Macey had not done the soup kitchen. She hated things where people were sad and grimy and lost.

But tomorrow’s field trip was painting the Sunday school rooms at their sister church, Good Shepherd, an inner-city church to which they gave a little money and their old furniture. Macey detested art class, but she loved painting big things, like walls. An art teacher had sketched a master plan for the project. The rooms would be daffodil yellow and sunset orange, barn red and ocean blue. Crayon colors, to brighten the dark.

“Then that’s your assignment,” said Nana, meaning Austin. “Research the situation. Report back.”

In their attempt to divorce, Austin’s mother and father had become bickering, screaming children. It was unbearable. His perfectly nice, intelligent, good parents yelling foul names, setting traps for each other, ambushing each other with legal problems. With all that fighting, they had no time to raise a son. When Grandmother and Grandfather suggested that Austin stay with them until things cooled down, he was glad to put distance between himself and his shrieking parents.

The shock was, his mother and father were also glad. Glad to wave good-bye so they could concentrate on their war.

The second shock was how fast the first shock wore off.

He arrived too late in the school year to be in any fall sport or get a part in the drama production. Austin had never been able to sit still, so he needed a job, any job, and he agreed to get advertising for the play program. Kids crept up to him in school and whispered that they were responsible for selling two ads, but they couldn’t do it, they couldn’t go up to strangers and beg; would Austin do it for them?

He set a school record, more sales than anybody had accomplished in the 110-year history of the high school. His math teacher adjusted it for inflation and Austin was still the highest.

So he was successful, a hero, and had more poise than anybody in the entire high school. Not bad.

The best thing, though, was Grandfather.

Grandfather had owned a small bank, which was kind of a neat thought, your own personal bank, but it had been bought out and merged into an enormous Boston bank. Grandfather was still involved, and at seventy-nine had not retired.

Austin felt as if Grandfather had been waiting for years, needing a grandson to do things with. They went to air shows together, they went to ice hockey games, they were restoring an old wooden boat. When Austin mentioned his lifelong dream of hiking the Appalachian Trail, Grandfather said he’d always wanted to do that, and so they were planning to do some of the New England section this summer, a day or two at a time.