KITTEN HAD BEEN GONE FOR A WEEK OR SO, trying to patch things up with her father, but it hadn't worked out. So one early fall day, she headed back to the streets where she'd been living for several weeks. Hands thrust deep into the pockets of her baggy purple jeans, face half-hidden under the hood of her oversized sweatshirt, the 14-year-old looked even tinier than she was. At the intersection of Willamette Street and Broadway downtown, Kitten saw the group of kids she thought of as her family. Noah, as usual, sat astride his bike in front of the Taco Time. Dopey, Wolfman and TKO, wearing t-shirts, ball caps, and sweats over their skinny frames, kicked a hackeysack over by the deli. Sierra shrieked and laughed as one of the guys tried to tickle her. Baby Girl talked in hushed tones with an older man. In the middle of the group of teens, Kitten spotted Jay, who, at 25 saw himself as sort of father figure among the mall rats -- even though he wasn't always above temptation. Kitten considered him and some of the others her street brothers. As she told her story about how things didn't work out with her dad, the morning grew warmer. Jay took off his flannel-lined denim jacket. He offered her a cigarette. Other kids gathered around, glad to see her. "I've got something," Kitten said. She smiled slyly, reached under her sweatshirt. The kids leaned in to watch as her hands emerged. Jay put his hand on her shoulder, peering down at her. Like a magician turning a handkerchief into a bird, Kitten opened her hands There, covering her palm, was a bright-green iguana. She'd agreed to hold it for one of the other kids who'd gone up to Seattle, or maybe San Francisco, she couldn't remember. Now the iguana was hers. The kids passed the lizard from hand to hand. Kitten dropped her red book bag at her feet, sprawled out on the steps, brought the cigarette to her mouth, leaned back, pointed her chin to the sky and exhaled slowly. It was good to be home.