“Maybe he’s at the store or something,” I say.

“Let’s ride our bikes to his house,” Skylar says. “By the time we get there, he might be home.”

We get his address the same way we got his phone number and start pedaling. I’m not sure this is a good idea, but we’re kind of desperate.

It’s a long ride, way out on the other side of the mall in a new part of town. I’d pictured Mr. Boyce living in an old Victorian mansion with a tower on the side, but his house is just as ordinary as the other colonials and split-levels on his block. Except that they all have nice yards and shrubbery.

Mr. Boyce’s grass needs cutting, and weeds sprout from cracks in his sidewalk. His bushes have grown tall and shaggy. A kid’s red wagon full of rainwater sits under a tree, and a big yellow plastic dump truck lies on its side by the door. It’s the saddest house on the street.

Skylar and I hesitate, silently daring each other to ring the doorbell. She gives in and presses hard. We hear it chime inside. My heart is beating so fast I’m afraid I’ll faint.

“Maybe no one’s home,” I whisper, kind of hoping I’m right and we can leave before he sees us. I’m hot and sweaty and tired. We shouldn’t be here. It’s a mistake to have come.

“Should I ring it again?”

Before she presses the button, the door opens and Mr. Boyce stares at us in surprise. “Skylar and Abbi,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

His voice is flat, and he looks tired. If we were selling Girl Scout cookies, he’d say he didn’t want any. I back away, ready to jump on my bike and leave.

“It’s about Ms. Sullivan. We need your advice.” Skylar speaks so fast her words bump into each other. It’s like she expects him to slam the door before she gets a chance to finish her sentence.

Mr. Boyce doesn’t seem to understand what she’s saying. He’s wearing long, baggy running shorts and an Everett Stone Middle School T-shirt with a coffee stain down the front. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair uncombed, and he has a sort of shadowy whisker beard. I wonder if he’s sick. Mom told me that some people at work have been out with the summer flu. Maybe that’s what he has.

Then I remember what he said on the news about Ms. Sullivan and how much he hoped she’d return. He must be as sad as we are. We’re definitely invading his privacy. We should leave right now.