I’ve never eaten a meal in anyone else’s house. I kick off my sneakers at the side door, which leads right into the kitchen. First thing you know, a fluffy brown puppy is sniffing my socks.

Cassie says, “His name’s Caramel. Can we have a puppy?”

“Nope.”

“Pat him, Brick. He likes having his ears scratched.”

The whole crew’s lined up—Rolf and Marigold smiling, Tully thin-lipped. The puppy butts me with his head. I stoop, trying not to wince, and rub him between the ears. He closes his eyes, leans into me.

Big folds of skin around his neck, waiting for him to grow into them.

Funny thing, I’ve thrown more than my share of rocks at dogs, but I’ve never actually touched one before. Not even—but this isn’t the time for that particular memory. Cassie plops down beside me and shoves her face into the puppy’s fur. He slurps at her chin with his tongue. She giggles.

Marigold says, “The bathroom’s down the hall, Brick. There’s a clean towel on the counter.”

So far, so good. Tully hasn’t blabbed about Igor, Lorne, or Lucas. Or the other Donovan kids or Gary Sanger or Billy Gottrich. I wash up in the bathroom, which is old-fashioned, superclean, and has blue towels that match the picture on the wall of a sailboat on the ocean. It’s only a photo out of a calendar, but the frame’s handmade.

The kitchen window overlooks the trees out back. I sit down at the table and, when the plate’s passed, help myself to a sandwich and a chunk of cheese. Cassie, who hardly ever talks to Opal and never to Floyd, is burbling away to anyone who’ll listen. I try to relax. The sandwiches are ham and lettuce.

Rolf says, “The job’s yours if you want it, Brick. But you gotta put in long hours while the weather holds, so I need to know I can depend on you.”

“You can,” I say. Praying she’s behaved herself, I add, “Is Cassie a bother?”

“She’s no trouble,” Marigold says.

Marigold and Rolf moved to Hilchey Bay late last December, right after they got married. Like I said, even though Tully has Rolf’s last name, she isn’t Rolf’s kid. If anyone at school asks about her real father, she clams up. If they persist, she turns nasty. Tully can do nasty in spades.

Marigold puts a plate of cookies on the table. I take one. Peanut butter, melt in your mouth. “Some good,” I say and take another.

“I made them,” Tully says.

I look down at my plate, wishing this meal was over. At home, Cassie and I eat on our own.