Who needs sports! Henry thought angrily as he stomped up the steps of the rear porch, making each plank pay the price for the humiliation he had just been through.

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

While he hated his baseball cleats, he liked the way the tough plastic soles made rock-solid contact. It felt doubly good to slam the screen door shut behind him.

It was even more satisfying to slam his bedroom door. He kicked off the first shoe, which hit the footlocker near his bed. The second shoe was fastened tighter, but rather than take the time to untie it, he yanked and strained at it until it finally popped off, flew across the room, and splashed into the tadpole tank on the nightstand.

All he wanted was to get back to his cache in the garage loft. Instead, he’d wasted the entire morning on baseball, and he knew better than to think he’d sneak past Brianna in the middle of the day.

“Henry?” his mother called up. “Henry, would you like a glass of fresh mint tea?”

Tea? Why would he want tea? Would it change him into a newt so he’d never have to play baseball again? Why did his parents insist on torturing him by having him play baseball? His ability to drop a fly ball was legendary, and he didn’t even have a batting average—he struck out every single time he came to the plate!

The doorknob turned. He had hesitated too long.

A small hand extended through a crack, holding a glass of iced tea like a peace offering. It was followed by the doe-eyed face of Brianna. “Henry?” She said it so, so softly—softer even than a whisper.

“Go away, Brianna!” She had gone to the game and witnessed his public embarrassment.

“I like your uniform, Henry.” There was a humming sound behind the words. He rolled onto his bed and faced the wall, willing himself to remain angry.

“Mommy says have some tea.” Her voice fluttered like the musical warbling of a songbird.

He rolled partially back, enough to squint at her through the corner of his eye. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?” Except for her hand and part of her face, she remained out of sight. “Mommy says to tell you, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’ ” Her voice remained soft yet amazingly clear, and so calm. An image of his worn and tattered security blanket from his toddler years materialized in his mind. He visualized it wrapped securely around the glass of tea.

He struggled to remain angry. “Tell her I don’t want any.” But it came out in a whisper. He slid off the bed, but instead of turning her away, he took the tea from her tiny, steady hand and was mildly surprised that the glass was cold and hard—not warm and soft like the blanket he had imagined.