Opal’s been gone all day. Cassie is helping me. Need I say more? “Why don’t you get two Super Sandwiches from the freezer?” I say. “Then you should sit in the shade for a while.”

It’s a two-over-one row. The bark is dead white and crisp, burns with an oily black smoke, and it’ll start a fire if you’re ever lost in the woods and you remembered to bring matches.

Cassie comes back with two chocolate sandwiches. Keeping my ears cocked for the Hummer, I sit down in the shade and gulp mine down, then tip back my water bottle and drain it.

Eleven years ago. We’re in the backyard. Floyd is throwing the ball and I’m supposed to catch it—we’ve played this game before. The first couple of times I manage just fine and he smiles at me. It’s important to make him smile. I smile back. Then I fumble four catches in a row, the ball rolling away over the grass. When I pick it up for the fourth time and turn around, he’s walking up the steps to the side door. His fists are clenched, like he’s holding candies he doesn’t want me to have. He goes inside. The door shuts. I start to cry.

Man, where did that come from? I drop the empty water bottle on the grass. Ice cream is dripping all over Cassie’s fingers as she croons to Rover, something about his nightscares and how she’ll look after him.

Standing up, I grip the handles of the wheelbarrow like I’m throttling them. On my way back to the heap of wood, the barrow bangs into the side of the garage because I’m not watching what I’m doing. Terrified, I check the shingles. No damage.

My lucky day.

I fling logs into the wheelbarrow. They thunk against the metal, bounce so hard that bark cracks off and chips fly into the air. Sure, Brick, no sign of Lorne or Glenn—go bash some birch logs.

Fire a couple through the living room window straight at Floyd’s TV, why don’t you?

My throat’s so tight I can scarcely breathe, and the wheelbarrow, I see dully, is full.

*

THE DRIVEWAY’S raked, wheelbarrow leaning against the garage wall with the handles level, new woodpile as geometric as I can make it, and Floyd’s home. He jumps to the ground, carrying his laptop, and strides toward the house. Sometimes (not often), I realize how good-looking he is.