NO TRUCK in the driveway at Rolf’s place, and no sign of Marigold or Caramel. A ladder is leaning against the side of the garage. Crouched on the roof is a girl with bright red hair. Tully Langille, who’s scared of heights, on top of the garage? Now, there’s a golden opportunity.

The rule flashes through my head as though Docker’s standing in front of me in his white gi: Seek perfection of character.

When you live with Floyd, high-minded principles are about as useful as skates on a dog. I shout, “You taking up hang gliding?”

Her head jerks around. “Go away.”

Almost, I do. Almost. “What if I take the ladder away instead?”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Why don’t you explain what you’re doing up there?”

“What does it look like?” If a voice can sound aggressive, mortified, and desperate all at the same time, hers does.

I walk closer. “Looks like you’re glued to the shingles.”

She says, talking fast, “Mom’s gone to town with Rolf for a doctor’s appointment. I saw a baby robin fall out of the nest onto the roof—it was trying to fly. So I got out the ladder. Climbed it without thinking what I was doing. The bird’s still here, so the parents keep dive-bombing me. I’m scared it’ll die. Not that you’d care.”

“Gimme one good reason why I should.”

“How would you like to fall out of the nest and no one rescue you?”

Story of my life.

Tully’s head is bowed again. “It’s suffering,” she says, so low I can scarcely hear her.

Even I can see that she’s the one who’s suffering. If she’s scared of heights like I’m scared of Floyd ...

Feet dragging in the grass, I approach the garage. “What if I come up?”

“To kill the bird?”

My fists tighten around the ladder. “To help you get down.”

“Do I have a choice?”

I climb the ladder. As I crawl onto the roof, a robin arrows out of the maple tree right for me, veering off at the last minute with a loud screech. The baby robin has wet feathers and a stunned expression. Every now and then it flutters its wings, claws scrabbling on the shingles. No takeoff. But it’s trying.

“Where’s the nest?” I say.

Still crouched low, Tully nods toward a junction of three branches, where a mess of small twigs have been woven together. A head is poking over the edge, beak gaping. “The parents can’t feed them while I’m on the roof,” she mutters. “When I got up here, I realized I couldn’t lift the bird back into the nest because I was afraid to stand up.”