“We both know why not, Brick—I don’t want you anywhere near my puppy!”

Cassie says, “Puppy? You gotta puppy? Can I play with it?”

“Your brother doesn’t like animals,” Tully says. “Any animals.”

“He likes Rover,” Cassie says.

Tully is one of the few kids in school who isn’t scared of me. In February, when she caught me throwing rocks at Igor in his outdoor pen, she screeched loud enough to raise every corpse in the Collings Head Cemetery. Good thing the Semples weren’t home—although she threatened to tell them if she saw me anywhere near Igor again.

Then, last spring, even though I’m always super-careful, she glimpsed me picking on Lorne Meisner at school; luckily she was-n’t close enough to do anything. If she’s told her dad about me, odds are he won’t hire me.

I think about the stash of bills under my mattress, scarcely enough for two months’ board. “Come on, Cassie,” I say, “we’ll see if Rolf’s home.”

Lucas scurries out of the store and picks up his bike. “Ol’ MacTaggart gave me a new bag of cookies,” he says. “So there, smart ass.”

Pumping hard, he takes off. I’ll get him for that, even if I have to wait until school starts.

Tully sneers at me. “Bullying the little kids again, Brick?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“If you even look at my puppy, I’ll—“

“I’m not interested in your dumb puppy! Come on, Cassie.”

Tully marches into the store, banging the door shut behind her.

Because I’m in a hurry, we drive along the shoulder of #539 to our road, then belt it to Rolf’s place. He lives just past Docker Lonergan, who drives the garbage truck one week and the recycling truck the next. Della and Agnes Barnes own the house across the road from us, a bit farther from the river. They have a garden, big time. When she’s not primping her roses, Della runs the Hilchey Bay Post Office like she’s the CEO of General Motors.

Add the Semples, and that’s everyone on Hilchey River Road.

Might as well include the old hunting shack in the woods near the river. Tenants? Porcupines, raccoons, and squirrels.

2.4 [hired hand]

A NOVA Scotia Power truck is parked in Rolf’s driveway; he’s a lineman. Part of the front of the house has already been scraped.

I park the ATV to the left of the garage under the shade of the trees, where Floyd can’t see it from the road, and pocket the key. Floyd’s never actually forbidden me to get a job. But he’s dead against what he calls fraternizing with the neighbors.

After I brush the dust off Cassie’s clothes, we walk over to the garage. Rolf comes out. Stocky guy in faded jeans and a black T-shirt.

“Morning,” he says.