Homeless among the hillocks.

When the rain makes its move on San Diego in January, the streets seem more lonely than in other cities; it is a broken promise. On the south Embarcadero on a Monday afternoon, in the leaden shadow of luxury hotels, children huddle in the open gazebos. Surrounded by the bobbing hulls and masts of yachts in blue canvas, the bay, the pasty color of drowned men rolling uneasily, George and Linette cup a roach wrapped in a matchbook and giggle. A third kid, a boy with a closely shaved scalp and a denim jacket with a St. Vincent De Pauls laminated ID card pinned over his breast stands with his back to them. He is silhouetted against the bay, staring up and the lard and ash clouds. Whats your name? George calls to him. The boy turns and does not answer but lifts his green name tag. No one can read it from where they are standing. George lifts whats left of the joint in a gesture of invitation and the boy returns his back to the gazebo, tripping on the smudged beauty beyond the sea wall. Whatever, George shrugs and smiles. He reveals a mouthful of braces.

George is 17 years old and looks older. Linette is 16 and seems more like 14. George has a home, such as it is, in East San Diego, where he stays with his mother, brothers, and sisters. Linette stays at a teen shelter called the Storefront downtown near City College. The shelters location needs to be vague because the staff and residents have an ongoing concern with pedophiles, drug dealers, and abusive, noncustodial parents.

If you could give us more than just their names, says Linette, maybe we could help you find them. I think we know some kids by those names. She is talking about my inquiries as to four homeless kids between the ages of 14 and 21. Someone had written to me about them. They said they were getting hassled by the cops and downtown security, according to their theory, because of the new ballpark to be installed in the Center City area.

All Ive got is their names, I tell them.

Well, George inhales, pauses, theyre probably around. He gestures inland at the city. Try Starbucks at Horton Plaza, Seaport Village, or Marioland.

Is Marioland a video-game place?

George and Linette look at each other and laugh. They both nod, Yeah, its just like a video-game place. George asks me for a light and then a cigarette.

Are you a dealer? I ask him indicating the joint.

Hell no. Im a disc-jockey and Im taking a course in public speaking. Im just getting into it. Im entering a speech contest. Indeed, Georges voice is resonant and almost accentless. Between his voice, his height at least six feet Rasta-dread hair and his solid yet fluid street poise, eyes that take in his surroundings with a combination of marijuana merriness and cool assessment, George could be closer to 30 than 18.

I ask them if they would tell me their stories since I cant find the kids Im looking for. Linette looks to George as if for approval. George puts it back on her. Youre homeless, not me. Its up to you.

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Homeless among the hillocks.