We picked Styx up at his office. The plan was to go check on the Grasshopper. We also needed some supplies, so we’d brought along twenty dollars from the fireworks trade. The next phase—acquiring the motor—would be a bit more complicated, Styx had told us. It would take us a few days to get ready.

We strolled up to his office.

“Hey, Styx,” we said.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Another voice floated down at us from on high.

We looked up. “Hey, Pixie.”

She hung upside down, with her knees hooked over a branch about twelve feet up. Her cheeks drooped toward her eyes and her hair pointed straight toward the ground, making her look like a dangling troll doll. The mouse-ear headband contributed to the effect considerably.

“Come on up,” she said. “The leaves are very refreshing.”

“You are nutty,” I answered.

Pixie nodded. “I’m mostly pecans. With just a soupçon of maple sugar.”

Styx and I laughed out loud.

“They make coupons for being weird?” Bobby Gene asked. “That figures.”

“Soupçon,” Pixie repeated. “It means a tiny dab. But…more fancy-like.”

“We’re going downtown,” I told her.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m communing.”

So we left her dangling like a psychedelic squirrel and headed for town. All thoughts drifted toward Mission: Grasshopper. We were stealth agents on reconnaissance.

“You think it’s gonna get sold before we’re ready?” I asked. My stomach tightened at the thought. What if it was all for nothing?

Styx puffed on a candy cigarette. “Nah. But it makes good sense to check on it now and again. When the time comes, there’ll be less hassle if we know all the salespeople and the owner. By the time we’re done, he’ll be begging to give us the thing.”

Styx didn’t seem worried about anything. He assumed it would all line up exactly the way we wanted. As he led the way through the woods, I swear, the breeze blew just right to open the path for him. He never had to duck or push aside a stray branch. I wondered what it felt like to move through the world like that.

“Plus, we need the rust remover.” Styx glanced at us. “You brought cash?”

“Yeah. What’s it for?” Bobby Gene asked.

“We gotta clean up that old lunch box so we can trade it for a motor.”

My face wrinkled of its own accord. “Who’s gonna want that old thing?”

Styx grinned. “Relax. I got this.”

We took our usual route downtown, and ran into a bit of a crowd. The street in front of Dickson & Morris was lined with parked cars.

“Funeral today,” Bobby Gene said. We didn’t think anything of it. Sutton was full of old people. In the mornings Dad handed us the comics out of the paper and flipped over to the obituaries just to make sure everyone we knew was still alive and kicking. This very morning, it had gone something like this:

“Biddy Cunningham. That sounds familiar. Babe?”

Mom shook her head. We didn’t know her.

“Huh. Eighty-six. Died in her sleep. That’s a good long life.”

The sound of Dad’s papers rustling, over the crunch of our Honey Nut Cheerios.

“Bill Randall?”

Mom shook her head.

Rustle. Crunch.

Bobby Gene slurped his milk and Mom slid him the side-eye.

Rustle. Crunch. Slurp.

Dad sighed. “The Cubs, man. Can’t catch a break this season.” And that was the end of that.

We strolled on by the funeral home, like we’d done a thousand times before, but today one unusual thing did happen. We happened to be going by at the moment a fancy limo arrived. Not the one for the body. That one was already parked right by the curb.

The limo was not the normal black. It was gunmetal gray, and glinting in the sunlight. A uniformed driver slid out from behind the wheel. He came around and opened the back door, then stood beside it, waiting. We scampered past, trying to look at the limo but also stay out of the way. Out of respect and stuff.

“Whoa, check out that limo,” I whispered.

“Totally.”

“So shiny.”

“There’s probably a TV inside and everything.”

“For sure.” Bobby Gene and I riffed about it all the way down the block.

We’d ridden in a limo when Grandma Noonie died. We were supposed to be all sad, and we were, but it was also fun to bounce on the seats. And zip the windows up and down. And open and close the minibar while saying things like “Jeeves, I’d like another.” “At your service, sir.”

Mom had cried. Dad had yelled. We’d giggled into our lapels, and we laughed out loud now, remembering.

Styx was quiet. The candy cigarette balanced on the edge of his lip. His gaze, half vacant, was directed at the long car too.

The driver nodded sedately to us as we passed.

“Hey, Styx, you ever ride in a limo?”

We waited. Any moment now, Styx would launch into some outlandish tale that could not possibly be true, unless he was some kind of celebrity. This one time…

We made it all the way to the corner before he answered us.

“Once,” he said.