Around her, sports teams were piling into vans and buses: tennis, baseball, golf and swim teams. Kids with cars shot out of the student parking lot, windows down, so everybody could shout to everybody else.

“Hey, Mace!” came two voices. “Want a ride?” Macey’s best friends, Lindsay and Grace, leaned out the window of a Volvo. Grace’s mother had come to pick them up.

“I’m walking, thanks!” yelled Macey.

“Oh, right, it’s Friday,” said Lindsay, rolling her eyes. “She’s got her shortcuts to take.”

“Oh, brother,” said Grace, laughing out the car window. “Being a juvenile again?”

Grace’s mother blew a kiss to Macey, and they drove on. Macey waved no to the driver of her own school bus. It was a three-mile hike to her grandparents’, but Macey took shortcuts. Her route was closer to a mile and a half, and if she ran, she could make it in twenty minutes. What the run really did was cut her off from school, making the weekend clean and separate and safe. Macey cut through the golf course, cut through the woods and behind the old supermarket, through backyards and finally through the swamp.

The swamp wasn’t a hundred feet across, and it wasn’t a block long, but it had the strength of a canyon. Nobody but Macey ever crossed it.

A few years ago, she’d dragged boards into the swamp to give herself a path over the wettest parts. She hopped on the edge of the first board to be sure it wouldn’t split when she put her weight on it.

From a hundred yards away drifted the rich scent of ocean: mudflats and fish and salt water. It was a warm-weather smell. Last week had been March, when school was a thing that would last forever—but today it was the first week in April, and Macey could shade her eyes and catch a glimpse of summer.

Beyond the swamp was the old stone foundation of a barn. Come summer, wild roses and tiger lilies would make it a sunken garden. Macey was not basically a sitting-down person, but she loved to sit here. It was peaceful. Even in early April, the sun warmed the stones.

Back when there were horses, all these old shorefront houses had had stables. This one, turned into a garage and apartment, had burned when Macey’s mother was a girl. Supposedly a man had been in it at the time. When Macey was very little, she’d been afraid of the foundation, because what if the body was still there, waiting for her to find the bones?

But now, at fifteen and a half, she found the idea of discovering bones appealing, like archaeology or journalism.

Ten seconds was plenty of time to sit and consider the olden days. Macey jumped up and cut across the backyards of Shell Beach to her grandparents’ house.