Determined to help Dad pay off the mortgage, I spent the rest of Christmas break going around town, asking if anyone needed any cleaning or sewing done. I was able to get some work, mostly alterations on outfits that had been Christmas gifts, and Mrs. Allred paid me to scrub down her whole house even though Ruth insisted on helping me and could have done it herself.

When the high school opened in January, Alice Nakano had moved. Her dad, who had lost his job at the brickyard, had decided to relocate to Kansas, where he had family and hoped to find work.

Hiro was also missing from school. When Charlie drove us past the Merc parking lot, I’d seen his car, its windows broken and the word Jap painted across its side.

“When did that happen?” I asked. But neither Charlie nor Kiki knew.

At lunch I sat on the corner of the Japanese girls’ lunch table. Ruth was meeting with the school counselor and Edna was sick, so with Alice gone, it was just Mariko, Mae, and me.

“I miss Alice,” Mariko said, cutting a bite-sized piece off her sausage.

“Think we’ll all have to move?” Mae asked. “My dad still hasn’t found work.”

“We won’t be able to move,” I said. “Not with the travel freeze.” Days after Alice left, the attorney general had banned travel by all “suspected enemy aliens”—which meant us. I choked down a bite of canned spinach.

“Sheesh,” Mae said. She scrunched the barely there freckles on her nose. “They don’t want us here, but they won’t let us leave.”

“My mom said that if things keep going this way …” Mariko started. But I didn’t hear. Across the lunchroom, Beau and SueAnn took their seats, sitting together, like always. But unlike other times, they weren’t with friends—they sat by themselves. A sliver of envy squiggled through me as Beau set SueAnn’s tray in front of her.

Then I heard Hiro’s name. “Did you see his car?” Mariko asked.

“Poor guy,” Mae said. “It’s enough that his dad got taken.”

“That makes five from Linley,” Mariko said. “How many more will they take?” Her thick hair fell over her shoulders as she leaned forward. “Do you think any of them are actually spies?”

I froze, mid-bite.

“What? Are you serious?” Mae’s forehead wrinkled.

“I mean, Mr. Tanaka got packages all the time,” Mariko whispered. “It’d be easy.”

My stomach heaved. I waited for Mae to put Mariko in her place. But Mae just shrugged. “Yeah, but …”

“It would be so easy for him to slip a message into an order.”

“Can you hear yourself?” I burst out. “Of course he gets packages. He’s a shopkeeper!” Both girls stopped eating and stared. “You know him,” I said. “You know Hiro.”

Mariko’s face flamed. “It was just a question.”

I shook my head. “Aren’t things bad enough without this kind of …” A lump formed in my throat.

“She didn’t mean anything.” Mae looked down at her plate.

For one moment, the three of us sat in awkward silence. Then I stood. “I’ve got to finish an assignment,” I mumbled, and I rushed out of the cafeteria, leaving my tray on the table.

I had never in my life ditched school, but I could barely breathe. How could I keep going to class, pretending everything was normal, when even Japanese kids were looking at our friends as possible spies? When people like McClatchy were running things? When Mr. Tanaka had been taken and Dad could be arrested at any minute?

I walked straight through the hall, toward the front entrance. The door felt heavy, and I wondered who might be watching. But I had to get out. It felt as if my lungs might burst.

The wind hit my face, and the doors slammed behind me. I gulped at the cold, sweet air.

I made my way through the parking lot without pausing. I’d imagined skipping school before and always thought I’d feel nervous and excited. But I was neither. I felt angry … and alive.

The road was empty, the light gray and cold. When I got to the Japantown intersection I paused. The Merc stood in front of me, its curtains drawn and a CLOSED sign hanging under Mr. Tanaka’s I AM AN AMERICAN. But Hiro’s truck stood in the parking lot. Teethlike shards of broken glass stuck in the frames of its windows. Ugly, hand-painted letters marred its side.

It felt like I’d been headed here all along.

I tramped up to the door and knocked. The curtain twitched and the handle clicked. Hiro opened the door. Shadows ringed his eyes and his hair was tousled, but he smiled.

“Sam. What are you doing? Isn’t it”—he checked the clock above the register—“still school time?”

“I couldn’t take it today.”

“You ditched?” He raised his eyebrows. “Guess I can’t judge.”

“I—” My anger burned away any shyness. “Your truck. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” I waited, expecting anger. The tired look he gave me was much worse. “Anyway”—Hiro pulled the door wide—“you want to come in and get a drink from the fridge? No charge.”

I looked through the door. The store was dark, illuminated only by the curtain-filtered light of the windows, but still comfortable and familiar.

“Um, sure. Thanks.”

Hiro walked to a fridge at the back of the store and plucked a bottle from its shelves. “Here you go,” he said, handing me the cola.

We sat side by side on two stools at the checkout desk. I drank greedily. Even though it was cold out, I’d sweated as I walked, and the smooth cola slid down my throat. I pressed the chilled bottle to my forehead and let the school day melt away.

“What are you working on?” I asked. The usually spotless counter was covered in crinkled papers and folders, with paper clips strewn throughout.

Hiro frowned. “These here are invoices,” he said, pointing to one stack. “These are the inventory charts—they aren’t so bad. I’ve been doing those for years. But these bills”—he pointed to a third stack—“I’m having trouble figuring out which ones have already been paid …”

“Yikes,” I said. The checkout desk was so small that each time I shifted on the slick seat, my knee bumped Hiro’s, making my stomach do little flips. I crossed my ankles and pulled my elbows close to my body.

Hiro nodded at the other side of the counter. “Then this is Dad’s stuff on the brickyard—not that I think anything’s going to happen there.” His lips curled. “And this file—” He flattened open a folder of lined yellow paper. “It’s the list of people Dad was calling and writing on Mr. Omura’s behalf. He obviously didn’t succeed, but I don’t know where else to start.” He sighed. “I’ve got to figure out where they’ve taken Dad and find a way to get him out. But I also can’t let the store fail.” The muscles in his jaw pulled tight. “I’m not gonna let McClatchy run us off.”

Just looking at the papers made me feel flustered and helpless. But I swallowed. “Okay,” I said, in a passable version of Okaasan’s “time-to-work” voice. “What do you want me to start with?”

Hiro eyed me. “Are you sure? It’s—”

“I’m sure,” I said, surprised at how my words slightly satiated the burning in my chest.

Hiro gave me an appraising look. “All right. Then here we go.” Hiro pulled a list from the Omura file. “These are the representatives and senators for this area. Dad was writing letters to each of them weekly.”

I nodded. “So we will, too.”

Hiro set me up with stationery and a pen. As he phoned suppliers about invoices, I wrote letter after letter, begging congressmen and councilmen for information about Mr. Tanaka’s whereabouts. My hand cramped, my back ached, and still I wrote.

When Hiro said we should stop, my hand was a claw. Yet my anger had burned away, leaving me feeling full and relaxed, the way I sometimes felt with a camera in my hands.

“Looks like we’re in for a storm,” Hiro said as we stepped out of the dark Merc. The wind swirled, pulling at my hair. I squinted upward. The cloud-crammed sky was gray. But each cloud was rimmed in dazzling light, and all around us, the trees, bushes, even the dirt, appeared crisp—the shadows deep and the highlights warm and glowing. In my mind, I saw the shot of the pond I’d planned for the contest.

“Hiro”—I spun toward him—“the lighting is perfect.”

“Let’s go,” he said, already locking the door.

We jumped into the ice-cold truck. With the windows broken, the engine’s cranking was even louder.

“Will you come with me?” I asked. “Not just to my house but to get the shot?”

Hiro grinned. “Of course.”

“Thanks.” I looked away to hide my matching smile.

We drove for a few minutes in silence—but a comfortable silence.

“You know,” I finally said, “the contest I’m entering has a cash prize. I know it’s a long shot, but if I won …” A lump rose in my throat. I wanted it so much. “Mr. McClatchy is so sure we’re going to default and he’ll get the whole thing back. I can’t let that happen.”

Hiro nodded. “That’s how I feel about the store. That’s why I won’t be coming back to school.”

“You won’t graduate?” I couldn’t imagine it. Hiro had always been the one Japanese boy we knew would go to college.

“I’ll continue my correspondence courses. As long as I pass them, I should have the credits I need. But I have to run the store during the day. Or McClatchy wins.”

His eyes met mine, blazing. And in the look we shared, there was a promise: We would not let that happen.