I walk over and drop it in the peck basket.

But Ronan isn’t having any luck. “I thought this was easy,” he says.

“Looking is half the fun.”

“I’d rather just bring home a bunch of clams.”

“A bushel. You bring home a bushel,” I say. “Not a bunch.”

His mouth is swung to the side. “Whatever. Bushel, then.”

“If you’re that impatient, head over there,” I say, pointing to an area of rocks to the side. “Grab a big rock and bring it back over.”

He drops his rake and runs.

“You can’t just drop things in the water, you know! They kind of float away!” I call as he goes.

Soon he returns with a big rock. “So?”

“Throw it at the wet sand. Then look for the bubbles.”

He throws the rock in the sand just in front of his feet. There are bubbles.

“Quick!” I say. “Dig ’em up before they go deeper.”

Ronan sinks his rake into the sand and pulls wet mounds toward himself. Then he bends over and pulls out two clams. Ronan pulling two clams out of the sand is like a pirate discovering a chest full of gold coins.

He runs around with the rock, darting back and forth, hitting the sand with it. Now I don’t even look for clams. Watching him is far more interesting. But he doesn’t seem like himself. He’s like a clamming machine, and as he catches them, he stuffs them into the pockets of his new black cargo shorts.

“Ronan. You can’t keep the clams in your pockets. They need to be underwater so they can spit the gunk out and clean themselves.”

“Relax. You don’t have to tell me what to do every second.”

Huh? “I’m just trying to help you. The clams are gross if they don’t get a chance to spit.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business?”

I stare for a few moments. “What is wrong with you? Why are you so mad?”

“Just leave me alone,” he snaps.

I head toward shore. “Fine. I will.”

He’s watching me as I scoop up my stuff and splash as I trudge away.

He comes up behind me. “I’m sorry.”

I turn.

“Hey, Delsie. Please don’t go.”

I stand silent.

“I got. A letter. From her. I got a letter from . . . my mother.”

“Wait. What? Ronan . . . how could your mom write a letter? That doesn’t really sound . . . Well, I don’t know . . .”

He sighs. “She didn’t die. I just said that. Because it’s easier than explaining.”

I can’t believe it. He has a mother, and he tells people she died?

Ronan’s voice reminds me of floodwaters. “She’s alive, Delsie. I’ve wanted to tell you. We live—well, lived—in Worcester. And then one day, out of the blue, she just sent me here.”

“Sent you here?”

“Yeah. Sent me here. She said . . .” His voice shakes as he continues. “She said she didn’t want me around any . . . anymore. That I’m too much trouble, and . . . I mean, I do get in trouble. I don’t know why. It’s just like sometimes my body and brain aren’t on the same team. But I never thought she’d . . .” He stuffs his fists into his pockets and drops his chin.