“You there! Boy!”

Danny had just pulled a stack of envelopes from the mailbox in front of his house when he heard the voice. It seemed to emanate from somewhere behind him, a thin rasp that hung ominously in the air.

He peered around and saw no one.

“Up here! My God, you’re not the brightest bulb in the world, are you?”

Danny craned his neck skyward. Was someone in the trees? No. He turned and looked back at his house. He studied the rooftop and the upper-floor windows, then did the same with his neighbors’ houses.

Nothing.

This was really weird.

Just then the flutter of a curtain from the house next door caught his eye. And then he saw him.

Peeping out of a third-floor window was Mr. Spinelli. His pale, wizened face was set in an angry mask.

“Stay there! I’ll be right down!” he shouted. “Don’t try to run away, either! Because I’ll hunt you down! I’m a lot faster than I look. Once I get moving with this cane, boy, I’m like a cheetah, and that’s no lie!”

Danny dutifully walked up to Mr. Spinelli’s porch and waited. From inside, he could hear someone thumping laboriously down the stairs. Finally the door opened and the old man stepped out, pointing a bony finger at him.

Danny gasped and shrank back.

Mr. Spinelli’s hands and arms were covered with blood. The white smock he wore tied around his neck was splattered, too.

I don’t know if he can run like a cheetah, Danny thought. But it looks like he was attacked by one.

“What?” Mr. Spinelli asked, seeing Danny’s horrified gaze. Then he looked down at his hands and chuckled as he wiped them on the smock. “This? It’s just paint, boy. Cadmium red. Painting’s my hobby. Got a studio on the second floor. I do mainly still lifes. Sometimes I even manage to get some paint on the canvas.”

He broke into a harsh, wheezy laugh before glaring again at Danny.

“It’s a very relaxing pastime—until one morning you walk into your studio and the window’s shattered and there’s glass all over the floor,” he continued. “And you find an old baseball in your paint tray that looks like it was run over by a lawn mower and then chewed by a pack of starving wolves. Boom!—there goes your relaxation.”

Danny felt his cheeks redden. He bowed his head and murmured, “Sorry. I left a note….”

“Yes, I saw the note—misspellings and all,” Mr. Spinelli said. “But sorry is not going to cut it, young man.”

Suddenly he bent forward, his tall gangly frame making him look like a heron dipping to spear a fish. His face was inches from Danny’s.

“Now let’s get down to business, boy,” the old man hissed. “Who’s going to fix my window?”

“Me,” Danny said.

“You? Ha! What do you know about replacing glass?”

“Well, my dad will fix it,” Danny said.

“Your dad,” Mr. Spinelli said. “And your dad is a professional in the glass repair business? With the proper certification? And many years of experience?”

“No, he’s a documentary filmmaker,” Danny said.

“Ah, well, that certainly qualifies him to—”

“But he can fix anything,” Danny interrupted. “He’s got, like, a million tools in the basement.”

“I see,” Mr. Spinelli said, rolling his eyes.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

“But if you don’t mind—and even if you do—I’d rather have a pro fix my window,” he said, thrusting the paper at Danny. “This is an itemized bill for the damages. Give it to your father. If the man knows anything at all about home repairs, he’ll realize I’m giving him a huge break on these prices. I’ll expect a check within twenty-four hours.”

He turned to go back inside, then paused.

“One more thing,” he said. “You strike me as the sort of arrogant little know-it-all who doesn’t take advice. But I’ll give you some anyway. Baseball is a waste of time. I’m surprised your parents still let you play the silly game. You’d be far better off devoting yourself to mastering a musical instrument, getting involved in a school play, or joining the chess team.”

With that he was gone, the screen door clanging noisily behind him.

Such a cheery old guy, Danny thought.

Walking back to his house, he considered what little he knew about Mr. Spinelli.

The old fellow had moved in about eight months ago, after the previous owners, the Millers, went to California. Tommy Miller had been Danny’s best friend in the neighborhood, and both boys had been heartbroken when Mr. Miller decided to take a new job in Sacramento.

“I bet a new family moves in with a boy your age,” Danny’s mom had assured him.

Instead, within weeks, a rusty old Buick the size of a parade float had appeared in the driveway, and a skinny old man was occasionally sighted going in and out of the house.

“He must be very lonely,” Danny’s mother had said not long after Mr. Spinelli moved in. “He goes for walks every once in a while. But I’ve never seen anyone visit him. And he doesn’t drive his car much. Seems like an awfully big house for someone who’s elderly.”

Would she be surprised to hear that the place had an art studio? For all they knew about their new neighbor, he could’ve put in a bowling alley and a drone command center, too.

Once back home, Danny tossed the stack of mail on the kitchen counter.

He picked through it idly and saw the usual assortment of thick envelopes addressed to Joey. One was from the Atlanta Braves. Another was from the Boston Red Sox. Yet another was from the University of Maryland. The fourth was from Florida Southern, which Danny knew was a Division II baseball powerhouse.

Danny sighed. His eyes fell on the piece of paper Mr. Spinelli had given him.

There’s the difference between me and Joey, he thought. He gets mail from big-time colleges and major league teams tripping over each other to land his golden arm. Me, I get a bill from our cranky old neighbor to replace a stupid window.

All because I can’t even hit the bounce-back net in my own backyard.

One of us is doing something wrong, Danny thought.

And it sure isn’t Joey.