The next day was devoted to distributing the two remaining piles of sand over the backyard. Frankie knew by now that it was no use asking if he could go anywhere. His father told him after breakfast that it was another project day for the two of them, and that it was Frankie’s job to sit on the back patio and keep an eye out for police helicopters while he worked. Frankie didn’t see any helicopters, or police of any kind, though later that afternoon several neighbors slowed their cars down while passing the house and stared at the sand-covered lawn as if they were witnessing an accident. One of the cars belonged to Mrs. Woodrow. She came to a stop next to the sidewalk and rolled down the passenger window. “Hello, Frankie,” she said. “We’re just on our way home from the doctor’s. It was checkup day. What on earth’s happened to your yard?”

“We’re fixing the soil,” Frankie said. He looked at Jennifer in the backseat and waved. She waved back, then scooted over to the open window and leaned out, peering at the lawn from under the bill of her cap. She said, “There’s sand all over the grass.”

“I know,” Frankie said. “My dad says it’s good for it.”

“That’s stupid. Grass needs sunlight. Anyone knows that.”

“Frankie,” Mrs. Woodrow said, “we miss having you around. Come back and see us.”

“I’ll try,” Frankie said.

The window went up and the car began to roll. Frankie waved as they rounded the corner.

The sand remained right where it was. The sky was clear and the air stayed hot, day after day, until what little grass there was, poking above the surface, began to curl and turn brown. Frankie’s father added a soap opera to his afternoons, and several times a day he got up and stood at the front window, or at the sliding glass doors that opened onto the backyard, smoking as he gazed outside. They were sitting on the couch when they heard a rumble in the distance that grew until it nearly blocked out the sound of the TV. The door knocker rattled like a telegraph knob. Frankie looked toward the front window, then at his father. His father’s eyes didn’t leave the screen, but his nose twitched and his nostrils flared and, as if he’d identified the rocket by smell alone, he said, “Weather satellite.”