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intellectual.
    Getting Bartholomew admitted into the hospital was a struggle. We had to convince the night crew that our friend was in mortal danger. His raving alcohol-induced madness wasn’t enough to convince them immediately. General hospitals weren’t prepared for accidents involving the human psyche. The body they could deal with. But they either didn’t know or didn’t care about how to deal with an injured mind. By the time we succeeded in getting him admitted, Bartholomew was less agitated. They gave him a strong sedative and carried him, asleep, to his room.
    We went to visit him in the afternoon. Bartholomew was much better. He was no longer having hallucinations and was released. He asked us to tell him everything that had happened and how we’d met. His memory was cloudy. The dreamseller signaled to me. I tried to explain the incomprehensible. When I began to speak, the dreamseller left. He didn’t like to be praised.
    I spoke about the dreamseller, how I’d met him, how he’d helped save me, how we met at the foot of the building, the dancing, the question about Bartholomew’s great dream, how he’d called him, the bridge, the night terrors, everything. Bartholomew paid close attention and nodded his head, muttering, “hmm.” Everything seemed so unreal that I felt like a fool explaining something I didn’t even understand. The poor man was as good-natured as the dreamseller.
    “You don’t know who he is or what his name is? Buddy, I think I need a drink to figure this all out,” he joked. “I’ve always wanted to follow somebody crazier than me.”
    And that’s how I became part of this band of misfits. My sociological experiment was widening. I only hoped I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. I’d rather anyone from my former life think I was dead or had left the country. Bartholomew whistled in a carefree manner. The dreamseller walked beside us with unabashed joy. Suddenly, he started singing a beautiful and rousing song he had composed, with lyrics that portrayed the story of his life. Little by little, the song became the central theme of our journey.
I’m just a wanderer
Who lost the fear of getting lost
I’m certain of my own imperfection
You may say I’m crazy
You may mock my ideas
It doesn’t matter!
What matters is I’m a wanderer
Who sells dreams to passersby
I’ve no compass or appointment book
I have nothing, yet I have everything
I’m just a wanderer
In search of myself.
     
    On the walk home, or rather, to the bridge, we ran into another strange character. His name was Dimas de Melo, nicknamed “Angel Hand.” His nickname should have been “Devil Hand,” because he was a con man and a thief. He was twenty-eight with blond hair that fell over his brow, a long, pointed nose and Asian features.
    Angel Hand was caught stealing a portable DVD playerfrom a department store. He had already stolen countless other more valuable things without getting caught. But this time a camera had filmed him in the act. Of course he had slyly checked out all the cameras when he placed the machine in his large bag, but hadn’t seen there was a hidden one, and he landed in jail.
    At the police station, he asked for a lawyer before detectives could question him. He told his lawyer he didn’t have money for bail. The lawyer said, “No money; no freedom.”
    Whenever the thief felt nervous, he began to stutter badly. He argued, “Hold on a minute . . . I’m, I’m gonna get out of this without pa . . . paying a thing. Just f . . . follow my lead.” The lawyer didn’t understand what he had in mind. They went into the office of the impatient police chief.
    When the chief asked the prisoner’s name, Dimas, acting like he had mental problems, twiddled his lips with his index finger and smacked his forehead three times. The chief got mad and again asked his name. And Dimas repeated the gesture.
    “Are you playing with me, son? Because I’ll lock you in that holding cell and throw away the