Yvette glanced both ways before stepping out into the moderately busy street, into the half-hearted noon-hour rush of the small community. After a moment, she turned and beckoned to her camera-man, urging him to cross with her. He was a spindly fellow with a balding head and a severe lack of fashion sense who looked like he should've gotten into the postal service instead of television. But Yvette had never seemed to notice his out-of-place appearance, never seemed to hear what the other small-time film makers for documentaries on the education channels mumbled to each other in their cubicles. She was constantly humming, her blond curls always optimistically bouncy, her eyes ceaselessly bright and whimsical, and she was perpetually wearing smartly coloured power suits that neither gave nor took away from her figure; she was Yvette, and for her, it was ever business. Her eccentricities didn't allow her many friends, though there was an atmosphere around her that stated Yvette didn't need friends. Yvette didn't need anybody. But she allowed Luke, the camera-man, to be her camera-man. He was the only one she ever talked to, and he almost took it as a privilege to be the one human in all the world Yvette smiled at in the morning.

Luke crossed the street cautiously with the camera balanced precariously on a shoulder, following as Yvette walked surreptitiously into a crowded cafe off the sidewalk, her navy blue skirt and vest melting with the shadow beneath the verandah. There was a small sound of jingling as she entered. Luke couldn't help but think of the rhyme and she shall have music wherever she goes as he pushed the door open and stepped in after her.

The cafe was small and warm, stuffed with bodies waiting to be served. Luke apologized several times as he struggled to maintain his course, pursuing Yvette as she traveled unhindered through the crowd as if it was parting for her. And then, the press of people ended and he came out on the other side to see Yvette sitting down across from a scraggly looking youth lounging arrogantly at a table as if he hadn't noticed her presence. Luke knew he was only ignoring her, though. No one could possibly miss Yvette.

The youth was a boy with tousled blond hair that looked as if it hadn't seen the bristles of a brush in years and clothing that hung off of his thin frame like rags from a scarecrow. From his position, being unable to see the boy's face as he stared indifferently out of a window, Luke thought the boy to be between ten and twelve. He was proven wrong, though, when he came up behind Yvette and saw the haunted features of a teenager turning to manhood.

Luke stood impatiently behind Yvette for a moment, but then started when she tapped his arm and pointed at the young man in front of her. He frowned.

"You can't mean he's the one you're going to do a documentary on."

"He is."

Luke's frown deepened. The crew of Munroe Films Incorporated had been given the job by the mayor to capture the essence of the small town so that videos could be shown to prospective house-buyers. "Miss Benta, we're supposed to be doing..."

"I know what we're supposed to be doing," Yvette interrupted him. "This is what I'm supposed to be doing."

Luke almost replied but then shook his head in defeat. There was no dissuading Yvette when she stuck her mind to something. "Okay," he sighed, "it's your job."

Yvette turned back to the boy. He hadn't moved a stitch from his former position, still chewing on a straw and staring at the passerbys as if trying to guess at their lives from their gait, or their dress, or the car they drove. Before Yvette could speak, the boy said, "You came."

Luke saw Yvette's head bob in a nod. "Of course. I said I would."

The boy's eyes shifted quickly to take Yvette in and then he sat up a little straighter. "I was beginnin' to worry. Ain't everyday I get invited to be in a movie."

Yvette made a motion with her hand and, with another sigh, Luke put his eye to the view scope and turned the camera on. Yvette counted down with her fingers and, at one, he began recording.

"Let's start at the beginning. What's your name?"

The boy stared at the camera for a few moments before replying, as if somewhat uncomfortable with the mechanical eye that would be peering into his life. "Vince. Well, Vince is m' street name. I won't tell you m' real one."

Luke almost protested aloud at the realization that this boy was no more than a homeless kid who'd probably stolen money for every meal he'd ever eaten, but Yvette continued her stream of questioning before he could get a word in.

"That's fine. How old are you?"

"'M eighteen, I think. Or turnin' eighteen."

"And how long have you been living on the streets."

The boy ran a lean hand through his disheveled hair, as if belatedly trying to groom himself. "Nearly all m' life. Since m' mom died."

"I'm sorry." Luke usually hated it when people responded to the news of a death that way, considering that most of them hadn't even known the deceased, but coming from Yvette the statement of apology was not patronizing. It sounded almost as if she meant it, as if she knew what the words meant. "When did your mother die, Vince?"

The boy named Vince gave an expressionless shrug and turned his eyes to the study of the camera once more. Luke wondered disdainfully if he was gauging in his mind how much he could get for a piece of equipment like this one.

"Have you ever been to school, Vince?"

The boy's eyes flicked back to Yvette's face. "Huh?"

"Have you ever been to school?"

Vince inhaled slowly and shifted a little restlessly. "Yeah, couple times. Teachers didn't like me. Used to hand in m' homework on paper bags." He laughed hoarsely, almost humorlessly, his eyes dancing with barely concealed bitterness instead of mirth.

"What do you do for a living?"

Vince turned to look out the window again as a car honked from the road. "Whatever. Whatever gets me money. Somedays I beg on the street. Somedays I play m' harmonica in the park." A corner of his mouth twitched suddenly. "Somedays I steal. Jus' depends, I guess."

"Have you ever dealt in drugs or prostitution?"

"Hell no!" Vince sat up suddenly and Luke guessed that Yvette had hit a topic for discussion. "No, I know that racket, an' I know some of the guys in it, too. Can't trust 'em. They'll take all your money an' leave you dependin' on them for everything." Vince slouched a little again, returning the fraying straw to his mouth. "No, I'm my own racket and whatever money I make, I keep."

Yvette nodded, almost knowingly, Luke thought. He frowned behind the camera, wondering what Yvette thought she knew about the life of this kid.

"What do you think about this town, Vince?"

Luke settled himself more comfortably. At least they were getting on topic.

Vince shrugged. "As good as any other town, I guess."

Yvette shifted a little, sliding her elbows up on the table as she moved forward, as if about to impart a secret to the youth. "Did you know that this town has a YMCA/YWCA, Vince? They take in kids off the street and feed them and clean them up. They even teach them and help them to get a job."

Vince leaned back into his chair after himself leaning in to hear what Yvette had to say. He poked at his teeth with the broken end of the straw. "Yeah, I know that. I know that. I just...I dunno. I'm kind of set in m' ways, if you know what I mean." He gave a chuckle and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, inspecting the yellowing tiles of the cafe. "'Sides, I dunno if they could help me much. I only got educated up to grade eight..."

"That doesn't matter," Yvette asserted. Luke glanced at her out of the camera eye, seeing Yvette as the philanthropist he'd always figured she was. She'd probably worked at a YMCA, or at YWCA to be more precise, before she'd started working at Munroe Inc., and now she was trying to advertise it. Well, he had to admit, it was a good thing to mention on a film about the town. It bathed it in a more humanistic glow, reeling people in the same way flies were drawn to a bug-light.

"An' what kind of a job could they get for me, anyways? Job as a...real estate agent, or some'n?" He laughed again, but the sound was angry, hurt. Luke was suddenly forced to look at this Vince as a young man with dreams and aspirations as real as anyone else's. He hadn't grown up thinking 'I want to be a burden on society'. He'd probably imagined himself as a fireman, or an astronaut, like every other child ever passed through its mother's womb. Fate had just seen fit to trample this boy underfoot. Pity made Luke drop his eye to the back of Yvette's head.

"Whatever you want, Vince. They can help you..."

"Yeah, can you see me as a lawyer, or some'n?"

"They can help you into whatever job you choose, you just have to..."

"Or maybe a...the boss of some big corporation!" His voice was getting louder the more he joked and Luke found himself becoming a little nervous. "Yeah, I think I can see that!"

"You just have to be willing to try your hardest for it."

Vince was staring out of the window again, chewing the straw mercilessly between his incisors. And then, without turning, he began to speak in a soft, toneless voice. "Hey, what do you know about me, lady? Nothin'. You don't know nothin' about me. Prob'ly grew up in some big fancy house with your rich parents, prob'ly eating more in one day than I eat in a week." He shook his head, his jaw jutting a little. "You don't know nothin'."

Yvette waited until Vince had finished speaking to put her hands palm down on the table, ready to reply. Luke wondered if she would tell him he was right, she didn't know anything about him. Maybe she would say she'd known others like him. Luke just hoped this wouldn't take too much longer. At the risk of discomfort, he had decided not to carry the tripod from the van, and now his thin arms were beginning to ache from the prolonged elevation of the camera.

"Vince, don't assume about what I do and don't know. I was a crack baby found in a dumpster, and so I wasn't adopted as a baby. I was shifted around from foster home to foster home as a girl because I was too temperamental for many people to bother with me. Finally, I ran away and came here. I prostituted myself for a living under a pimp until a night he almost killed me for not meeting my quota. I then spent five months on the street, scrounging and starving until a woman, a stranger, found me and brought me to the YWCA. The people of this town helped me get on my feet, and now, here I am, doing what I wanted to do."

The straw drooped from Vince's mouth, dangling from his fingers as limply as his argument. Luke felt his own jaw hanging open and closed it quickly. Vince looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came. Eventually, Yvette stood.

"Thank you, Vince, for allowing me to do this documentary. It was a pleasure meeting you."

Vince nodded vacantly and Luke saw him follow her departing figure with his eyes. As if breaking from a trance, Luke turned off the camera and, giving a polite nod to the boy, followed Yvette through the crowd. Expecting to see her heading for the door, he was surprised to find her approaching the counter. She fished around in her vest pocket and pulled out a waded up fifty dollar bill. Putting it down on the countertop, she waved to the man at the cash register. He gravitated toward her as if she was the only one there.

"This if for the young man at the table by the window," she said, loud enough for the man to hear her over the ruckus of the assembled people seated on stools at the counter. "Give him whatever he wants and make sure he gets the change."

The man nodded. Yvette smiled and walked through the crowd toward the door, Luke scrambling to keep up, carrying the camera carefully as if it was priceless. Neither of them spoke as they crossed the street to the van. There really was nothing to say that had not already been said in some form or another.

Yvette climbed into the passenger side seat beside the driver and Luke hoisted himself into the back. As the van returned to Munroe Inc., Luke rewound the tape and hooked the camera up to the recording equipment around him. He then turned on the television screen and played the tape back.

It was unconventional. It was coarse. But it was truth, in all its raw glory. Luke wondered if he had ever seen this town in all of the twenty-three years he'd lived in it. He wondered if he'd ever really seen it. Because he'd never seen the hope in the buildings, at the corners, along the streets, that Yvette had seen. He'd seen a town as good and as bad as any other, with its rich and its poor.

But now, to his unveiled eyes, this town was almost an entity.

And he wondered if it would be possible for him to move to the town described in the video, the town where some people cared.

He wondered if the YMCA was looking for volunteers. Because he had a feeling that it was the city hall of the place where Yvette had grown up, where perhaps Vince would relocate to; it was the heart of the entity, pumping out blood in equal portions to each piece of the town. Pumping out life, and compassion, and humanity in their purest forms.