At the top of Paul Lemen, I hesitated but kept going. I had never been on the McVays’ driveway. Even when I was selling daisies for Daisy Day, I hadn’t gone up because Wilson McVay lived there. The driveway and house were shaded by giant cottonwoods. I picked up a fallen twig as I walked toward the house. Through the glass extension I could see a large television and a fireplace and nice furniture with cushions. But outside, something about the place felt like it wasn’t cared for, a neglect not that different from our own, the way weeds grew up along the house at the back of the bedded gardens and crabgrass had overwhelmed the mulch. Impatiens had shriveled. Grass pushed through cracks in the asphalt driveway. It was a Friday afternoon, and I wondered if his parents were already home, and how would I explain what I was doing there. I looked at the front door. There was a large knocker but no bell. I had come this far. I lifted the knocker and rapped three times and waited. No one answered.

I snapped the twig in my hand as I stepped away and looked at the star pattern in the pith. It only appears in fallen cottonwood twigs or branches, not living ones. There is a story that the night wished for stars and asked the wind for help, and the wind shook the cottonwood and the twigs fell, releasing their hidden stars.

“What’re you doing here?” The voice came from behind, startling me. Wilson was standing there with a cloth and a tub of wax. I saw the outdoor shed, and the Yamaha. He’d seen me go up to the door.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“You’re here to see my parents, then?”

“No, obviously.” I held up the two ends of the twig. “You have cottonwood twigs on your driveway.”

“Is there something that you want?” He seemed irritated that I was at his house, even though he repeatedly intruded on ours.

“No. I need a favor.”

“Did something happen? Did you see him?”

“No, not that. I . . .”

Wilson just stared at me, wiping grease from his hands with the cloth.

“Will you check something for me tonight?”

I asked him if he’d drive up Horseshoe Trail Road from the Nike site and past the Sun Bowl and see if there were any cars parked there, or anyone walking on the road. It had to be at one, not before or after. But not to go down the Bouchers’ driveway, or even look down there. Sometimes she parked at the end of her driveway at that time. And could I trust him not to say any of this to anyone, ever?

“So you’re, like, doing the Libby Rockford Files, spying on people?”

“Isn’t this the kind of thing you’re good at?”

“Maybe what people do up there at night is none of your business.”