“Cool.”

The house hadn’t been looted. Actually, it looked fantastic.

“Mom, have you been dusting?” I asked when I reemerged, looking and smelling human again.

Mom walked to the big front window. “Who painted the house and planted the vegetable garden?”

“Maybe Dad got his army pals to make it look like new. Whatever. A few hours ago you were worried that the house would be looted and trashed. Now you’re riled up that it looks too nice.”

“I don’t believe in perfect,” Mom said.

With the phones out—cell and landline—I couldn’t call Tico back, which was too bad. I missed him and his dry wisecracks. But I’d done quite enough walking on this day, thank you very much. I’d have to wait till football practice bright and early the next morning to talk to him.

When I saw him out on the field, he looked a bit chunkier around the middle, though he was still a crafty little guy. “Too much sitting around at camp,” he complained, patting his stomach.

I didn’t have that problem, having spent so much time rehabbing.

Tico was a speedy defensive back. I was a less speedy linebacker, though now when the coach called for team sprints, I found myself in the unusual position of leading the pack.

“I think that bear made you run faster, son,” Coach Garner said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Maybe it taught you how to move—how to draw up all that energy inside and go.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Who told him about the bear?

“Aw, man, everyone knows about the bear. Are you kidding?” Tico said during a break. “I’m just glad animal control was able to shoo the thing out of town.”

“Well, that’s not what really—” I was interrupted by the coach’s whistle to start the next set of drills.

Football practices usually began in August, a month earlier, so we had to get right to it. Classes started next week.

Coach Garner, a wiry man with a whistle always close to his mouth, ran a tight ship, with little chitchat on the field, just a lot of huffing, grunting, and thudding. Not long into the practice, he pulled me aside and said, “I want you to train with Coach Winters.”

“But he’s offense,” I said. “I play linebacker, sir.”

“I want to try you on offense. Running back, maybe. Run through the drills.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coach Winters, who was built like a defensive lineman, started me with more sprints, running alongside guys I’d never played with. Starters like them and benchwarmers like me rarely interacted. Yet I beat them with every sprint, every plant-and-cut, every stance-and-start. I was faster and more agile, turning on a dime. Every footstep was precise, and I felt like I never felt before: born to play. Usually I got winded easily, but not today. I was tearing it up.

To add to this surge of good feelings, I spotted Maggie sitting in the bleachers, witnessing the football clinic I was putting on. Even though we emailed a lot from our respective camps, I didn’t know where we’d stand once we were back home. That she wasn’t sick of me after yesterday’s bear adventure was a good sign.