Marty wrinkled his nose and swung the tip of his fishing rod over to Robbie. A small bluegill wriggled and danced on the end of the line.

“Okay, take it off,” Marty said, suddenly looking pale.

Robbie gaped at him. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You just caught a fish. But you want me to unhook it?”

“I don’t touch fish,” Marty said.

“You’re fishing and you don’t touch fish?”

“Correct,” Marty said. “It’s a long-standing policy of mine. Dates back many years.”

“That’s like saying, ‘I’m going bowling, but I won’t touch the bowling ball,’” Robbie said.

“No, it’s not,” Marty said. “Bowling balls can’t bite. Bowling balls can’t attack you and tear your flesh and leave blood spurting everywhere.”

Robbie considered the tiny fish, glinting in the bright sunshine. “Marty,” he said, “it’s a six-inch bluegill, not a barracuda.”

“Still,” Marty said, “I don’t touch fish. No exceptions. I don’t touch frogs or turtles, either. And definitely not snakes.” He shuddered.

“Is that why we had to use cut-up hot dogs for bait?” Robbie asked. “Instead of worms?”

“Precisely. Now you’re catching on. Worms are the worst. Worms are like, I don’t know, junior-varsity snakes. No, don’t look at me like that. They really are.”

“You’re not exactly Mr. Outdoors, are you?” Robbie said. “Not exactly Mr. One-with-Nature.”

Marty stared at the fish again and made a face. “Whatever. Just take it off!” he said, a hint of panic in his voice. “Please!”

It was the afternoon following the Yankees game, and after finishing their homework, the two boys had grabbed their fishing rods and headed to the big pond on the other side of the neighborhood. Robbie had just finished telling Marty about his encounter with Ben when Marty felt a tug on the line and reeled in the bluegill.

But it wasn’t until Robbie unhooked it and threw it back in the pond, where it darted away, that Marty could concentrate on the story again.

“Whew,” Marty said. “Okay, back to the one-armed kid. Tell me the truth: was he kind of creepy?”

“No way,” Robbie said, casting his line again. “He seems like a regular kid. A regular kid who went through something terrible, something most of us could never imagine happening.”

“I’ve never seen a kid run that fast,” Marty said. “The dude can motor! I’m surprised you caught up to him.”

“I was, too,” Robbie said. “He looked gassed when we stopped. But maybe he sort of wanted to be caught.”

“Why would he want that?”

“I don’t know,” Robbie said. “Just a theory. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he just moved here and he needs some friends.”

“Boy, that would be tough,” Marty said. “Being the new kid and having only one arm.” He baited his hook with another piece of hot dog and cast his line again. “And he used to play baseball?”

Robbie nodded. “That’s what he told me. I bet he was a shortstop. You can see how athletic he is. Probably has a sick arm too.”

“Speaking of sick,” Marty said, “I’ll tell you who’s really sick: Big Red. As in, sick in the head.”

Big Red! With all the excitement over chasing Ben and finally getting to talk to him, Robbie had forgotten all about the hulking Yankees pitcher and his postgame woofing with Marty.

“Did you two had a nice conversation after I left?” Robbie said.

Marty turned pale again. “He said he’d pound my face in next time he saw me.”

“I don’t think he could do it—even with all those muscles,” Robbie said, grinning. “My money’s on you. You’re too quick for him. Just bob and weave. Stay low to the ground. Oh, wait. You already are low to the ground.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Marty said. “Maybe he’ll forget about me by the time we play them again.”

“Doubtful,” Robbie said. “We play the Yankees in two weeks. Last game of the season, remember?”

Marty groaned. “That’s it, I’m a dead man! D-E-A-D! And I’m an only child. Well, except for my brother.”

“Look on the bright side,” Robbie said. “If you’re dead, you won’t have to take the Vulture’s English final.”

The Vulture was Ms. Patricia Owens, one of the most feared teachers at York Middle, a woman who was said to have worn a perpetual scowl since birth.

She was nicknamed the Vulture for her unnerving habit of lazily circling the room during oral quizzes, and swooping down on the poor kid who gave a wrong answer, soundly embarrassing him or her.

When you made a mistake in the Vulture’s class, you were said to be “roadkill.” Unfortunately, Robbie was intimately familiar with the experience, having been singled out by the Vulture several times.

“You’re killing me, dude,” Marty said. “Aren’t you supposed to be my friend? Aren’t you supposed to offer encouragement at times like this?”

Robbie clapped him on the back and said, “Aw, I’m just playing with you. Big Red’s forgotten all about you already. Are you kidding? With his sunny personality, he probably threatens twenty kids every day before lunch. How do you expect a guy like that to keep track of all the kids he wants to pound?”

Marty shook his head sadly. “I guess that’s supposed to make me feel better. But somehow it doesn’t.”

For the next few minutes, neither boy spoke. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and the water looked more green than blue, with large shadows forming in the tree line where they stood.

“I hope Ben shows up at practice Thursday,” Robbie said finally. “I have an idea. I mentioned it to Dad last night when I got home.”

“What’s your idea?”

“Uh-uh,” Robbie said. “If I tell you, it’ll end up on Facebook five minutes later.”

Marty was genuinely shocked. “Me?” he said. “Dude, I am the soul of discretion! I should work for the CIA, I’m so good with secrets!”

“No offense,” Robbie said, “but you’re actually the biggest blabbermouth I know.”

“Fine, be like that,” Marty said in a pouty voice.

Suddenly there was a tug on his line. Marty reeled in furiously and another bluegill broke the surface, twisting and turning. This one was much larger than the first.

“Oh, great!” he moaned, clearly imagining another unhooking ordeal. “How come I’m the only one catching fish?”

Robbie laughed and clapped him on the back.

“Just your lucky day, I guess.”