It’s the day of Hector’s first scheduled start at Abbott Memorial Stadium, and Casey and I are walking over to the concession stands like we always do before the game. Suddenly I freeze. My legs feel like they’re made of cement, and the hunger I felt on the car ride to the stadium vanishes. I don’t want to eat anything. Not from the concession stands, at least.

“Quinnen, come on!” Casey yells.

“I’m going to go sit down,” I say, but it comes out a near whisper. “I don’t feel so great.”

“But the game’s starting soon. We gotta get food now or—” He remembers. “Can I buy something for you?”

“As long as you don’t eat it first.”

Casey glares at me but then breaks into a smile.

“A hot dog and fries.” I hand him the crumpled ten from my pocket.

“I’m not gonna do this for you forever. You know, you can’t keep avoiding him.”

“Yeah, I can.” I walk to our seats, my heart calming down with each step I take away from the smells I love and the person I hate.

Banjo stops by and gets me to rub his furry raccoon belly while I wait for Casey. Ten minutes later, Casey arrives with a huge soda, a hot dog, and fries for me and corn on the cob, a tuna sandwich, and bottled water for him.

“They sell tuna sandwiches here? I don’t remember ever seeing them for sale. They aren’t even fried.”

“There’s a new booth this year,” he says. “With healthy food where they take out the wu-tang and don’t put any sugar in.”

“Take out the wu-tang?”

“Isn’t that what they call it? It makes you go crazy, and it makes some people sick.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. My mom thinks I shouldn’t have so much wu-tang anymore.”

“I think it’s called gluten. You sure you don’t want some fries?” I dangle one in front of his face. It has so much salt on it that it sparkles.

“Stop it. Of course I want one.”

“Then why can’t you have one?”

Casey doesn’t say anything at first. He takes the wrapper off his sandwich. “Mom doesn’t want me to end up looking like Pablo Sandoval.”

“But he’s such a good hitter.”

“I know. It’s okay, though. I’d rather look like Hector or Brandon. I bet they eat real healthy and work out all the time.”

I don’t tell him that Brandon eats more than anyone I’ve ever met.

The loudspeaker squeaks. “Attention. Would Quinnen Donnelly please come to the information booth?”

I bolt out of my seat. “Hold this.” I practically throw my hot dog onto Casey’s lap before running over to the information booth, my heart beating so loud in my chest it might as well be broadcast over the speakers. My legs are shaking when I get there.

“Quinnen! Just the young lady we were looking for,” says the woman wearing a nice Bandits polo shirt. She’s smiling and waving at me.

“What’s wrong? Did my mom call?”

“ ‘What’s wrong?’ ” She looks confused. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. I probably gave you a heart attack. Our volunteer to read the starting lineup is tied up in traffic and he’s not going to make it in time. We thought perhaps you’d like to help us out today.”

Her words are like someone strapping an oxygen mask over my face. I can breathe again. Even though I’ve been singled out a million times before and it’s never been a big deal, after last summer I can only think of one reason for someone to call out my name on the loudspeaker: something bad happening to someone I love.

I take a deep breath. “Sure.” I smile back at her so she knows I’m fine. You’re going to read the starting lineup, I tell myself. It’s okay.

I follow her up the stairs to the announcer’s booth, behind home plate. The announcer is staring out a big window with the most perfect view of the diamond. There’s a lady next to him with stacks of papers she keeps shuffling and handing to him. She talks really fast, like she’s had one too many Red Bulls. In the back of the room, there are shelves with more Bandits stuffed animals, pennants, and doodads than I would know what to do with. Well, if somebody offered, they’d probably fit in my room.

“You’ve done this before, right?” the announcer asks, handing me a sheet of paper.

“Yeah,” I say, looking over the list of names. “I’ve got it.”

“You’re on in five,” the too-much-Red-Bull lady says, pointing at us.

I read the names softly to myself. But when I get to the bottom of the page, I realize they left one off: Hector’s.

“Excuse me,” I say to the announcer. “Do I get to say the pitcher’s name?”

“Normally I like to add my own special intro for the pitcher.”

“Please?”

“Oh, okay. Sure. Why not, kiddo? Just keep it under twenty seconds. They’ve got a starting time to make.”

Before I know it, we’re getting the three-two-one countdown, and the announcer is saying, “And here it is, your starting lineup for the Tri-City Bandits, read by our very own…Quinnen Donnelly!”

He points to me, and I read the whole lineup without any mistakes—I hope. Then I put on my very best announcer voice for the finale. “And tonight’s starting pitcher, number fifteen, making his first start for the Bandits…Hector Padilla!”

Cheers fill the stadium. I know they’re not for me reading the lineup, but still—there’s something magical about baseball time. Everything just feels right.

“Great job,” the announcer says to me. “You’re a natural. You even knew how to pronounce Hector’s last name. Pa-dee-uh. You want to watch the top of the inning from up here? Best seat in the house.”

I think about Casey down in our seats and my hot dog. It’s probably in Casey’s stomach by now, whether it has any gluten in it or not. “Okay.” I sit back down in the bouncy swivel chair.

The first batter for the Cardinals takes a few swings outside the batter’s box. He looks strong and mean, but I bet he’s no match for Hector.

Hector winds up and throws one that catches the inside corner. The batter can’t get his bat around fast enough. “Striiiike one.”

“Come on, Hector. You’ve got ’em,” I whisper.

He winds up and throws. The pitch looks low but maybe on the edge of the strike zone. I have to wait for the umpire to know for sure. “Striiiiike two,” the announcer says.

I turn to give him a thumbs-up. “I know him. I know Hector. He’s my friend.” The announcer smiles at me like I’m a little kid. Like, Oh sure. Hector’s her friend, and I’m best buddies with the president.

Hector shakes off the catcher and winds up. He throws, and the batter swings. All I hear is the sound of the ball hitting the bat. The next thing I see is Hector, crumpled over, down on the ground.

The announcer puts his hand over the red mute button and swears.

“Where did it hit him?” I ask.

The announcer shakes his head. It all happened so fast.

Someone’s rushing out onto the field—I think it’s the manager—and someone’s following with a stretcher.

Hector’s not moving.

He’s not moving.

He’s not moving.

But I am. I run out of the booth and down the stairs, not even looking where my feet land. I am flying.

“Hector!” I yell.

When I get to the fence around the field, I remember to breathe.

“Sorry, miss, but we can’t allow you on the field right now,” the security guard tells me.

“But—”

“Are you family?”

“No. Nobody is. Hector’s family doesn’t live here.”

Hector is still lying down, and there’s an EMT pressing something onto his face.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Line drive smacked him right in the head. That’s the downside of having an arm like his. Fast pitches come back at you even faster.” The security guard shakes his head. “Poor guy.”

I never considered a pitch coming back to hit me in the face when I was pitching. Just the thought of it makes me touch my face, to make sure everything’s still where it belongs.

Someone from the Bandits dugout runs toward Hector. I squint to read the number on the back of his jersey. Number thirty-four. Brandon.

“Is Hector going to be okay?” I ask the security guard because there’s nobody else to ask, and he’s the kind of grown-up who’s supposed to tell the truth.

“Probably just a broken nose. These things—they happen more often than you’d think. I’d be more concerned about the psychological repercussions….”

Hector’s going to be okay. That’s what he’s saying. Probably. Sort of. Just a broken nose, maybe.

Hector sits up, carefully. He raises his hand to the sky. Is there something up there in the clouds? Not that I can see. He touches his hand lightly to his chest and waves to the sky again. The EMT helps put him on the stretcher and takes him over to an ambulance that’s pulled up along the side of the field. The crowd cheers for him.

I cheer, too, but I can’t help biting my lip and thinking about what the security guard said. “Psychological repercussions.” What the heck are those?

—

After the game, it’s Dad who picks up me and Casey in his truck.

“Can we stop by the hospital?” I ask him once we get buckled in.

“The hospital?” Dad turns down the radio.

“Hector was pitching, and he got hit in the face—”

Casey talks right over me. “The ambulance came to take him away and everything. He was still conscious, but, man, that must have hurt like…I don’t even know what.”

“I’m not sure if they’ll let you in to see him, kiddo.” Dad taps his fingers on the wheel, waiting for the car in front of us to move.

“But the whole team’s going. I asked Brandon and everything. He said we could go,” Casey says.

“Come on, Dad. Please? Can we at least try to see him?” Dad from last summer would take us. He always caved when it was me doing the asking.

“Please, Mr. D,” Casey pipes in.

“All right, all right.” Dad puts on the blinker and heads toward the hospital.

—

Hector’s room isn’t hard to find. A bunch of Bandits beat us here. They’re standing in the hallway outside his room, laughing about something. I glare at them, but I’m not sure they notice. You don’t laugh in the hospital.

Casey runs over to say hi to Brandon and introduce himself to some of the players. He’s asking them a zillion questions, like it’s no big deal that Hector’s in there, in pain, and far away from his family.

I stand quietly against the wall and close my eyes, trying to make the bright lights and the pale green walls disappear. But closing my eyes doesn’t make that stuffy chemical smell go away.

Dad stands next to me, but it’s almost like he’s not even here. Dad from last summer would come up with some silly game to help pass the time, something to distract me from the fact that we’re in a hospital, which is a sad and scary place most of the time. But Dad from this summer is so quiet that even I don’t know what to say to him. I wonder if he’s scared, too.

“Hey, Quinnen, you coming?” Casey is over by Hector’s door with Brandon, about to go in. I snap out of it and follow them.

“Dad?” I say over my shoulder.

“It’s okay, Quinnen. I’ll keep holding up the wall out here.” He laughs at himself, but it seems fake.

When I get in the room, I find Hector propped up in the bed, drinking something out of a white cup with a straw. “Hey,” I say.

He smiles at me. There’s a bandage on the side of his face. The area is a little puffy, and it’s already starting to bruise. That security guard back at the stadium didn’t know what he was talking about—Hector’s nose looks perfectly fine.

“How are you feeling, man?” Brandon asks.

“Not so great.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Do you want anything from the vending machine?” Casey asks. “Like some chips or cookies or some candy?”

“No, no. I’m not hungry,” Hector says.

The TV across from Hector is on ESPN, and it’s showing the top baseball plays of the day. We all watch the countdown to the best play: a ridiculous somersault catch by an outfielder for the Oakland Athletics. Casey whispers something to Brandon.

“Me and Case are gonna hop down to the cafeteria for a snack. You okay hanging out with Hector for a bit?” Brandon asks me.

“Sure,” I say. Casey almost runs over Brandon getting out of the room. I guess I’d be pretty hungry, too, if I wasn’t allowed to eat gluten.

I walk closer to Hector’s bed, and he turns down the TV volume. “Does it hurt?” I ask, pointing at the bandage on his face. “Will it leave a scar?”

He puts his drink down on the tray and reaches up to touch the spot lightly with his right hand. “Only a small scar. I have a bigger scar, here.” He rolls up his sleeve and turns his right arm over. On the inside of the elbow there’s a long scar, maybe half the length of a ruler. It’s shiny and lighter than the rest of his skin.

“What happened?”

“Mi madre, she turned her back when she was cooking. I was only five, and I reached for the handle of a pan on the stove and pulled it down. The whole thing crashed against my arm and scalded me.”

“Ouch! That must’ve really hurt. Did you have to go to the hospital?”

He shakes his head. “No. The hospital’s far away.”

When Casey was little, he burned himself on an iron his dad had left on after ironing dress shirts. It didn’t even scar, but Mr. Sanders felt so bad about it that he bought Casey a Power Wheel to make up for it.

“I have one, too.” I lift up my knee to show him my little half-moon scar. “It’s sort of faded now. My mom had me put this ointment on it every day for months so it wouldn’t be ugly forever.”

“How’d you get it?”

“Me and my sister, Haley, we were biking a few summers ago in the Adirondacks. We go for two weeks every summer because my aunt Julie and uncle Dave have a house there and we can stay for free. Anyway, me and Haley, we were biking over a hill and we were on the right side, but this huge mountain-bike guy came up on the wrong side and crashed into me. I flew over the handlebars and landed real hard on my knee.”

“Ouch.”

“The guy was really mad at me, too. He said I ran into him. He was wearing sandals, so of course his toe got all cut up from the crash. It was nasty. But Haley was having none of it. She called him a big bully and told him he needed to look where he was going. She said you’re always supposed to slow down at the top of a hill and didn’t he know that? And what if something really bad had happened to me when she was in charge? She told him real good.”

I can still see it. Haley in her bike helmet and that shirt she wore all the time that vacation because it had the name of her new favorite band. We rode our bikes together every day. Before boys, before Haley was too cool to ride bikes with me.

“Your sister, I don’t remember seeing her at your house.”

“She passed away.”

Hector’s face looks blank. He doesn’t understand. Those words must not mean the same thing in Spanish.

“She died,” I say. “Last summer.”

“I’m sorry. Was she sick?”

I shake my head.

“Do you have another sister or a brother?”

“No,” I say. “Only Haley. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I have an older brother, Victor, and a little sister, Mikerline.” He grabs his phone from the side table and shows me a picture of him with his brother and sister. His brother is tall and strong-looking—he’s probably only a little bit older than Hector—but his sister looks like she’s about my age. She has cool braids in her hair and a gap between her front teeth.

“Your family looks nice.” I hand the phone back to him. “A brother and a sister. I bet your house is never quiet.”

“We have chickens, too.”

“Chickens? In your house?”

Hector nods. “Sí. My house is very loud.”

“My sister, she wasn’t quiet. Haley was always playing music or talking with her friends. Or arguing with Mom and Dad.” I miss that. Even the arguing. I stare down at the faded scar on my knee.

“But now you’ve got Brandon staying with you. That must help with the quiet, right?”

Hector’s right. My house is less quiet with Brandon. But less quiet doesn’t equal less lonely.

“Sort of,” I say.

“You have a bigger scar here,” Hector says, lightly touching his chest with his hand. He takes another sip from his white cup.

We watch the TV as they show a home run sailing just past the reach of an outfielder’s glove.