We stood in the driveway with Beatrice’s packed suitcase, waiting for my mom to reverse the car out of the garage. It was six a.m. Ellen and Thomas had said goodbye to Beatrice from their beds, but I’d come down. The sky at the eastern tree line behind the Walkers’ turned pink as the sun started to climb. The air was cold, the uncut stalks of grass and leaves still wet with dew; it was the time we’d once have been heading out to cut lawns in Dad’s truck, loading machines, getting ready for a day’s work. A chickadee was singing its heart out in the dogwood at the side of the house. We’d had a lawn job where the woman in the house would come out and feed chickadees from her hand, they were that friendly with humans. She’d told us that the chickadee sometimes warns humans. It could be about danger or to foretell luck. I pointed the bird on the dogwood out to Beatrice, his gray sides and tail, black cap and bib, white cheeks and open mouth.

Beatrice had never left home before. I wanted to hold her and not let go. North Carolina seemed far away. She wouldn’t know anyone. Maybe all the other campers would be there with friends from school, from other southern places, and she’d be all by herself.

“Remember that sometimes you have to talk first and ask girls questions to try to get to know them.” Beatrice looked like she was giving this serious consideration. “And remember, southerners are always polite.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but they’re, like, ridiculously polite. Think Sage a thousand times over. So be enthusiastic like . . . all the time. That’s what they’re like down there.”

“Okay. I’ll try.” She looked unsure. It did sound exhausting. Her hair was pulled into low ponytails on either side of her head. She was so serious and young.

My mom was wearing a short denim skirt with a suede belt, a white peasant top, and her Dr. Scholl’s wood sandals. She looked like a teenager. The clothes were new, bought, I guessed, for her time away. I put the suitcase in the trunk, and the three of us stood there for a minute on the driveway, looking at each other.

“Libby, don’t forget: Ellen needs to be ready for the Gambinos by nine because they want to go to ten o’clock mass. The trash goes out Thursdays. Under no circumstances is anyone allowed in this house while I’m gone. I want you home at night by nine o’clock, and Thomas by ten. I could be calling around those times.”

“The fireworks are on tonight at the Sun Bowl. They won’t finish until after nine.”