Frankie felt his stomach tighten up. He swallowed and said, “Eating.”

“You just walked over here, without saying anything?”

“You were talking to that old man.”

“So you just left? You don’t do that! What were you thinking? How was I supposed to know where you were?”

“He’s eating his lunch,” Jennifer said. She was still wearing the Viking helmet. The horns teetered as she gazed up at him.

“No he’s not. He’s done.”

Frankie pushed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth.

“He hasn’t finished his potato chips,” Jennifer said. She reached into the bowl and took a small handful of chips and dropped them onto Frankie’s plate.

“Stop that,” his father said.

“You’re not the boss of me,” she said. “How come you’re killing your lawn?”

Frabkie glanced up nervously. His father’s jaw was clenched.

The Viking helmet tipped forward, and Jennifer reached up to lift it away from her eyes. “You are killing it, you know. Grass needs sunlight. And air.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No plant can live buried under a bunch of sand.” She dropped another handful of chips onto Frankie’s plate.

“Stop that,” his father said. “Frankie, I’m not going to tell you again—”

Just then the back door opened and Mrs. Woodrow stepped out, holding the chlorine tester in one hand.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Frankie’s father.”

“Oh! You’re Mr. Kerrigan,” she said. “I’m Jill Woodrow. It’s nice to finally meet you.” She stepped across the patio, extending her free hand.

“Let’s go,” Frankie’s father said to him. “I don’t know what you were thinking, coming over here, but you’re in big trouble.”

Mrs. Woodrow lowered her hand. “He’s been perfectly well behaved.”

“Excuse me, but—I’m talking to my son. And no, he hasn’t been well behaved, because he left the house without permission, and I didn’t know where he was.”

“He isn’t through eating,” Jennifer told her mother. “Does he have to go with this lawn killer?”

“Frankie,” his father said. He put the cigarette in a corner of his mouth and set his hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

Frankie felt his eyes going damp. “I’m not finished yet.”

“Well, then, I’m going to stand here until you decide just how much trouble you want to be in.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Woodrow said, approaching the other end of the picnic table, “but I don’t allow smoking around my daughter.”

Frankie’s father frowned, causing the cigarette to droop. Around it he said, “We’re outside.”

“She doesn’t have a normal resistance to pollution, and I don’t allow smoking anywhere in my house, or on my property. It’s a rule.”