Despite the fact that the house still needed fresh paint, new front steps, and two windows repaired, the Grovers hoped for a fairly good report when the inspector arrived on the second Monday of May.

He hardly introduced himself before he spent what seemed like hours knocking on walls, testing smoke detectors, and looking behind electrical wall outlet covers. He tested the water for lead, the basement for radon, and the roof for structural soundness.

Unfortunately, the final report was anything but good. The Grovers had many infractions that had to be addressed, and most would require a plumber or an electrician. The worst of the news, though, was that the continual freezing and thawing of the past winter had taken a final toll on the roof. It now needed replacing. And that wasn’t all. The boards in the eaves (where the ice dam had leaked) were rotten and needed replacing as well.

The blood drained from Dad’s face as he read the report aloud. Mum sank into the corduroy chair, and suddenly Lowen noticed how thin she had become, how pale.

He felt cold.

“Maybe the town will give us more time,” Anneth suggested, but knowing how hard Mr. Avery and the Corbeaus had worked against this plan, all of the Grovers agreed that an extension was highly unlikely.

Should I even try out for baseball if we can’t stay in town? was the question on Lowen’s mind when he showed up that same day for baseball tryouts.

“Grover!” Coach said as he passed him, lined up against the backstop with the other kids. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Does Coach know about the house report? Is that why he didn’t expect me?

Nah. More likely he was thinking about Lowen’s lack of athletic ability. He hadn’t exactly been the star athlete in soccer or basketball.

But even though he didn’t have an ounce of the skill his brother had, and even though he might not make the team — or if he did, Coach might keep him on the bench the whole season (since girls and boys played on the same baseball team, they didn’t lack players) — and even though he might be moving in less than a month, he still wanted to try out. Correction: He still wanted to be on the team. He liked being part of something. He liked the common goal, the inside jokes (even when the jokes were about the two points he scored for the rival team), and he liked going to bed tired — too tired to think about the dead bodies next door. Too tired to think about Abe.

So a week ago, he’d asked Sami to help him. Just went right up to her and said, “Will you teach me how to be a better batter?”

She’d studied him for a moment, and when she realized that he was serious, she nodded yes.

They’d met at the baseball field before school started on two different mornings. Sami showed him how to keep the bat straight and how to follow through. She helped him to judge the approach of the ball without ever saying, “Keep your eye on the ball.”

Now that tryouts were here, he’d wished they’d started the lessons earlier and that he’d asked for fielding tips as well.

“Left field, Grover!” Coach yelled.

Lowen hustled out to his position. Was this field larger than what he was used to in Flintlock? He felt miles from the mound. He doubted any kid in middle school could hit this far. Might as well be on a different planet. No doubt Coach was sticking him in some no-matter position.

Wrong.

First hit by Dylan went well over his head.

“Back up, Grover! Follow the ball,” Coach yelled.

The next two hits — one by a seventh-grader and one by an eighth-grader — were infield hits.

Then Sami hit a pop fly.

Lowen kept his eyes up, followed the ball, followed it . . . and . . . smack!

He had it!

He’d caught it!

Then he dropped it.

“Two hands, Grover!” Coach called. “Catch with two hands!”

How did you do that, when only one hand sported a glove? He’d have to ask Sami.

To everyone’s surprise — but especially to Lowen’s — Coach didn’t make any cuts. They had all made the team! “Now, if you want actual playing time,” Coach warned, “you’ll have to show up at every practice and work hard. No daydreaming in the outfield or doing your homework when you’re on deck.”

As they walked off the field, Sami motioned for Lowen to follow her into the dugout. She looked around to make sure they were alone, then sat down on the cement bench.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me about your friend,” she said gently.

He sat beside her. “My friend?”

“The one you sent to the store.”

Lowen’s heart stopped. She and Dylan hadn’t brought up Abe since that day at the cemetery. Why was she doing so now?

“What did you usually do when he was bugging you? You know, when you were drawing?”

He kicked the dirt below his feet. “Why? What does it matter?”

“I have a theory.”

“You mean B. F. Skinner has a theory, right?”

“Actually, yes. It is Mr. Skinner! Anyway, what did you do when Abe was bugging you?”

“I don’t know.” Lowen shrugged. “I usually tried to distract him. It was the only thing that really worked — though never for very long.”

“Like how?” asked Sami, leaning closer.

“I’d give him candy and stuff,” Lowen admitted. “Once I gave him a sketchbook.”

“I knew it!” Sami smacked her glove on the bench.

“Knew what?” Lowen asked, totally confused.

“Don’t you see, Lowen? You thought you were finding clever ways to get him out of your hair, but maybe he was bugging you so you would give him candy! Mr. B. F. Skinner would say that he was training you.”

“Training me? Like a dog?”

“Or a pigeon. Think about it.” She stared at him. Her face was so serious. So intense.

So Lowen thought about it. Maybe there was some truth to what she was saying. Maybe Abe had wanted Lowen to give him candy. But he suspected that what Abe had really wanted, more than candy, was friendship.

(Just like he told Oliver in his story.)

Lowen had tried so hard not to hurt Abe’s feelings. Not to say to him, Go away. I don’t want you hanging around me all the time!

But maybe he hadn’t been thinking about Abe. Hadn’t been protecting him at all.

He’d been protecting himself from feeling like a bad person.

And in the end, he hadn’t protected either of them.

When Lowen returned home, Clem was trying to build the new front steps. He was measuring and sawing, hammering and swearing.

“What’s your plan?” asked Lowen.

“My plan is to stay in Millville!”

“Because of Luna?” He regretted the question as soon as it was out; the last thing he wanted to talk about with Clem was Luna Muñoz.

“What? No! I like it here.” Clem put the hammer down and shook out the tension in his wrist. “Besides, we broke up.”

“You did? But she’s so —”

“Pretty?” Clem finished.

Lowen nodded, blushing. “And talented.”

Clem sighed loudly and plopped down in the grass. “Yeah. But she’s also callous.”

“What does that mean?” Lowen asked, sitting down on the ground next to his brother.

“Uncaring.”

Lowen flinched, remembering how she’d treated him. “Is she that way with everybody?”

Clem looked at him. “Doesn’t matter. She can’t mess with my little brother.”

Lowen stared. Was Clem saying that he’d broken up with Luna because of him? He felt something hard, something solid, melt inside his chest.

“I’m the only one who can be mean to my brother,” Clem added.

Lowen smiled.

“Now go get me some more nails — this size,” said Clem, opening his palm to reveal two nails, “and help me with these steps. I got to meet my buds in an hour.”