The pictures of Dad, Coach, and Ms. Duffey were only the beginning. Rena’s (Upstyled Tomato and Cheese) went on the wall next, followed by Sami’s (Sporty Artichoke) and Carter Hobbs’s (Prime Buck). From then on, business really picked up. People stopped in to get a peek at the “pasty gallery,” and asked Mum to create unique pasties so Lowen would draw them. (To keep the pasties in the realm of the possible, Mum put a list of ingredients she was willing to combine on the blackboard.) And with basketball season over and baseball season not yet begun, the tailgate boxes were no longer an issue. For the first time since they moved to Millville, it looked like the shop would succeed.

Perhaps that’s why, one afternoon in March, when Clem was out in the garage with Luna, and Anneth was helping Rena, and Lowen was putting the finishing touches on a caricature of Dave (who loved rutabaga), Lowen looked out the window and saw Mr. Corbeau, husband of Virginia Corbeau, taking pictures of the Albatross, with the peeling paint, the boarded window, and the gutter resting in the melting snow in the front yard.

“I was afraid this was going to happen,” Clem said as he popped in the house for two glasses of water and some cookies. “Looks like they’ve given up on shutting down the Cornish Eatery, and instead they’re going to run us out of town for not making the repairs.”

Clem called the shop to tell Mum, but Mum was too frantic to talk. Apparently Dylan hadn’t come in to make deliveries.

On Saturday, when Dylan hadn’t shown up for a third day in a row, Mum called home and asked Lowen to come down to the shop. “Dad’s helping me make pasties, I need you to do the deliveries,” she said.

So much for working on his drawing. It made him more than annoyed than ever at Dylan. Where was he? And why wasn’t he doing his job?

As Lowen helped Mum pack up a rather big order, which included one big chicken potpie and several pasties, Dylan came running into the shop with ratty slippers on his feet.

“Hey,” said Lowen, about to make a crack about the footwear. But Dylan ignored him.

“Mr. Grover,” said Dylan, “Something’s wrong with my grandfather.”

Dad nodded and jumped into professional mode — rushing to the sink to wash his hands. “Come with us, Lowen,” he said. “I may need your help.”

The inside of Mr. Avery’s house was fussier than Lowen would have predicted. Dainty furniture tiptoed on flowered rugs. Curtains were frilled. Photographs in silver and gold frames covered many of the surfaces. It was nothing like the Grovers’ home.

Equally surprising was the kitchen, which was a total mess. Blackened pots and pans, some with crispy chunks of food stuck to the bottoms or sides, littered the sink and the counter. Greasy spatulas and serving spoons pointed to plates of untouched food. Wrappers were scattered over everything. It smelled like days-old garbage.

Dylan led them through the living room and into a nearby bedroom.

“Gramps,” said Dylan tentatively.

Mr. Avery rustled. “Leave me alone,” he slurred. His voice reminded Lowen of his uncle Morgan, who usually got drunk at family gatherings and began to lash out at everyone.

“Has your grandfather been drinking?” Dad asked Dylan quietly.

“No,” said Dylan. “He never touches alcohol.”

“And you said that he’s been like this for a couple of days? Coming in and out of sleep?”

Dylan nodded.

Mr. Avery finally noticed Lowen and his dad. “What in tarnation are you two —” he started to say.

“Mr. Avery,” Dad interrupted, calmly and slowly, “I think you’ve had a stroke. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“I told the boy. No doctors! No hospitals!”

“Lowen, call 911.” And then to Mr. Avery: “You need to get better — if not for yourself, then for your grandson,” said Dad.

Mr. Avery collapsed back against the pillows. Resigned.

As Dad waited for the ambulance to arrive, he arranged to borrow Rena’s car so that he could take Dylan to the hospital, too.

“Can I come?” Lowen asked.

“This isn’t a field trip. . . .”

“But Dylan might need a friend,” said Lowen, acutely aware that up until now, he hadn’t been one.

Dad nodded for Lowen to get into the backseat.

Sure enough, Mr. Avery had had a stroke and was required to stay in the hospital for a few days for observation. Dylan was invited to stay with the Grovers. Mum borrowed a camp cot from the Kellings and set it up next to Lowen’s bed.

“Does it feel weird to be back in your old room?” Lowen asked as they got into bed. It was the first time they’d been alone since Lowen and his dad had followed Dylan home.

“Yeah, especially since I’m down here, and you’re up there where I used to sleep,” Dylan kidded.

“Do you want to swap?” asked Lowen. “It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

“Nah, it’s right,” said Dylan. “It’s not the Firebrand house anymore.”

“Do you miss it?” Lowen asked, turning off the bedside lamp.

“The Albatross, you mean?”

Lowen wondered how Dylan had learned their name for the house. It made him feel lousy. “We don’t mean it as an insult.”

“It’s OK,” said Dylan. “My dad built this house for my mom, but it was always a work in progress. And then, when he was laid off from the mill, he didn’t have the heart or the money for repairs.”

“Tell me about your dad,” Lowen said.

“There’s not much to tell,” Dylan said. “Dad claims he was never really accepted here; his family moved to town when he was in high school. To the locals, that made him an outsider.”

Lowen could certainly relate to that.

“A lot of guys resented him when he married one of the most popular girls in Millville. He says that’s why he was one of the first men to be laid off from the mill.”

“What is your mom like? Besides popular, I mean.”

“Why do you care so much about my mom?”

Lowen shrugged, though Dylan couldn’t see it in the dark. “I don’t know. It just seems weird that you never talk about her.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s weird that you never talk about that kid who got shot?”

The snake lunged, cut off his air.

“Anyway,” Dylan said, giving him a pass, “there’s even less to tell about my mom than there is my dad.”

Lowen thought for a moment. “There’s always something to tell,” he said.

Dylan was so silent that Lowen thought he might have fallen to asleep.

“Guess you’re right,” Dylan finally whispered. “Always something.”

And then he was snoring.

Lowen, on the other hand, was awake enough to imagine an Abe comic — something he hadn’t done in weeks.

He wondered if he’d ever share his Abe comics with anyone. Would people say he was insensitive? That the comics were inappropriate or offensive? Deranged?

In providing Oliver with a friend (Abe), was Lowen forgiving him? And if so, why? So he, Lowen Grover, could be forgiven? After all, he had never held a gun, but he was as much a murderer as Oliver and he knew it.

Enough, he told his overactive brain. He didn’t need to show his drawings to anyone if he didn’t want to. (Just like the letter he’d written to Mrs. Siskin.)

The comics were a safe place for him to work through his feelings about Abe’s death. It didn’t matter what other people thought of them — they were for him, not for anyone else.

On Sunday, Dylan went to the Cornish Eatery to deliver pasties and Lowen was left alone at home again. He took out his sketchpad, which was mostly empty now. For nearly two months he’d been drawing caricatures, but he was getting really tired of it. For one thing, he was always trying to figure out how much the person wanted a true caricature (which is meant to be funny) versus a portrait (which hopefully makes them look good). It turned out that drawing caricatures with other people’s feelings in mind was a lot like trying to draw comics with someone else’s voice constantly piping up, telling him what to do.

And somehow his art had become something just for others.

He took out his old Phenom sketchbook. He read through it, smiling at times, remembering ideas that had been Abe’s — ideas that he had incorporated. He turned to a clean sheet of paper, and without analyzing, drew the next strip.

Instead of refraining from drawing as a way to honor Abe, he’d use his art to honor him.

Lowen drew — both a Phenom strip and a new Abe strip — until the rest of the family and Dylan were home. And then, while Dylan was on the phone with his mother, he tried to draw some more but got caught up in the listening:

“He’s really sick, Mom.”

“No, really. I think he’d like to see you.”

“Just the opposite. I think missing you is one of the things wearing him down.”

“People aren’t thinking anything. Besides, you could stay at his house. In your old room.”

“Never mind. I have to go. Forget I even called.”