The sun shone through Billy's window waking him up from a deep sleep. He rolled over lazily and glanced at alarm clock on his bedside table. The red neon letters showed that it was nearly half past ten. The American outlaw shot up, vaguely annoyed that he had slept so long. He tromped downstairs to find Machiavelli working his way through Treasure Island.

"Why'd you let me sleep so long, Mac?" he called to the boy, sticking his head out the window to look up at the sky. Machiavelli didn't answer, having been sucked back into the book. Turning around the outlaw noticed that his Italian companion had grown again last night. He crept up on Machiavelli, deciding to ham it up a bit.

At the last moment, Machiavelli heard the American behind him but before he could say or do anything, Billy grabbed up the boy and tossed him in the air. Cradling him in his arms, he pretended to cry a little. "My baby's growing up," he joked, his face buried in the front of Machiavelli's shirt.

"Put me down," Machiavelli feigned annoyance, but Billy could see him smiling. Billy dropped him back onto the couch. The Italian immortal picked up Treasure Island again. "It's easier to read by myself now," he told the American, "but still not as easy as it should be." He wrinkled his brow in confusion.

Billy leaned on the back of the couch. "It's probably your child's brain fighting with your adult's mind."

"I suppose so," Machiavelli acknowledged. He put the book aside. "What are we going to do today?"

Billy shrugged, heading into the kitchen. "Want to go to the playground?" Machiavelli heard him shout. "There's an old wooden one down the road. I'll push you on the swings," he enticed, coming back into the room with an apple.

Machiavelli was about to answer, but got briefly distracted by the way Billy ate his apple. Somehow, the outlaw managed to fit half of the apple in his mouth with each bite. Three bites later, he had finished the apple. "Your stomach's going to think you forgot how to chew," he told the American. "What are you doing?" he queried, watching Billy pack a basket.

"We're going to the park. I'm packing a basket."

"Didn't I have a choice in this just a minute ago?"

"Yes, but then I realized we have a whole refrigerator full of food we need to use up, so we're going to have a birthday party in the park and use it all up." He pulled on his cowboy boots.

"How economical," Machiavelli quipped. But he shoved his feet in his sneakers. "Billy, before we go to the park, can we get me a new pair of shoes? These ones are getting awfully tight." He shifted his feet around.

"Course," Billy grabbed up the basket and slung it in the back seat. The two immortals climbed into the car and Billy turned the engine over with a loud roar. Soon they were racing down the roadway, Machiavelli enjoying the swooping feeling when Billy let the car coast down the hill. It felt almost like riding the rapids again. The two coasted into town, Billy gliding easily into a spot on Main Street. The Italian envied Billy his ease with the car. The last time Machiavelli had rode a car, he had driven it straight into the Italian Riviera and had since lost his desire to drive. Still, Billy made it look fun, he thought as they walked down to the shoe shop.

They turned into the shop. Billy asked the girl behind the counter if she could fit his son for a pair of shoes while he ran an errand. With his good looks and easy charms, he got the woman to agree with minimal effort. Bidding Machiavelli to behave, he went next door to buy a 'birthday present' for the Italian.