Even though I know that Thanksgiving is next week, the word still sends a jolt through me. Thanksgiving was Gram’s favorite holiday. With Mom’s family so far away, we always spent it with Gram. It will be my first big holiday without her.

I feel a sharp arrow of sadness, followed by an awful hardness at the thought. I guess even though things are kind of getting back to normal, I can’t stop feeling like Gram failed me somehow. Like she taught me the wrong things. Like she didn’t prepare me enough for what it would be like when she was gone.

You should know that I don’t want to feel this way about her. I just do.

“My mom has already started cooking,” Fina is saying. “Even though there’s only the three of us this year. She likes to have everything planned out, I guess.”

“Sounds like my kind of mom,” says Mom. Which is funny, since Ms. Ramirez is definitely not Mom’s kind of mom. I wonder what she thought of Ms. Ramirez’s purple hair.

That night, Fina and I eat dinner with Mom, Dad, and Lily. Somehow, having Fina there changes everything. The mood is so much lighter, and I don’t feel Mom’s eyes tracing the outlines of my patches, trying to tell if they’ve gotten bigger or not. She’s too busy talking Fina’s ear off about the one trip she took to LA in college and how she went Rollerblading at the beach and rode a Ferris wheel and saw some guy named Sean Connery in Hollywood.

Fina and I lock eyes when Mom talks about his “dreamy accent” and nearly burst out laughing. Even Lily seems giggly.

“Well, he was the best Bond,” Dad says—whatever that means—with a resigned sigh.

Fortunately, everyone goes to sleep early that night, so Fina and I don’t have to wait forever to sneak out of the house. Just like on Halloween, I give Boomer a bone to distract him, and then I creep out to make sure all the lights are off.

Fina has my backpack strapped to her shoulders, chock-full of stakeout supplies: binoculars, a flashlight, and lots and lots of snacks. I bring the journal from the sycamore tree, which I’ve kept in my room all this week, hidden in the corner of the closet.

We bundle up, sneak out the back, and slink into the little brick lane behind Morning Glory Cottage. It’s only eleven o’clock, but the average bedtime in Lanternwood is probably closer to eight thirty, which might explain why we don’t run into anyone.

Hopefully, not everyone is asleep, though. Hopefully, my mysterious pen pal is still awake.