“Yes,” said Sina, looking shifty. “I, um, have another letter from Zebediah to mail.”

Winifred and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes, but really I didn’t see that there was anything we could do about this.

* * *

The rest of the week continued the same: Zebediah disappeared, and Old Tom and Wilfred worked all day together. When I passed them, I heard:

“Beans.”

“Trim ties.”

“Carrot tops up.”

“Bury tomato plants.”

“Aphid control.”

“Heliotrope?”

“Yep.”

“Peas?”

“Too soon.”

Then they began grunting. They seemed to have evolved a Morse code all their own consisting entirely of grunts, and whenever Old Tom passed Wilfred he gave him a little pat on the shoulder. I was happy for Old Tom if, as ever, a little jealous of Wilfred. After all, if Old Tom had needed help that badly all these years, he might have asked me. I felt guilty I hadn’t intuited his need for help. Not that I wanted to spend my days sweating in the gardens—I knew what hard work it was—but still. One likes to be asked.

Gladys continued to make terrible food.

Winifred, Sina, and I hung out mornings at Brookman’s.

Zebediah received a letter on Wednesday and Sina mailed his response on Thursday. Zebediah had told Sina we wanted to steal his mail. She was appalled, I’m sure, but all she said to me was, “Really, Franny, I wouldn’t have thought it of you.” She said nothing to Winifred, not wishing to be rude.

“Don’t worry,” growled Winifred to me later. “I’ll find the letters.”

But she looked and looked and couldn’t find them, so Zebediah must have found a better hiding place.

* * *

On Saturday, Sina announced we were once again going to Brookman’s.

It was a quiet morning at the store; no one was there except for us, Mrs. Hornby, and Miss Macy. Mrs. Brookman was in the back doing inventory. As I watched, Sina, who had the radio turned up loud, started muttering to herself. I realized she was repeating bits and pieces of the things the radio announcer was saying. She was becoming more and more agitated. Miss Macy and Mrs. Hornby were sipping their coffees and listening as Sina, who seemed to have forgotten we were there, said, “Well, if there’s something in that for me, I just don’t get it. I just don’t get it at all.”

“Sina!” I said as light finally dawned. “You think the UFOs are trying to contact you via the radio. Just like Gladys said they would! You think they’re speaking in code. You’re trying to decipher it!”

And suddenly, instead of looking all haunted and upset, Sina stood up straight and dignified and said, “Nonsense.”

“You are, too,” I said. “That’s why we’ve been coming so often.”

“Well, I just don’t get it.” Sina broke down and wailed. “I’m not receiving any messages at all! Or if they are sending them to me, I am too stupid to understand. Why did they stop their spaceship outside my window? Why me? What are they trying to convey to me?”