Mal is inching across the backyard on his hands and knees, his nose almost touching the ragged tips of the freshly mown blades of grass. He stops and picks up a withered dandelion blossom, examines it, then carefully sets it back in place. So far, the only Things he has kept are a single rose petal and a V-shaped twig, both now resting on the edge of the patio near the foot of the chaise longue where I have been sitting for the past hour.

Mal is inhumanly patient; I am inhumanly bored. Arfie, sprawled beneath the picnic table, looks bored, too.

I have a book, one of Dad’s thrillers. Dad likes to read books in which large numbers of people are shot or blown up, especially stories that involve advanced military weaponry. In real life Dad is as peaceful as they come, but his taste in books is homicidal. The one I’m trying to read is about an ex-Marine whose wife is murdered by this secret government assassin group, and the guy sets out to kill them all, using a different weapon for each of them. I’m on page sixty-two, and so far there has been one strangulation, a drowning, a samurai-sword impaling, a machine-gunning, and two guys run over by a tank. Dad also likes politics, and there is a lot of politics in the book. I skip those parts. But the main reason I keep putting the book down is because of Mal. As boring as it is watching him crawl around in the grass, I can’t stop watching. It’s hypnotic.

My hypnotic trance is broken by the chirp of an arriving text message.

It’s Cyn. I’m not in a texting mood, so I call her.

“Mal found a twig,” I say.

“That’s amazing,” Cyn says. “Is it a good twig?”

“It is an excellent twig.”

“Good for Mal.”

“I’m reading about violent death and weapons of mass destruction.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“It’s one of my dad’s books. I thought I’d give it a try. Did you know you can kill a man with a dessert spoon?”

“By feeding him too much pudding?”

“No, by — oh, never mind. It’s stupid.”

“I could have told you that.”

“I’m watching Mal crawl all over the yard. It’s very exciting. Really looking forward to the next few weeks.”

“When does your mom get home?”

“The day before the Pigorino Bowl.”

“How’s your training going?”

“I’m taking a break.” In fact, ever since the qualifier, every time I sit down to eat something, I remember the sound of Egon Belt barfing in the alley, and my appetite disappears. “You want to come over and help me watch Mal?”

“Only if he promises to find more twigs.”

Twenty minutes later, Mal has collected a leaf that blew in from our neighbor’s maple tree and another interesting twig. His knees and the palms of his hands are green from the grass, and he is getting that pinched look that happens when he is tired. I automatically go on meltdown alert.

“Hey.” Cyn lets herself in through the back gate. “Any more twig action, Mal?”

Mal smiles and keeps his eyes on the ground. Very few people can make Mal smile that way. He likes Cyn, but he won’t look at her when she is looking at him. As soon as she looks away he senses it, and his eyes go back to her. Mal and I watch her cross the yard. Cyn walks like a cat, very smooth and liquid. I think that’s why Mal likes her so much. He doesn’t like people who move in jerks, or who stomp around, but he’s liked Cyn ever since he was a toddler.

Cyn notices Mal’s Things lined up on the edge of the patio.

“Good job, Mal,” she says without a hint of sarcasm.

Mal gives no indication that he hears her, but I know he does. Cyn slides into the other chaise. “How are you doing?” she asks. “Are you nervous about the big contest?”

“I’ll probably die of boredom before then, so not really.”

Cyn smiles. “Mal isn’t keeping you entertained?”

“You’re lucky to be an only child.”

“Why?”

“You get to be the oldest and the youngest all at the same time. I’m always stuck in the middle. I have a sister and a brother, but Bridgette’s moved out, and even when she was here she treated me like a pesky rug rat. And Mal, well, look at him. It’s like being alone with no privacy, you know what I mean?”

“Maybe you have middle-child syndrome.”

“Is that really a thing?”

“No idea, but if it’s not, it should be. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind having a sister. Or even a brother.”

“You want Mal?”

Cyn nods seriously. “I would take Mal. Is he for sale?”

We watch Mal. He has found something. It looks like a dried-up earthworm. Arfie, who has been watching from beneath the picnic table, trots over to investigate. Mal offers him the worm. Arfie sniffs it, turns away, and returns to his post. Mal replaces the worm in the grass and continues his crawl.

“Make me an offer,” I say.

Cyn laughs, and I realize that this is the longest conversation we’ve had lately without HeyMan being there too. Just as I am having this thought I hear the gate open.

“Dude and dudette,” HeyMan says cheerily.

I look at Cyn.

“I told him I was coming over,” she says.