Adam needed to talk to Danny, and it wasn’t just this Boland mess.

The judge’s clerk had called Adam’s dad about the shoveling case. The judge wanted to hear from Adam about the mugging and any feelings he had about how the five arrested kids should be punished. Community service? Counseling? Jail? Lethal injection?

In a case like this, the clerk explained, the victim’s feelings were given weight.

Adam’s feelings? His feelings were that he didn’t want to get involved. That was the judge’s job. That’s why judges had those big gavels — not to kill bugs — but to slam down and say, “Three years hard labor. Next!” Adam had never seen anything on TV about victims being given the gavel. What if people found out that he’d recommended jail? He never realized how much went into being a victim.

His dad said Adam didn’t have to make a recommendation and shouldn’t worry about it.

But Adam wasn’t sure. Adam really wanted to talk it out with Danny.

Adam wanted to find out if Danny knew Mrs. Quigley.

And, more than anything, Adam needed help figuring out what to do about the Willows story. He didn’t want to discourage Jennifer. She’d never done such great reporting. But maybe it wasn’t the job of a school paper to write about the Bolands buying up the Willows. That was grown-up stuff. Kids wanted to read about the top ten bullies. They wanted egg sandwiches.

Danny had been a huge help when Marris was after them.

Only one minor problem.

Adam had to find Danny.

Saturday morning, after baseball practice but before running club, Adam rode his bike to the animal shelter.

The receptionist told him the same thing she’d said when Adam phoned: Danny wasn’t in. And no, she didn’t know when he’d be back.

“I’m his really good friend,” said Adam, “and I’m worried about him.”

“You’re so lucky to have Danny for a friend,” she said. “He’s amazing when he’s up.”

They always said that about Danny. She made it sound like Danny lived in an elevator. “When he’s up?” repeated Adam. “Where is he now? Down?”

The receptionist gave Adam a strange look but didn’t say more.

“Do you know if he’s all right?” asked Adam.

“We know he’s OK,” said the receptionist. “He checks in with us. It’s just — I can’t say more for privacy reasons. Please understand.”

Was Danny on some secret animal shelter mission? Maybe he’d gone undercover investigating a poodle smuggling ring in Paraguay. Adam wasn’t even sure they had telephones in Paraguay.

“I really need to talk to him,” said Adam. “But he’s never home.”

“You sure?” she said. “Look, I’ve already said too much. People are waiting.” Adam was so absorbed, he had not noticed. Behind him were a woman and a little girl with a pet adoption form. Behind them was a man with a golden retriever and a lady with a white boxer.

This was his parents’ fault. He hated them for not letting him have a dog. They kept saying he was too busy and would never walk it. He hated being so overprogrammed. He’d love to quit swimming. He’d love to quit before-school/after-school classes for the state tests. He’d love to have just one second to himself.

He stepped out of line. The little girl was telling the receptionist that she was going to adopt a Yorkie terrier and call him New. “Everywhere I go I can tell the whole, entire world, I love my new Yorkie, New. Get it? And in a long time, when I get growed up, I can say I love my old Yorkie, New. Get it?”

Adam got it. Couldn’t one thing on this entire planet love him twenty-four hours a day for no good reason except that he was Adam?

Being a reporter, it seemed like he spent every waking hour asking questions that upset people. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand the reporter’s life. He wanted to be surrounded by love and get licks all over his face every second.

It was too far to bike.

He didn’t know which buses to take.

And Adam didn’t want to ask his parents for a ride; they’d start getting snoopy about what was up.

So that Sunday afternoon, a glorious March day, Adam waited until his mom and dad went biking along the river. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out forty dollars from his savings, and called a taxi.

Usually, Danny came over to their house. Danny wasn’t married, and Adam’s parents said they enjoyed cooking for him. Adam had been to Danny’s only twice. Danny lived in a condo; that had surprised Adam. It was pretty plain and not too large. For some reason Adam had envisioned Danny in a more dramatic place, like a houseboat on the river or a bat cave.

The taxi driver knew the condo complex and Adam showed him which building. He felt funny standing there, watching the taxi disappear. Only then did it occur to him — what if Danny was in Paraguay?

Adam pressed the buzzer for Danny’s condo. There was no answer. He pressed two, three, four times.

There was a rustling over the intercom. “Yeah?”

“That you, Danny? It’s me, Adam. . . . Danny, it’s Adam . . . your friend, Adam. . . . Danny?”

Finally Danny said, “It’s not a good time for me. How about if I call you when it’s better? Put your dad on, I’ll tell him.”

“I’m alone, Danny,” said Adam. “I really need to talk to you.”

There was another long silence. Then Danny said he’d buzz him in, but Adam had to wait ten minutes in the lobby before taking the elevator up.

When Danny opened the door, he barely looked at Adam. No bear hug like usual. No jokes about how much Adam had grown. No comments about the beautiful Jennifer. No nasty remarks about Adam’s ridiculous, overprogrammed life.

Danny looked bad. He needed a shave, and what hair he had on the side of his head, was sticking out, Bozo-style. He was wearing a white T-shirt and sweatpants, and though it was late afternoon, he seemed like he had just gotten out of bed.

Usually Danny was rushing around so much, he crackled with electricity. Today, he looked unplugged.

The apartment was a mess. Even Adam noticed. Old newspapers were piled everywhere — the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, the Tri-River Post-Gazette. Dirty dishes filled the sink and kitchen counter. It was unbelievably hot and stuffy.

“It’s burning in here,” Adam said. “Feels like a hundred degrees.”

“Didn’t notice,” Danny said softly. “You think I should open a window?”

“Might be good,” Adam said.

Adam tried to make chitchat about the animal shelter, but Danny gave one-word answers. The man looked like he couldn’t get comfortable. He sat in the center of the couch, staring down, his hands clasped in his lap. Or he got up and paced back and forth across the living room. Then he’d lay back on the couch, his head propped on a pillow for a minute before getting up again and pacing.

Finally, Adam could not ignore it. “Geez, Danny, are you OK?”

“No, I’m not,” said Danny.

“What’s wrong?” asked Adam, who suddenly was scared. “You don’t have anything like cancer? Oh please, no,” he blurted.

Danny shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Physically, I’m healthy as a horse.”

“Great,” said Adam, although it didn’t seem great.

Danny continued pacing. “Look, Adam,” he said. “I hate people seeing me like this. I’ve got this illness. . . .” He stopped.

“Illness?” asked Adam. “I thought you’re healthy as a horse.”

“Physically,” said Danny. “It’s the head. Adam, you know. . . . Let me see how to say this. . . . You’re probably too young. . . .” Danny’s head was in his hands now. “You should go . . . please.”

He paused. Adam stared at him. Danny lay back on the couch. His arm was over his eyes. He was quiet a long time. Adam was determined to wait this out.

“Mental illness,” Danny finally said. “Ever hear of that?”

“Sure,” said Adam. “Like when people are crazy.”

“Well, I have a mental illness,” said Danny.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Adam. “You’re, like, the neatest grown-up I ever met. Even Jennifer says so. You know all kinds of stuff, you know lots of good jokes, you like kids, you listen, you got that great job at the animal shelter. You’ve got the record for most pet adoptions in a day. Even you said, ‘Forty-nine, a record never to be broken in our lifetime.’ Danny, you seem like the least crazy grown-up I know.”

“Right,” Danny said. “Well, I set the record when I was up. And I’m down now. I couldn’t do a single adoption right now. That’s why I’m on leave. It’s my illness, Adam.”

The phone rang, but Danny didn’t move.

“Want me to get it?” asked Adam.

“I don’t care,” said Danny. Adam walked to the phone and checked the caller ID. “Tremble Animal Shelter,” Adam read. Danny shook his head.

“They told me you check in every day,” Adam said. “Let them know you’re OK.”

“I leave a message after it’s closed,” said Danny. “I really think you should go.”

Adam didn’t budge. He’d worked too hard tracking down Danny. “What’s your illness?”

Danny gave him an irritated look, but Adam stared right back.

Danny took a pillow from the couch, put it on the floor, then lay down on the floor. “It has different names,” Danny said. “Manic depression is probably most honest. Mood swings. Up and down. The brain’s chemistry is all screwed up. Doctors don’t even understand it.”

“They don’t give you medicine?” Adam asked.

“Meds, oh yes, miracle meds,” Danny said. “I take every last med they give me. It doesn’t make you better. Helps a little around the edges. I can go months, sometimes more than a year being up. And then, down. Months of being down. Months of depression.”

“You’re depressed?” said Adam. “Is that all? Why didn’t you say so? Come on, Danny, cheer up — you’re the best. After I was mugged, I was kind of down, but I got out of it. Think of good stuff. Like all the skips we’ve had by the river.” Adam was thinking of how for years the two had gone down by the river a couple of times a year to skip rocks. “You want to go get an ice cream? It’s beautiful out.”

“It’s not like that,” said Danny. “It’s not something where you can be cheered up. You could eat a thousand ice creams, but your mind can’t feel the joy of ice cream. You’re numb. Dead inside. It’s like the brain’s ability to absorb happiness has been turned off. Click.”

Adam thought about that. “Well, how do you turn it back on?” he asked.

“You wait,” Danny said softly. “Take your meds and wait. For as long as you can bear it. If you can bear it.”

The phone rang and again Adam checked. The caller ID said Dr. Rieder.

Danny grunted but held out his hand for the portable. As he talked, he rubbed his forehead. Adam heard snatches of conversation as Danny walked in and out of the room. “On a scale of ten? Three. . . . No, I don’t think I need to go in. I really don’t. . . . I actually met my social goal today. I have a friend over for a visit. . . . Yes, I do . . .” The rest was mostly yeses and nos. Adam was sure of one thing: Danny talked a lot less when he was like this.

When Danny hung up, Adam said, “I guess I’ll be going.”

“OK,” said Danny. “I appreciate it.”

Adam put on his jacket, then asked if he could borrow the yellow pages to look up the taxi number.

“Taxi?” said Danny. “Is that how you got here? A taxi? Alone?”

Adam nodded.

“Does your dad know you’re here?” asked Danny.

Adam shook his head.

“I forget,” said Danny. “Why did you come?”

Adam explained that he’d wanted Danny’s help. For himself and for some Slash stories. “It’s OK,” said Adam. “I didn’t know you were mentally ill. I’ll just ask someone else.”

For the first time Danny looked at Adam like he used to. “You’re telling me you came all this way in a taxi by yourself? To ask me for help? Me? Oh, you beautiful child. Put the phone down. Come here.” Adam walked over and Danny gave him a big hug. Adam was crying now, and when he looked up, so was Danny.

“I’m sorry, Danny,” Adam said. “I’m sorry I made you more depressed. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’ll go.”

“No,” said Danny. “Oh, no. I’m feeling something. It’s so wonderful to feel something.”

Danny made Adam call his dad, who insisted on coming to pick Adam up and said he’d be there in forty-five minutes.

When Adam got off the phone, he noticed that Danny had a glass of water and was taking pills. “Every six hours,” Danny said. “I apologize ahead of time — they make me drowsy.”

In the past, when Adam had asked Danny for help, the ideas popped out rapid-fire and Adam could barely keep up. This time, Adam had to go slow, and even then, Danny had trouble following, so Adam had to repeat some stories.

Adam asked about their new principal, but Danny didn’t know Mrs. Quigley. Danny did seem interested in two things that Adam had barely given a thought: that Mrs. Quigley was the acting principal, and that she seemed like a grandmother.

Danny said this might be very bad news. It might mean she’ll be at Harris a short time and will do whatever she is told. It might mean that if Mrs. Boland wants to destroy the Slash, Mrs. Quigley will look the other way, collect her paycheck, and be gone at the end of the school year.

Or, Danny said, it might be good news. It might mean that Mrs. Quigley’s a seasoned pro, doing Tremble officials a favor filling in while they search for a permanent principal. And since Mrs. Quigley might not be worried about her bosses, she could be independent enough to do the right thing. “In my experience, only two groups of people speak the truth,” said Danny. “Kids and old people. Kids don’t know better; old people have nothing to lose. You might get lucky with this Quigley woman.”

Adam liked that idea. It had never occurred to him that a principal might be brave. “Every time we meet,” said Adam, “she gives us Moisty Deluxe and milk.”

Danny shook his head. “Can’t trust cookies and milk,” he said. “Even Moisty Deluxe. It could be taken either way.” Adam knew Danny was right. The moment Mrs. Marris had started smiling like crazy at Adam and Jennifer, that’s when things had turned into a nightmare.

Adam looked at the clock; they’d used up half an hour. He didn’t know if it was his imagination, but Danny seemed to be moving in slow motion now. He’d stopped pacing and was lying on the couch. He kept saying he was sorry, that his mind didn’t work when he was depressed, and he had to ask Adam to explain things a second and third time.

After hearing the latest developments in the shoveling case, Danny agreed with Adam’s dad — it probably wouldn’t go to trial. The boys would most likely plead guilty, Danny said, and the penalty would be a lot less than the four years mentioned on TV.

But Danny thought Adam should go to court and make a recommendation about the sentencing. He felt it was Adam’s duty. “You called the police,” Danny said. “They came. The district attorney, the judge — they’re part of a system that’s there for you. The court system is one of those things that separates us from cavemen. Everyone needs to do his share. You, too.”

By the time Adam got around to the Bolands, Danny’s eyes were closed. It was almost dinnertime and the room was nearly dark. Adam’s dad would be there any minute.

Danny’s answers were shrinking. Adam wasn’t even sure he was awake; sometimes it was like he was talking in his sleep.

Adam told Danny about the Bolands boarding up houses in the Willows. Every few sentences, he had to ask if Danny was listening. And Danny wouldn’t even open his eyes. He’d just lift one hand off his stomach and make a slight wave.

“My big worry is this isn’t a story for a kids’ paper,” said Adam. “I mean, kids don’t care about this stuff. So I think I’ll tell Jennifer we shouldn’t do it. That sound right, Danny . . . ?

“Danny . . . ?

“Danny . . . ?”

“Kids live in the Willows?” Danny whispered.

“Sure,” said Adam. “You know they do.”

“They go to Harris?”

“Yeah,” said Adam.

“What if they disappear?”

“Disappear?” said Adam, “Why would they disappear?” Danny said nothing and Adam was quiet, too. Disappear? Disappear! “I get it!” Adam shouted. “That’s our peg — the kids. Tell it through the kids. Oh, that’s great. Danny you’re unbelievable. You’re like this sleeping oracle. You’re like Superman fighting with his last ounce of strength before the kryptonite gets him. . . . Danny? . . . Danny?”

Danny did not answer.

Adam flopped in a chair. The room was dark, the only sound Danny’s snoring. Adam sat there, barely visible between the tall stacks of newspapers on each arm of the chair, waiting for his dad to buzz.