“Cooler. For summer.” I gulp down the apricot juice, which tastes great, and say no to a homemade gingersnap even though I’m hungry enough to devour the whole can. “I gotta go. Cassie’ll be wanting her breakfast—she’s my little sister.”

Mr. Semple’s eyes sharpen behind his glasses. “Isn’t your mother home?”

“She’s home. But she might still be asleep.”

When I stand up, Mr. Semple says, “Your knees! Here, we’d better—”

“I really have to go.” Sunlight glints on the copper saucepans; one of the books sitting on the table is about Tibet. “I’ll clean them up later.”

“Be sure you do. But at least let me drive you home.”

The VW is still parked partway into the road. Mr. Semple gives it too much accelerator when he reverses and the tires spin in the dirt. Grinding the gears as he goes into first, he says, “I can’t tell you how grateful we are. Glenn thinks the world of that dog. He would have been devastated if anything had happened to him, particularly since he’s the one who was responsible for the dog getting loose. He was trying to open a chocolate bar when a cat ran past.” He skips second gear altogether, straight to third. The revs drop alarmingly. “Are you a reader?”

“Yeah, I like to read.”

“One never knows these days. The next time you’re in town, I want you to drop into the store. You can pick out any book you’d like, on the house. A small token of our appreciation—mine and Glenn’s.”

I flush scarlet. A tear trickling down Glenn’s cheek, Igor shivering at the end of his leash ...

7.3 [interest is mounting daily]

AS WE drive past, Della Barnes is in her front garden cutting the grass, pushing the power mower up the slope with grim purpose. A germ of an idea takes hold.

“You can let me out here, Mr. Semple. Thanks for the drive.”

“You’re welcome. Don’t forget about the book.”

I watch him turn around with another clash of gears; it’s a wonder the VW still has a clutch. Then I walk back down the road and stand there until Della turns the mower off. The silence feels loud.

“I’ll cut your grass for you,” I say. “For the rest of the summer. If you want.”

She’s skinny like me, wearing baggy trousers and a man’s shirt, her face weathered and wrinkly, her hair in a loose knot that droops over one ear. “How much?”

I make a wild guess. “Twenty bucks. Can I bring my little sister? She’s good—she wouldn’t be in the way.”

“We haven’t allowed children on the property since last summer, when three boys from Swamp Road tore every rose off the bushes.”