot. There was nothing unusual in that, in fact it happened most days. He walked in without knocking, as he always did, and saw Ziggy at his workbench at the opposite end of the cabin, where he always was. "Hi, Unk," Adam greeted him.

"Adam," his uncle responded. The name was more grunted than pronounced and he never looked up from his work. Adam set himself on the floor in front of the living room couch and organized his work on the coffee table in front of him, sitting on his left foot with his right leg extended under the table, his habit from early childhood. He had zipped through his A.P. algebra and was stretched out on the couch, slogging more painfully through social studies, when his uncle called from his workbench, "Adam, do you plan to come tomorrow?"

"I have to take a delivery out to Culpeper, leaving early, likely won't be back until five or six. If you had the stove stoked when I get back, that'd be nice."

Adam had always sensed his taciturn uncle's welcome. Up until then, however, he simply would tell Adam that he would be away, and Adam took it as a message not to come that day. Now, however, he was not only encouraging Adam to come, but also asking a favor.

The next day school let out at midday for a teachers' meeting, so Adam had three or four hours to himself before his uncle would return. He tried to settle to his work but he could not get the crutches out of his mind. He felt them against the top of his ribcage, the pressure of the handpieces on his palms, the heft of his body at each pace.

It wasn't long before Adam found himself out in the shed getting the crutches down. Again he let his left leg drag as he crutched his way to the house, laid the crutches beside him on the floor and got into his work. Having them there calmed something down in him, as if he had gained the use of a body part he had not missed before because it was never used.

He always did the math work first because he enjoyed it. As he got into the other subjects he found himself distracted by another notion. He pulled his wide leather belt out of his jeans and looped it around his left ankle and then cinched it tightly over the top of his thigh. Getting himself up on the crutches, he loped around in the cabin for a bit, returning several times to consider his image in the full-length mirror at the end of the hallway between the cabin's two bedrooms.

The cool late October day was inviting, and Adam took a walk outside, around behind the shed and down the quarter-mile trail to the marsh. Considering his awkwardness at so much else, the ease of his gait surprised him. As he returned he delighted in the rhythmic crunching sound of the oyster shell drive as he crossed it to get to the house, and the difference in the feel of the crutches from that given by the sandy trail and the hardwood flooring inside.

His intention upon return was to finish the paper he was writing on the laptop his uncle used mostly for keeping track of his accounts. He found himself tired out from the unaccustomed effort of walking with crutches, however, and decided to move to the reading assignments he could do stretched out on the couch. He figured to keep an eye on the time, to get the crutches back to the shed and his belt back on his jeans before five, and get the writing done after that.

"Oh yeah, Unk, I guess I fell asleep. Jeez," Adam said, feeling the chill on his face, "I didn't stoke the stove. Sorry. What time is it?" He realized he was covered by the afghan his uncle kept folded across the top of the couch, and figured he must have pulled it onto himself in his sleep.

"About a quarter to five. The trip didn't take as long as I thought it would. What's with the crutches?"

"Oh, yeah," Adam replied, as he felt a blush creep across his face and up his ears. "I found them in the shed. I was just trying them out."

"No harm. Guess we'd best get back to business." Ziggy headed for the bathroom. As soon as the door clicked Adam sat up, threw off the afghan, undid the belt from around his thigh and put it back on his jeans. He needed the bathroom himself but when he went to stand up he discovered his leg was lifeless and numb, profoundly asleep. He got himself up on the crutches, fascinated by the paralysis of his leg, fearful that he had damaged it for good, yet confident that this was no more than the usual falling-asleep of a limb, just more so.

Indeed, the leg was starting to come back, in the beginnings of the pins and needles stage, when his uncle came out of the bathroom. Adam's need to urinate was urgent and gave him no choice but to use the crutches. "Leg's asleep and I have to go," he explained as he passed his uncle, who made a grunt of acknowledgement.

Done, Adam found he now had a measure of control over his leg. He limped back to the couch carrying the crutches as his uncle stoked the stove. "Should I take these back to the shed?" Adam asked.

"No, just lean them against the corner by the door there. I'll take them back when I go," replied his uncle.

Adam did as Ziggy bade him and hastened to finish his paper, while his uncle set himself to his work. At 6:15 Adam started gathering his things so as to be home in time for supper. "Do you need a ride?" his uncle asked. The question surprised Adam. His uncle, who rarely crossed the road to his brother's except on the most major occasions, had never offered before, nor in fact did he go anywhere he didn't feel he had to.

"No, I'm OK, Unk. Thanks," Adam replied. The leg still felt kind of odd but he could certainly walk on it. Ziggy again grunted acknowledgement.

The next afternoon Adam, having no reason not to, went to his uncle's after school. It was a mild Indian summer day and he wore those baggy shorts of junior-high fashion, that rode low on the waist and ended an inch or so below the knee. He let himself into the cabin, greeted his uncle who grunted in response from his workbench, and was surprised to see that the crutches remained right where he had left them the day before.

As he opened his backpack and started to lay out his work his uncle called, "Adam, come here, I have something for you." Adam approached the workbench and saw laid out on it a broad leather band with Velcro-backed black nylon straps sewn and riveted to one end and narrow D-rings to the other, with a leather pocket sewn onto it with a similar strap arrangement attached. His uncle said earnestly, "Adam, don't use a belt to strap up your leg. I don't want to happen to you what happened to Sam."

Adam knew that Ziggy had a twin brother name Sam who had died in his early teens, but that was all he knew. No one ever talked about him or how he died. "What do you mean?" Adam asked. "What about Sam?"

"No," said Adam, a note of apprehension creeping into his voice. "Nobody ever talks about it."

"He had this need you do, to pretend one-leggedness. I was the only one who knew about it. He used to do up his leg like you did yesterday. One time he kept it strapped up too long and got gangrene in his foot. He just went around on the foot until the pain got so bad he couldn't hide it any more. They took his leg off but he had waited too long and wound up dying from blood poisoning."

"You were laying right out there on the couch when I came in. I pulled the afghan over you so you wouldn't panic when I woke you."

"He was ten the first time I caught him. It upset me so much he said he'd quit, but he couldn't. After he died I felt bad because I never told anyone even though I had promised him I wouldn't. But then I realized it wouldn't have mattered, he would have gone on doing it anyhow. So then got the idea for this," he said, picking up the leather band with the pocket. "With this I don't think circulation would get cut off."

"You put your foot in here, just like a shoe," Ziggy said, inserting his hand into the leather pocket, "then you pull this strap across your heel to keep it in place and secure it with the Velcro. After that you pull it up to the back of your thigh and secure it with these three straps."

Realizing he would have to drop his pants to put it on, Adam took the device and the crutches to the bathroom. In two minutes he emerged and assessed himself in the mirror, and realized he had something going. From then on all the time he spent at Ziggy's he was the one-legged boy of his dreams, and he started to go on the long-distance delivery trips in that mode. For high-school graduation his uncle gave him the black custom-made forearm crutches he was still using. And when he went to college he started making the Christmas hitching trip from Texas.

On the road leading to the interstate, Adam leaned his sign up on his backpack so that no passing trucker could mistake his destination. Raising his eyes from his task he saw that a very beat up old minivan, a pitiful faded red in color, had pulled up without his noticing it. The door was open. The driver was a rather rough-looking chap in his watch cap with bits of white hair curling up from under its edges. A full white beard surrounded the stem of a corncob pipe and the mouth that clenched it. His old pea jacket, unbuttoned to accommodate a generous beer belly, covered a heavy red sweater. Faded blue jeans and beat-up black combat boots completed the outfit.

"I can take you as far as N'Orleans," the man declared gruffly. Adam hesitated. The old vehicle didn't sound too good nor look any better. The way the man was dressed made him wonder if the heater worked. Still, he thought, a ride's a ride. He folded his sign and tucked it back in its pocket, took his backpack by the straps in one hand and his crutches in the other and hopped to where he could open the sliding back door. Setting the backpack down to do so, he opened the door and saw that all the space behind the front seats was full of gaily wrapped Christmas gifts. He thought it odd that he had not noticed them from outside. There was only just enough room by the door to insert his backpack. His crutches had to come up front and ride by the engine compartment that stuck up between the two front seats.

The door sounded tinny as Adam pulled it shut. The vehicle seemed barely able to stir itself, and ascended the interstate ramp so laboriously that Adam feared they might be rear-ended. Once on the freeway, however, the vehicle gradually made it to highway speed and rode smoothly enough on the pristine asphalt surface. "Thanks for the ride," Adam said.

"Of course I would. Who wouldn't?" Adam riposted. What else could he say? Soon he found himself drifting off to sleep despite the roar of the poorly soundproofed engine beside him and the country Christmas songs the man played loud enough to overcome the considerable road noise added to that of the engine.

He awoke to the sound of the man's voice, "Hey buddy, wake up. Here we are." He opened his eyes and saw the console clock: 6:00. "Man, I slept all night, didn't I? Not much company for you. Sorry." He noticed the door was open beside him, and looking out he saw they were in front of Ziggy's cabin! "What the hell…?" he mumbled.

"Uh, yeah, OK. Thanks for the ride." As Adam went for his crutches he saw his jeans leg lay flat on the seat, empty. "What the hell…?" he muttered again. The next thing he knew he was standing outside facing the van, on his crutches with his backpack at his feet, with no earthly notion how he had gotten there. The man turned to him, took the pipe out of his mouth and snarled, "Hey buddy, don't lie to Santa Claus. Now shut that door."

Thoroughly bewildered, Adam shut the door. Instantly the old van took off in a flash of light, over the tree line and right on up into the sky.

Adam's gaze at the sky broke off when he heard the cabin door open and his uncle call, "Adam?"

He turned to see his uncle silhouetted in the doorway, barefoot in the old-fashioned nightshirt he wore, shotgun in hand. "A big flash of light woke me. Did you see it?"

"I don't know. That old guy picked me up last night in a van that looked like it was ready for the junkyard. I fell asleep and here I am, in twelve hours." As he spoke Adam was squeezing down the empty jeans leg, finally feeling the leather band through the material, resting against the knot.

"I don't know," Adam replied in shocked bewilderment. "Can we go inside? It's cold out here."

They went inside. Adam recounted what little he had actually experienced of the previous twelve hours. They explored the stump together. No scar. Apparently no thighbone at all. The entire leg was gone. Just like that.

"I feel good, Unk. I feel right. I don't have to pretend any more. But what do I say to the fam?"

"Look, they're not expecting you until Christmas Eve. That's five days away. They haven't seen you since last June. Call your mother as if you were still in Texas. Tell her you got cancer last summer, they had to take it off, you didn't want to worry them about it then but you thought you'd better let them know before you got there."

"Yeah. Thanks, Unk." It was now 8:00 a.m., a good time to call. He dialed the familiar number. "Hello, Mom. It's Adam. Listen Mom, there's something I need to tell you…"

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