I glanced over at Nate, whose idea of walking home was to get out of Pops’s sight and then stick out his thumb. Hitchhiking was against CCC rules, but Nate’s view was that catching a ride in your hometown didn’t count.

He was saying, “I don’t know why Maggie doesn’t like Owen Schieling. He knocks himself out being nice.”

“Yes, he does,” I agreed.

I’d almost forgotten Nate had a sister, but now I asked, “You think Maggie will be home?”

“I don’t know why not, once school’s out,” he answered. “She doesn’t have anyplace else to go. Hey! There’s somebody slowing for us now.”

Chapter 17

Nate lived along a washboard road where working farms alternated with abandoned ones. He pointed out the start of his place, with its bare fields neatly plowed into straight furrows. The recent snow had melted, leaving long ridges of wet earth.

A dirt driveway between outbuildings led to the Lundgren house, a two-story farmhouse in bad need of paint. We found Mrs. Lundgren in the kitchen, which smelled of something spicy being baked.

“Hope there’s plenty,” Nate said, giving her a hug. “This is my friend Moss Trawnley. I’ve been bragging on your cooking, so he’s come with an appetite.”

“Supper’s hours off,” she said, “but I’ve got cookies about to come out of the oven.” She stood back to get a good look at him. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“Who’s here?” a hoarse voice asked, as Maggie came into the kitchen wrapped in a heavy robe. Her nose was red, her eyes were watery, and she took one look at me and whirled on her brother. “Nate, you should have warned us . . .”

“It’s just Moss,” he said. “He doesn’t care how you look.”

Before disappearing back up the stairs, she gave him a glare that made him say, “What? What!”

Then Nate’s dad came in the back door.

“Arne,” Mrs. Lundgren said to him, “Nate’s here with one of his friends. This is Moss Trawnley.”

“Glad to meet you, Moss,” Mr. Lundgren said. “Welcome home, son.”

Mr. Lundgren was built stocky, like Nate, with thinning hair and faded eyes. He went over to the sink, pumped a panful of water, and scrubbed his hands before sitting down at the table.

Mrs. Lundgren poured coffee around and then moved the cookies—Russian rocks, she called them—straight from the oven to a cooling rack she set before us. “Moss,” she said. “Tell me how they are.”

It was a good thing she had a second tray baking, because we polished that first batch off in no time, and managed to get in a good bit of talking, too.

Nate started to tell about camp, but his mother stopped that. “Might as well wait on your sister,” she said, “or you’re going to have to say it all over.”