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cooperating traffic lights. They were cloaked, invisible on their journey through the valley toward the mountain of the North Ward. They ascended as if kneeling, quietly trying to take in what it was that was not being seen. The North Mountain crest was transcended by two towers, buildings which in silhouette on the mount looked like a high held victory sign. Each of the large nicely finished buildings was immaculate and well appointed. Grounds, shrubbery, planted window flower boxes, overlooking a beautiful and expansive unfenced reservoir encircled by a flowered walking path. A generous meeting area centered on a large lawn, a gazebo, and the sign Charles Darling Park. Golden letters engraved on ebony embraced by oaken uprights proclaimed, Jake Green Apartments. There was beautiful music, live singing, with spectacular harmony coming from a center court yard. Frank blinked himself back, "Oh, by the way," young Marcus, he told her, was now engaged to a singer, a thin and frail girl with a sensuous yet angelic voice. Shannon was straining to hear where the singing was coming from. There were proudly standing murals that had no apparent reason for being other than as declarations of life. North Mountain was alive with culture. Days passed here in pleasant solitude, Shannon in one building, assured repeatedly of the provisions for the safety of her family, Frank Sumner in the other, initially sequestered to protect his anonymity. The camaraderie of people here was wonderful, yet nobody spoke of the events which had just transpired, of the men who appeared from nowhere, of anything that was or might yet be. There were no televisions. Who needed them? Local entertainment and story telling were too good to even bother with the tube. Shannon added a splash of Celtic spin to the local repertory