The three of them were down at the dock.

“So let me get this straight,” said Beverly. “You want me to go into some old lady’s room and take a book about Florence Nightingale out from under her bed.”

“Yes,” said Raymie.

“Because you’re afraid to do it.”

“She screams,” said Raymie. “And it’s a library book. I have to get it back.”

“I want to come, too,” said Louisiana.

“No,” said Beverly and Raymie together.

“But why not?” said Louisiana. “We’re the Three Rancheros! We’re bound to each other through thick and thin.”

“The three who?” asked Raymie.

“Rancheros,” said Louisiana.

“It’s Musketeers,” said Beverly. “It’s the Three Musketeers.”

“No,” said Louisiana. “That’s them. We’re us. And we’re the Rancheros. We’ll rescue each other.”

“I don’t need to be rescued,” said Beverly.

“I want to come with you to the Sparkling Dell,” said Louisiana.

“It’s the Golden Glen,” said Raymie.

“I want to help rescue the Florence Darksong book.”

“Nightingale,” said Raymie and Beverly at the same time.

“And when we’re done doing that, we can go to the Very Friendly Animal Center and rescue Archie.”

“Listen,” said Beverly. “Let me tell you something. There is no Very Friendly Animal Center. That cat is long gone.”

“He’s not long gone,” said Louisiana. “I’ll rescue him and that will be my good deed for the Little Miss Central Florida Tire 1975 contest, and my other good deed will be that I will help you get the book back. Also, I’ll stop stealing canned goods with Granny.”

“You steal canned goods?” said Raymie.

“Tuna fish, mostly,” said Louisiana. “It’s very high in protein.”

“I told you,” said Beverly to Raymie. “I looked at them and I could tell that they were criminals.”

“We’re not criminals,” said Louisiana. “We’re survivors. We’re fighters.”

At this point, there was a long silence. The three of them stared out at Lake Clara. The water glittered and sighed.

“There’s a lady who drowned in this lake,” said Raymie. “Her name was Clara Wingtip.”

“So?” said Beverly.

“She haunts it,” said Raymie. “In my father’s office, there’s a photo of the lake from the air, and you can see Clara Wingtip’s shadow under the water.”

Beverly snorted. “I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

“You can hear her weeping sometimes,” said Raymie. “That’s what they say.”

“Really?” said Louisiana. She rearranged her barrettes and put her hair behind one ear and leaned in toward the lake. “Oh,” she said. “I hear it. I hear the weeping.”

Beverly snorted.

Raymie listened.

She heard weeping, too.