After lunch, I move the ladder over the window and scrape the shingles above it, wearing gloves that Rolf gave me against blisters. I like how he’s leaving me alone to do the job, whistling away to himself as he scrapes the front. More of a meander than a tune. Still, it’s a happy sound.

Floyd watches every move and lists every single thing you’re doing wrong until—of course—you start making real mistakes.

What if Floyd finds out about this job?

Marigold cooks supper for us, fried chicken and potato salad with homemade tea biscuits. Then I scrape like a maniac on the far side of the house, the one you can’t see from the road. That $100 is as good as mine.

I don’t imagine you’re dying of suspense to know how meals work at our place—but be patient. There is a point.

Every two months Opal loads up the freezer. When she’s home, she eats salads from Sobeys, and she and Floyd often eat out; I don’t have to cook for them, which, believe me, is a major perk. Cassie and I start at the top of the freezer and work our way to the bottom. Also, Opal puts money in a jar in the pantry for extra groceries like eggs, bananas, and peanut butter, for my school lunches, and for clothes for me and Cassie. She doesn’t count the change. That’s how I’ve accumulated most of my stash. I told you there was a point.

The stash is money I’ve stolen. Opal refuses to pay me for babysitting. Who says two wrongs can’t make a right?

It’s nearly nine o’clock before I clamber down the ladder and lean against the wall. Exhausted has a whole new meaning. Wriggling my shoulders, feeling my right arm hang heavy, I take a few deep breaths. My ribs still hurt, but not half as bad as my hands. Gloves or no gloves, both thumbs are blistered.

Making me jump, Rolf says, “You done good, Brick. Get here as early tomorrow as you can. Want me to pay you as you go, or wait until we’re done?”

“Wait,” I say, hoping he didn’t notice me leap in the air like a startled rabbit.

Cassie’s nearly asleep when I load her against my chest on the ATV. Just to be safe, we connect behind Rolf’s with the river trail and follow it home, headlights picking out the boulders, boughs brushing the handlebars.

The house crouches in the trees, its windows small and so close together it looks cross-eyed. It was built in 1899 by my great-great-grandfather, a sea captain who didn’t want to look at the ocean on his days off. According to local legend, his crew members never signed up for a second stint.