Rowan found Jenny under one of Chicken’s back legs. Her hair was a big drooly mess and her body was all ripped up. Her face was covered in bites and slime from Chicken’s mouth. Rowan broke the string so the sock came off her neck. He stepped on the garbage can and the lid flipped up and in went the sock.

More tears came out of my eyes. Even though I knew I shouldn’t let them go, I couldn’t stop.

“It’s okay. Don’t be sad. I’ll even clean up.”

He gave me Jenny and I wiped the drool on my nightgown.

“And don’t mind what Gloria said. She’s just angry about Telly.”

“She’s mad at me.”

“No, she’s not. I’m telling you the truth. If Telly came over, you wouldn’t be able to wipe the smile off her face.” He punched my arm. But not hard. “You all right?”

I sniffed and said, “I didn’t like Jenny’s heart being stuck inside Mr. Spooner’s dead sock anyway.”

“Then it’s good she’s just a head, Turtle. Who needs a heart?”

ROWAN

Mrs. Spooner always encouraged me to write things down so I’d feel better. She said the smartest people in the world did that as a way to “get in touch with their feelings.” So the day after Maisy’s concert, the day after Telly turned his back on me in the school hallway, I took a pen and some sheets of paper and I wrote down exactly what happened that night with Gloria. The thrill of sneaking chocolate bars, the misspelled sign, the wolves, the bathroom accident, the smoky camp under the bridge, Carl and Girl. And the others who seemed to reside up inside Carl’s head. I changed Gloria to an angry stepfather and me into a nine-year-old boy named Freddy. School was now closed for the summer, so I brought it to Mrs. Spooner at the library. She volunteered there most days, slipping books back onto the shelves, but when she saw me she stopped what she was doing. I gave her my story and she started to read it immediately. I wandered through the stacks, skimmed a short story and two comic books, and then she appeared clutching my story to her chest.

“I know I don’t have to grade you, but I couldn’t resist.”

She handed me the pages and I unfolded them. A++!! in red pen across the top of the first sheet. Then a bunch of comments scrawled up and down the sides. She said she’d never read anything so well written by someone my age. “The fear is palpable! A modern-day fairy tale! Goes to show kindness lurks in the most unlikely of places!”

“You don’t have to say all that,” I said.