第1章 FALL

1

DIGGY LAWSON STOOD IN THE BARN AND PROMISED HIMSELF AGAIN THAT he would not name this new calf. After three years competing steers at the Minnesota State Fair, he knew what to expect. Nothing could describe the long, final walk to the packer's truck, knowing that in only a few days his steer would be served at Hartley's Steak House.

He was an experienced cattleman now. No names, no tears. An eighth-grader shouldn't cry.

Diggy inspected his morning's work one more time. The stall was tidy, wood shavings evenly raked over the ground, water trough scrubbed shiny. The steer he had chosen would settle in to his new home fast and happily.

Diggy heard the distant whoosh of tires coming up the gravel road. He grabbed the rice root brush from its peg and shoved it into his back pocket as he walked to the driveway and watched July's truck crest the hill.

He patted his hair to be sure he hadn't broken the shell of goop that kept his cowlicks flat, then swiped sweat from his forehead. Mid-September weather was hit or miss in Minnesota, veering through summer, fall, and almost winter on a day-by-day basis. This Saturday was summer, but Diggy wore jeans and boots anyway. Anything less around a calf jittery after his first ride in a trailer would make July think he'd forgotten everything she'd ever taught him. She had chosen him to fill her shoes and become the next Grand Champion Market Beef, and there was no way he'd let her down.

Pop came out, his orange hair bright as a glow stick, and Diggy was glad he'd used the goop because it made his own hair darker. It didn't matter that July had seen him filthy before, covered in hay, dirt, and cow poop. He didn't like to look messy around her when he could help it. As her truck made the turn into the long driveway, he breathed deeply to chase away the stomach swirlies.

"Do I get to say hi to her, or do I have to make myself scarce?" Pop asked.

"Har, har," Diggy said, though Pop's tone was so straight on, Diggy wasn't sure if he was teasing or not. He squinted sideways at Pop.

Pop laughed and roughed up Diggy's hair. "What the—"

"Quit it," Diggy said. Luckily, nothing much had shifted. He pressed the shell back down.

"Is that hair gel or rubber cement?"

"Geezer. No one uses rubber cement anymore." Diggy snickered at his own joke. At thirty-five, Pop was probably the youngest "Pop" on the planet, but calling him old never got old.

"This geezer can still ground you."

"That would hurt you more than me."

Pop snorted. "I'm thinking you deserve a little something special for lunch today."

Diggy groaned. Pop was an expert prankster with a sub-specialty in food doctoring. July parked, and Diggy headed over to her truck, calling back to Pop, "As long as it's after July's gone."

Pop grinned, waved at July, and made himself scarce.

Diggy's gratitude doubled as he watched July climb out of the truck.

July Johnston.

Every time she was near, Diggy's heart became the sun.

July, like her five sisters before her, would be homecoming queen now that she was a senior. Her hair was long and dark and shiny, pulled back into the usual ponytail. Her face was clean, no makeup, and her brown eyes sparkled. She wore jeans, a T-shirt, and boots, and was pretty much perfect.

But it wasn't only that she was pretty. She was nice, too. Honest nice, not pretend nice like some of the popular girls. And she loved cows. Even though she didn't have to, she liked being there when Diggy had a new calf brought home for the first time.

Diggy had gone to his first 4-H meeting because of July. She had come to his class to talk about how cool 4-H was—all the different activities they supported, the community outreach, and the friendships with people from all over the county—but he had been hooked by her smile, her enthusiasm, and the sparkle in her eyes. He pretended to himself he would have gotten involved in raising steers on his own at some point, but he knew better than to believe it. As much as he had learned to love the animals, he competed for July.

"Hey there." She hugged him sideways, the way she usually did, this time so she could look at the fence and post they'd use for halter breaking. "Everything all set here?"

He nodded, reeling from her cut-grass smell and her bare arm over his shoulders and the little bit of sweat where her skin pressed against his.

"Of course it is," she said. She gave his shoulders a squeeze, and he let himself press that little bit closer to her. "You're an old pro." She smiled down at him and ruffled his hair.

Tried to ruffle it.

Her eyes widened.

Diggy jerked away. "Sorry, I, uh…" His face felt like a thousand fires. "My hair sticks up."

July grabbed his shoulders to make him stand still, then scratched his head like it was a steer's rump, breaking up the goop crust. "I like your head the way it is."

Diggy looked up into her smiling eyes, a good six inches above his, wishing he wasn't the youngest and shortest eighth-grader in his class and hoping all his hope that four years wasn't so big a difference.

He could have stood like that with July forever.

She patted his shoulder and turned to look up the drive. "Here he comes."

It took a few seconds for Diggy to hear the diesel engine over the thump of blood in his ears. Rick Lenz was coming with the calf.

Diggy joined July in waving Lenz in.

Lenz climbed out of the cab, walked back, and slid out the short ramp like it was one motion, proof of his having done it a thousand times. Their hellos to him were lost in the metallic clank of latches sprung and disgruntled moos, but Lenz heard Pop call out that there was fresh coffee inside. Barely a minute after Lenz's arrival, Diggy and July were alone again.

July shook her head. "Never get a word in edgewise with that guy."

Diggy laughed. Everyone knew Lenz talked more to his cows than to people. July's teasing helped Diggy relax a bit. His new calf was home.

Diggy had gone out to Mr. Lenz's last weekend to select the steer he'd compete from among the other spring-born calves, and he had felt an immediate bond with this one. But that was a week ago and in a different setting. Even though he knew all would go well with raising his chosen calf and had for the last three years, Diggy still got nervous when it came time to bring a steer home.

He walked around the back of the trailer and looked in, seeing mostly rump. The calf was in a simple rope halter tied through one of the openings in the trailer's side. It saved time with the breaking to let the steers fight the halter during the ride.

Diggy eased into the back as quietly as he could—pretty much impossible with boots and an aluminum trailer. The calf rolled back his eyes and bawled. Diggy scratched the calf's rump until he quieted, then pulled the brush from his back pocket and stroked it over the steer's hide.

Diggy couldn't help but admire what a fine calf he'd chosen. He had a long, straight top with a clean line through the throat and brisket. He was full but not too muscled, so he had room to grow in the year they'd be together, and his legs were sturdy, not too bent or too straight. What Diggy liked best was the way the calf watched him back. Calm and alert. The eyes and hair were almost equally black and absorbed light like it would help him grow. Only his nose glistened.

Diggy was so focused on his new calf, it took him a while to feel July looking in on them. He turned to her, scratching the calf's rump again. "He already looks like a champ. And did you see how quickly he calmed for me?" It was a sign of trust that meant they'd have a good bond.

The steer twitched his tail aside and pooped. On Diggy's boot.

"Crap," Diggy said, laughing. "You're a real joker, aren't you." It was Diggy's fault for having his feet in the line of fire—but the laugh burst like a bubble overhead, becoming a black cloud. He had promised himself he wouldn't name his steer!

He clattered out of the trailer, setting off fresh bawling, and dragged his boot in the grass.

July gave him the eye, clearly not happy with his behavior. "It's not like that's never happened before," she pointed out.

Diggy sighed. "I wasn't going to name him."

"Ah." The small sound was filled with echoes of Diggy's own regret. July knew exactly what it was like to care for an animal and have to let him go. She hugged him to her side. "I used to tell myself that, too, but every year… So, what's our sweet boy's name?"

"Joker."

July laughed. "Yeah, that's him, all right."

They looked in at the calf.

Joker looked back at them and winked.

Diggy chuckled despite himself. He knew the wink was really a blink, that he simply couldn't see Joker's other eye, but it didn't matter. Barely ten minutes was all it had taken for Diggy to break his promise to himself and fall in love again.

It was too late now. The name was stuck.

Diggy climbed back into the trailer and brushed Joker some more to apologize for stomping off the way he had. When Joker calmed enough that he might have been asleep, Diggy nudged the calf's rump to get him facing outward, then unknotted the rope from the trailer. He pulled until Joker took a step forward. Diggy immediately released the pressure, and Joker took three more steps before stopping. Diggy repeated the pressure, easing up as soon as Joker moved again. Joker took several more steps and was quick to catch on to the lesson. A tug meant walk.

In no time they were in the barn, with Diggy offering Joker his reward, a bit of the alfalfa-grass hay he'd eat all fall and winter.

"You're a natural, Diggy," July said.

He liked the sound of her saying his name more than the praise itself. He knew that her words weren't true, though he had worked harder than he ever had at anything to make her think so. It wasn't lying, exactly, doing stuff to make her like him, but he wanted her to really, really like him, and now she thought he was a natural.

Diggy turned her attention from himself back to Joker.

They watched the calf and talked about his assets and their plan for the coming year. July had won Grand Champion last year, taken Reserve the year before, and had always earned at least blues before then. This year she had been elected 4-H president and was one of five National Beef Ambassadors—a big deal. She was going to be so busy with programs and traveling, she had decided not to compete at the State Fair. It was Diggy's duty to take up the purple ribbon of success that July was passing on to him.

He had to win Grand Champion at the State Fair for her sake.

After July left, Diggy stayed in the barn, petting and talking to Joker. The touch-and-talk method worked for a reason, but Diggy had been shy about rambling to the calf in front of July. He made up for it now, scratching Joker while he chattered about the calf's new home, the great food he'd get, how much fun they'd have training, and how much he'd like Pop, but warning him there would be early mornings and late nights.

The calf listened, head cocked like a dog's, and occasionally commented with a snuffle or a moo. Diggy felt they'd made a good start.

He sent a photo of the calf to his friends Jason and Crystal, as promised, and then Pop came out to the stall to look over the steer and deliver some lunch. Diggy took a bite of the tuna sandwich and only remembered his "geezer" comment when the tuna turned out to be spicy hot. He blinked the sting of jalape?o fumes from his eyes and took another bite.

"Okay?" Pop asked, a bit too casually.

Diggy nodded, afraid to speak. Fresh calves weren't fans of open flames.

Pop slapped Diggy on the back, laughing. "You're one stouthearted kid, Diggy Lawson." He pulled a plastic-wrapped sandwich from his pocket and offered it over.

"No, this is fine," Diggy choked out.

"I thought you'd say so." Pop set the sandwich down and patted Joker's rump. "He's a good one. You two are going to have a good year." He ruffled Diggy's hair and headed out of the barn.

Diggy smiled at Joker, then eyed the second sandwich. He slanted a glance toward Pop's retreating back.

"It's the same tuna, isn't it?" Diggy called out.

Pop whistled on his way to the house.

After dinner—an average, un-tampered-with dinner—Diggy went out to check on the calf again. The sun had taken its summerlike heat with it. A firm northeastern wind rattled fall-crisp leaves on branches that clacked and creaked. Diggy led Joker into the shivering night. A steer needed to get accustomed to all sorts of sounds so he wouldn't be easily spooked by the time he entered the show ring.

The chill air was a double bonus, because cold stimulated hair growth. Several kids he'd compete against at the fair kept their calves in cold rooms all the time, but Pop had absolutely refused, three years running, to air-condition a cow all summer long so his hair would grow thicker. Pop could be stubborn like that.

The improved weather was a sign. This would be a good year—his year to win Grand Champ.

The calf was not wild about leaving the cozy barn and bleated a protest, crowding into Diggy's side. Diggy hummed and patted and had Joker calm again—until a truck barreled down the gravel road and skidded to a stop at the end of their long driveway. Diggy looped Joker's lead onto the fence rail, just in case the calf thought about bolting, and talked quietly while scratching the steer's rump to soothe him.

The dust settled to reveal a man stumbling around the truck bed. He heaved a suitcase onto the ground, and it popped open like one of those 3-D party decorations. He lunged for the passenger door, jerking it so hard it squealed, then reached into the cab with two hands and hauled a boy out, tossing him onto the jumbled mound of spilled clothing. The door hung open. Momentum slammed it shut when the man gunned the truck and sped away. Gravel and dust spewed over the unmoving heap of clothes and boy.

Wind scrabbled through the grass. Clouds slashed at the moonlight.

Joker sidled into Diggy again but this time was soothed by a shaking hand.

Diggy really did not want to know what had been left on his doorstep.

2

DIGGY KNEW ABOUT DOORSTEPS. WHEN HE WAS A MONTH OLD, HIS MOM HAD bundled him into a laundry basket and left him on Pop's.

He felt a deep-gut rustle like the coming of a full-body shudder. This kid wasn't a baby, and he hadn't been bundled up and safely deposited anywhere. He had been tossed out of a pickup truck like trash and now huddled into his sprung suitcase as if he could burrow through it to somewhere else. Diggy couldn't leave anyone like that. No matter how much he wanted to.

He made sure Joker's lead was tight on the fence rail, then jogged close enough to the house to call out for Pop.

As he headed up the drive toward the abandoned kid, the boy moved. He knelt, swiped an arm over his face, then pushed things back into the suitcase, trying too soon to zip it all back up.

"Wayne?" Wayne Graf and Diggy had math and science together, that was it. There were nearly a hundred kids in their grade—it wasn't like they all hung out at each other's houses.

When Wayne looked up, the yard light tinted his face green. Diggy knew Wayne's hair was blond, that he was always pale pink, even in summer, and his eyes were a weird light blue. But the yard light washed those hints of color away. He stood trembling even though he was dressed for fall.

"Who was that?" Diggy asked.

Wayne stared at him like English was a foreign language.

Pop strode up to them. "You all right, son?" he asked Wayne.

"Don't call me that," Wayne bit out. He grabbed the suitcase, and, though he was a big kid—a lot bigger than Diggy, anyway—he stumbled under its weight. The suitcase fell and flipped open again. Wayne stood hunched over it.

Pop approached him the way he would a spooked animal, slowly and with quiet words. "It's late, and you must be tired." He pulled the suitcase closed, and Wayne neither resisted nor moved. "Why don't you come in and tell us what brought you here?"

Wayne looked up at Pop, his face intent. "Did you know my mom?"

Diggy stilled. The words themselves meant one thing, but it sounded like the question meant something else. Diggy suddenly felt like he couldn't get enough air.

"You know I did. Diggy and I saw you at her funeral," Pop said.

Diggy wanted to run. Wayne's mom had been Diggy's third-grade teacher. He and Pop had gone to her funeral only three weeks ago, the day after school started. But now Wayne was asking if Pop knew her.

"We looked for a marrow donor, but it was too late." Wayne added, "Her blood was type O."

"Come inside." Pop put a hand on Wayne's shoulder.

Wayne jerked away. "My dad's type A, and I'm B!" he shouted like an accusation. Diggy barely heard Wayne add, "He says you're my dad, and I have to live here now."

3

IT HAD NEVER SEEMED WEIRD TO DIGGY THAT EVERYONE IN TOWN CALLED POP "Pop" even though he was only thirty-five. Though he was mechanically inclined and had even become an engineer, he'd had a tough time learning a tractor's clutch when his family first moved to Minnesota and bought a farm. Mowing grass was a teenager's job, but it took on new meaning when there were twenty acres to cover. Rumors spread about Mark Lawson's bucking-bronco routine, and plenty of locals took a ride out to see for themselves that, yep, the clutch was winning the fight. They told Mark over and over he had to "pop" it. It was a joke at first, calling a fourteen-year-old kid "Pop," but after a while it had stuck.

When Diggy was old enough to understand the difference, he kind of liked that other people said "Pop" and meant one thing, while Diggy said "Pop" and meant another.

No one had ever doubted Diggy was Pop's kid. Diggy had the same bright orange hair, brown eyes, and large jaw, though on his thirteen-year-old face, the jaw was too big and square. Pop was over six feet, but he wasn't one of those long and skinny talls. He had broad shoulders and lots of muscle. The jaw fit him. Diggy couldn't wait for the growth spurt that would make all his own parts fit right. It was bad enough being the youngest boy in class—he hated being the shortest, too.

Wayne Graf was not only the oldest but also the biggest boy in class. Diggy hadn't messed with him because, for one, he never bothered Diggy, and two, he was a teacher's kid.

But now Wayne was standing in their driveway, and he looked tall and big, just like Pop.

Pop looked the way Diggy felt—cracked wide open. When Diggy reached an arm out for balance, he got Wayne instead. Wayne shook him off, Diggy shook his head, and the ground was back where it was supposed to be.

The suitcase popped open again.

The three of them peered at the knotted jumble of clothes.

After a while, Pop said, "Oh, right." He collected the clothes and carefully secured the suitcase. He began the long walk down the driveway. "We use the door around back."

Diggy did not like the idea of letting Wayne Graf into the house, especially not with a full suitcase. It felt wrong but somehow inevitable, too, so he waited for Wayne to move—no way would he turn his back on the guy. Until Joker bawled, and Diggy remembered he had stranded the calf at a fence post. Wayne flinched from the sound like a pack of wolves was on the loose.

"It's a baby cow, Wayne." Jeez. Mrs. Graf had lived in town, but a couple of her sisters were in the country. They might not have animals, but Wayne had to have seen, heard, and smelled plenty of cows before. Town kid.

Joker raised the volume on his complaining. Diggy did his best to rush the calf back to the barn without making him stubborn. He settled Joker into his stall, put out a bit of hay, and turned for the house, vaguely surprised to see that Wayne had walked up to it, even if he hadn't gone in yet. But then, where else could he go? The nearest buildings were a tilted-over farmhouse and a turkey hangar. Their neighbor, Kubat, was a mile over the rise, but Wayne would have to cut through the woods, and—at night, for a town kid?—that might as well be the dark side of the moon. Reaching anyone else the normal way, on roads, meant three miles of walking, and Wayne's dad was even farther.

Diggy's stomach clenched. The man who had dumped Wayne in the driveway was Wayne's dad.

Diggy may have been dumped by his own mom, but he'd been a baby—he didn't have any history with her. The idea of Pop changing his mind about Diggy and booting him out after all these years… Diggy could have puked, except that he wouldn't in front of Wayne.

Oddly, it was the thought of booting and puking that helped Diggy pull himself together. Pop had always been Diggy's dad and would never kick him out, even if he wanted to. Mr. Graf might have gone a little crazy tonight, but he'd be back tomorrow. Wayne was his son.

Diggy wouldn't let himself think about the "even if he wanted to" part, or the other part—of Wayne's being someone other than his dad's son—and, anyway, Pop hadn't actually said he'd known Mrs. Graf that way.

Diggy was almost calm when he walked into the house first, letting Wayne follow him in.

Inside, Wayne stood transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the walls.

The kitchen was fuchsia. Diggy hadn't really noticed that in a long time. He and Pop had had to pull out the refrigerator last year to replace a hose, and the wall behind it was a pretty dark rose color, exactly something his grandma would have picked out. But the rest of the paint on the other, exposed walls hadn't held up well. It had gone bright pink, like the color of someone's stomach from the inside. Summers when his grandparents came up from Texas, Grandma spent half her time nagging them to repaint the room. He and Pop had avoided the task by covering the walls with scraps of whatever—assembly instructions and posters from some of Diggy's model rockets, and advertising stuff Pop got at his agricultural-engineering conferences. It kind of worked but not really. Even with so much covering the walls, the color still engulfed the space.

"We keep meaning to paint it," Pop said.

There was no reason the small lie should have made Diggy's half-faked calm blow away like the wind had changed.

Two glasses stood upside down on a towel next to the sink. Pop filled them both to the top with milk, then set them on the kitchen table. "Go ahead and sit down." He got a third glass from a cabinet and filled it with water from the tap.

Diggy was aware of Pop's movements peripherally, but he kept his attention on Wayne, who stared back at him like he was supposed to do something. Diggy had no idea what Wayne expected, but he did know this was his house and Wayne wasn't getting any special treatment just because his dad was a jerk. Mrs. Graf had been his mom. Diggy would give almost anything to have someone like her as a mom. She was funny and nice and still his favorite teacher, and that had been all the way back in the third grade. Except that she was dead.

By the time Pop moved matters along, Diggy was the one feeling like a jerk.

Pop nudged Diggy off balance and led him to a chair, holding it out in a way that meant sit or be sat. Pop sat, too, and waited, watching Wayne, until Wayne finally took a seat on the other side of the table. He stared at his glass for a long time, then picked it up and drank the milk all in one go. Diggy couldn't help but be a little impressed.

After a while, Pop said again, "It's late. Give us a few minutes to clear some space, then you can get some rest."

The only "space" with a spare bed in it was the room where Diggy had moved all his model-rocket stuff after his grandparents' last visit, and Wayne would only be here one night. "What's wrong with the couch?"

Pop looked at Diggy like he was a wormy ear of corn.

"The couch is fine with me," Wayne said.

His jaw jutted out, and Diggy couldn't help it: he gasped at the familiar profile on this strange kid. Pushing away from the table so fast his chair almost tipped over, Diggy headed for the stairs, calling, "I'll get a blanket and stuff."

He heard Pop say the bed was more comfortable, and Diggy paused.

"I can go home tomorrow," Wayne said. "It's been rough, that's all, since Mom died."

Diggy had an idea that "rough" meant a lot more than it seemed, but he didn't stop any longer to think about it. He rushed up the rest of the stairs, ducked into the rocket room, and grabbed a blanket and pillow from the closet. At the top of the stairs again, he threw the blanket and pillow down, not caring that Pop would be ticked at him. He meant to hide out in his room but was waylaid by the sight of Wayne's profile in the doorway from the kitchen.

Wayne had a jaw just like Pop's. And Diggy's.

Wayne asked Pop again, "Did you know my mom?" This time Diggy understood what Wayne was really asking. Is it true? Are you my father?

Diggy didn't need to see Pop to know that he nodded yes.

At night, the house was noisy in that way old houses get when the temperature drops too fast. It creaked and cracked, sometimes because of a wind, sometimes because of nothing. Diggy listened to it for a long time.

He had thought Pop might come talk to him, but after settling Wayne in the living room, Pop had gone back to the kitchen and stayed there.

Diggy told himself to go to sleep. He told himself Wayne would go home tomorrow and by Monday at school it would be like nothing had happened. He told himself the two people in the rooms below him were only Pop and a classmate stuck for the night—but they might as well have been nuclear warheads, for all the sleep Diggy was likely to get.

He stared out his bedroom window at the star-framed outline of the tree he had practically lived in once he was big enough to climb it by himself.

It was a great tree, so wide at the base that his arms stretched out all the way couldn't reach even halfway around. The bark was thick and scratchy with lots of deep ridges for fingers to hook into. Six major branches arched out from the trunk and split so often, he could climb the tree every day for a month and never go the same way twice. It was old and tall and strong, so he could climb high enough to see over the roof of the house. If it was windy, he used to pretend he was in a rocket during liftoff, holding himself steady against gravity's pull.

Once upon a time, he'd hidden his mom's box in the tree.

It wasn't really her box. Diggy had bought it ages ago, a red fireproof safe he'd saved up ten dollars to buy at Ole Jib's Hardware. Inside were the three things his mother had left with him in that laundry basket. He had wasted a summer hiding the box in the tree, checking on it, bringing it in when it was supposed to rain. He didn't know where it had ended up.

The tree had been like his best friend. Staring at the night-blackened branches, he couldn't remember the last time he'd climbed into them.

He opened the window and clambered onto the ledge.

The branch that could support Diggy's weight was about three feet away. Not far in footsteps but a lot farther when all there was beneath you was twenty feet of air. He had made the jump countless times—a long time ago. He was taller now, so that would help, but he was also heavier, and the branch might not be as strong as it once was. Diggy crouched on the sill, hands cupped under the window, and took the giant, twisting step he called his "leap of faith."

His bare feet easily made the branch, but his hands caught at twigs that broke. He slipped back, hands reaching, and finally snagged a branch that held. He pulled himself in and wheezed in the smells of cold bark, dry leaves, and dirt.

"Are you crazy?" Wayne whisper-shouted from beneath the tree.

Diggy had been thinking the same thing, so it galled him that Wayne would say it. "What are you doing out here?" Diggy snapped. Quietly. He did not want Pop coming out. Pop was not likely to think Diggy's current position a wise one. And Pop was still in the kitchen. "How did you get out here past Pop in the first place?"

"You're barefoot in a tree in the middle of the night, and I'm the one who's supposed to explain stuff?"

"How can you see that?"

"It's not like I need night vision to see that you're in a tree, especially when you threw yourself out a window to get there."

"That I'm barefoot." The safety light was on the other side of the house. "How long have you been out here?" It had to have been a while, since his eyes had adjusted to the dark, but the temperature had dropped. It made more sense to stay inside. Diggy didn't linger on the fact that he wasn't inside, either.

Wayne might have shrugged. He didn't say anything, and Diggy wouldn't look down.

The cold blew in unsteadily. Branches heaved away from the sudden bursts of wind with such dismay, Diggy had to concentrate to make sure his eyes and hands actually coordinated as he shuffled toward the center of the tree. The barefoot thing was already becoming a problem. As he made his way down, the cold made every scrape of bark feel like cracked glass beneath his soles. He considered that this had not been one of his better impulses, though not far beneath that rational interpretation of events was a jittery thrill for the deep night, the rustling branches, and the clean, arctic scent of the air.

"Why jump into a tree?"

Wayne said it in that way that was less about getting a response and more about doubting the intelligence of the person in question. Which ticked off Diggy. The guy had shown up at Diggy's house, suggesting impossible things, and was, by the way, wandering around outside in the midnight dark, so… Pot. Kettle. Black. Diggy was not the one who needed to explain anything.

This was his home and his tree and his middle of the night. Wayne could muzzle it. Diggy was in the mood to make him.

He moved too fast and slid, scalding his heels, down the last deep vee and thudded against the trunk. From there, he flopped belly first onto a thick branch that dipped lower than the others, shimmying back until he could wrap his arms around it, then dangle and drop. He shook the sting from his feet.

"You must have the same IQ as that baby cow of yours."

Diggy tucked his head and shouldered Wayne into the side of the house.

Wayne got hold to push Diggy away and ended up forcing half his sweatshirt against his throat.

Diggy twisted and fell to one knee, grabbing Wayne's shirt. On the way down, Diggy managed to elbow Wayne in the gut before the guy landed on him.

Diggy bucked, slowing down Wayne's scramble to get back to his feet.

A knee connected with a hip bone. An elbow caught an ear.

They finally got apart and stood puffing at each other.

Diggy braced for the next round but was distracted by a swooping flash of light. Pop would be ticked if he caught them fighting out here.

"You want more?" Wayne said.

Diggy gave the guy credit for mustering some nerve, but his face already had that sheen of worry about what would hurt next. Wayne might be big, but he was one of the class brains. This was probably his first fight.

A flash again—headlights in the driveway—then a truck zoomed straight for them.

4

THE TRUCK STOPPED IN A HARD SKID.

THE BOYS DUCKED BEHIND THE TREE. WHEN the dust cloud hit them, they held back coughs.

Nothing happened.

The safety light backlit the driver sitting hunched over the steering wheel, staring at the house. The shadows of cigarette smoke made the truck's cab look like a water tank.

Wayne turned away, slumping against the tree.

Diggy stared harder. Wayne's dad had come back now?

The front light flipped on, barely noticeable over the glare of the truck's headlamps. Diggy dashed to the corner of the house and peered around.

Pop came out, and Mr. Graf screeched open his door.

"He's going to wake Joker," Diggy muttered. Hadn't the man ever heard of WD-40?

"You've got my boy." Mr. Graf was way too loud for the silent night. "You can't keep my boy."

Disgruntled moos refuted the declaration.

Pop said something quietly, the way he'd spoken to Wayne earlier, as if to a spooked animal, only this one was riled up.

"I can't hear what he's saying," Wayne said.

Diggy thumped him to shut up, straining to hear.

"Ha. There ain't enough beer in the world to make me forget—"

Pop cut him off. His tone was sharp, though still low enough that his words weren't clear.

"Wayne! Get your butt out here!" Mr. Graf shouted.

Wayne wavered, like he meant to take a step but forgot how to move his legs.

Diggy grabbed his shoulder. When Wayne looked at him, Diggy shook his head. The kid had to go home, but not like this. This was the kind of thing they needed to let Pop take care of.

"Wayne!" The yell was thick with threat, and Mr. Graf stepped into Pop.

Pop held the line, not letting Mr. Graf pass. When he swung at Pop, Pop stepped out of the way and let Mr. Graf's momentum take himself down.

"I want my son back!" Mr. Graf howled. He was so loud, Kubat's dogs took to howling, too, and Joker's moos took on an edge of distress.

Pop said something, and Mr. Graf covered his face. His next words were only barely loud enough to hear. "I want my wife back."

As loud as the night had become, it suddenly felt really quiet, too. The dogs still barked, and the steer still mooed, but the man who'd started it all lay bunched on the ground like discarded clothes.

Was this what it had been like for Wayne since his mom died? His dad throwing him out, then screaming for him to come back?

Diggy got mad at Pop sometimes, and Pop definitely got mad at him, but it was never like this seesaw of rage and agony in front of him now. His heart stuttered with a combination of fear and sadness that left him feeling like the starter's pistol had only just fired but he was end-of-race worn out. This wasn't Diggy's normal. If it was Wayne's, Diggy didn't know how the guy could stand it.

Pop hooked Mr. Graf's arm, easily avoiding the hand Mr. Graf batted out, and hauled him to his feet. Mr. Graf stumbled toward the driver's side of the truck, but Pop grabbed him again and steered him toward Pop's own pickup. Once Mr. Graf was loaded into the passenger seat, Pop headed back to the house.

"Oh, crap," Diggy spurted, turning fast and smacking into Wayne. He shoved at Wayne to get him moving, but the guy was propped against the house, heavy as a bag of feed.

Then Diggy heard a telltale shudder in Wayne's breath, that sound like he was trying not to make any sound so no one would hear him cry.

This time Diggy murmured, "Crap."

He kind of patted Wayne's shoulder, feeling stupid, then stopped, feeling stupider. "We've got to get to the kitchen," Diggy explained quietly. "Pop's going to check on us."

Wayne sniffed hard and wiped his face.

They sped to the kitchen, then walked more normally into the hall. Pop had already gone upstairs to look for them and was on his way back down. He scanned Diggy's bare, dirty feet, then gave him the eye before searching Wayne's face.

"Your dad's here."

Wayne nodded.

"I'm taking him home. You know why?"

Wayne nodded again, not looking at anyone.

"He been like this for a while?" Pop asked.

Wayne shrugged. Pop took his shoulder and waited until Wayne looked up. "It got a lot worse when she died," he finally admitted.

"For both of you," Pop said.

Wayne's face crumpled suddenly, and he bit his lip hard, like the physical pain might hold back the other kind. But even Diggy could tell it didn't work.

Pop exhaled heavily. "He's scared without her and not all that clear about what he's doing. That doesn't mean he doesn't love you. He's lost." Pop's tone darkened. "But you don't have to lie in the road while he finds his way."

He held on to Wayne's shoulder until Wayne nodded he was okay, though no one believed it.

Pop gave them both a long look before heading out the door. Diggy couldn't help but think it was a look that was searching for something, and he tried not to think about what that something might be, especially not a resemblance.

He glanced at Wayne, then did a double take. He had taken off his coat. His sweatshirt was pink and had a large pink and white flower with the words I'm a Minnesota state flower, too.

"What?" Wayne said, sounding defensive enough to go at it again.

Diggy held up his hands. "I won't fight you with that shirt on. It'd be like hitting a girl."

Wayne glared at Diggy.

Diggy made a show of raising his fists. "Oh, all right. But take it off first. Then we can do some business." He hopped a bit on his toes, like a prize boxer. Even thumbed his nose.

Wayne's jaw was a hard-clenched square. "You're making fun of me."

"No, Wayne. Really." Diggy pointed at the shirt. "You're a state flower, too. There's probably a law about picking them."

"It's an orchid," Wayne snapped.

"So?"

"You don't pick orchids."

Diggy stopped his antics. "Are we fighting about picking flowers?"

Wayne stared at Diggy long enough for him to realize Wayne hadn't looked down to check what shirt he was wearing. He knew exactly what was on it, and something in Diggy's gut flopped like a fish on a riverbank.

Then Wayne bit his cheek. "It's a lady slipper orchid."

Diggy gratefully took his cue and laughed. "That's perfect. I couldn't have made up anything funnier."

Wayne grinned, too.

"I hope you haven't let anyone else see your PJs," Diggy added, then wished he could shove his foot into his mouth.

Wayne sighed. "This was my mom's go-to shirt. When she got home from school, she put this on, and it really seemed like it made her feel better, no matter how bad her day had been."

Diggy sighed back. "Crap."

"Yeah."

Quiet settled in enough to make room for other noises—the house's creakings, a scratching on the roof, the odd chirp of a confused bird.

Wayne kind of smiled. Not a great one. Someone else might have thought he was in pain. "I feel better."

"Weirdo."

"Come on, you've gotten into fights. Don't you feel better afterward?"

"Heck, no! There's Pop. And grounding. And some form of personal torture, like cleaning the bathroom, or sugary eggs for breakfast."

Wayne snorted. "He doesn't do that."

"Oh, yes, he does." Diggy nodded, rather proud of Pop's inventiveness. "Once he swapped the hot and cold water lines."

"He did not."

Diggy only nodded again.

Wayne's eyes got big. "That's, like, medieval."

"I spend a lot of time planning for April Fools' Day."

Wayne rubbed at his ear. Diggy rubbed at his hip, tested his knee.

"I don't think I can go back to sleep," Wayne admitted.

"You weren't asleep."

"Neither were you."

Diggy thought about asking what Wayne had been doing out there in the dark, but he didn't want to have to answer the same question.

"This time of night we should be able to find a really terrible movie. Like with plastic toys for monsters," Diggy said.

The idea tantalized him so much, he didn't pay attention to where he sat and ended up on the couch next to Wayne, both with their feet on the coffee table as Diggy zoomed through the usual channels.

"What did you do that made Pop switch the water lines?"

"We don't discuss the noodle incident, Wayne." Finally, he found a yeti.

They settled in to watch as the yeti, supposedly hungry, dug out a heart but didn't eat it or the body. The killing spree reached the epitome of D-movie perfection when the yeti tore off a rescue climber's leg and beat him with it. The boys were still cackling by the time Pop got home and suggested they get to bed.

5

DIGGY GOT MAYBE TWO HOURS OF SLEEP BEFORE JOKER STARTED IN ON SOME serious bawling and he had to drag himself out of bed. For some reason, Wayne waited for him in the kitchen, blond hair spiked in sleep-shaped angles and pale blue eyes wide with the shock of too-earliness.

"Why are you up?" Diggy asked.

Wayne shrugged. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."

It wasn't true or an answer, but the guy was going home today, and that was big, after everything that had happened last night.

Diggy walked outside into the early-morning cold, Wayne trailing him. The first thing they saw was Mr. Graf's truck in the driveway.

It sat like a rusted DANGER sign—old enough that the hazard probably wasn't all that hazardous anymore but daring you to investigate just in case. Wayne pretended it wasn't there, so Diggy walked on by, too, but the pickup might as well have been a yeti beating a guy with his own torn-off leg.

Joker was aggravated about having to wait for his breakfast, so Diggy piled hay, then filled the water trough while the steer ate.

"Pop seems okay," Wayne said.

"Why wouldn't he be?" Pop wasn't the one who had gotten drunk and turned crazy. Diggy winced and glanced at Wayne, not wanting him to guess what he'd been thinking. Mr. Graf was the kid's dad; Wayne had to live with him.

"I mean, like a good guy." Wayne took a Scotch comb from its peg and fiddled with it. Diggy was about to tell him to put it back, when Wayne added, "A good father."

It was like a steer had rodeoed, and his bucking hooves had caught Diggy in the chest. A part of his brain tried to make him believe Wayne was just talking, that his words didn't mean anything. But that animal part of his brain that warned him when a snake was poisonous or that he had just about climbed too high—that part screeched at him like every police cruiser, ambulance, and fire truck in the county had careened into their driveway.

Diggy clipped the lead to Joker's halter and hotfooted it out of there. He tried for what would become their normal route through the pasture, but steers responded as much to feelings as actual commands. Joker dug his hooves in, and Diggy was distracted enough that he pulled. He looked like a greenhorn, hanging from the lead in a forty-five-degree tilt. No one won in a tug-of-war with a six-hundred-pound animal, even if it was still a calf.

Wayne watched like he was at a show ring.

Diggy let go of Joker's lead and stomped away. The perverse cow followed him. Wayne trailed along perversely, too.

Diggy ignored them so he could seethe. He was an experienced cattleman. He had raised three steers. He could and had gone through the motions half in his sleep hundreds of times. Even his first day with his first-ever steer, Diggy hadn't acted so much like he was all hat and no cattle.

Worse, he couldn't pretend his discomposure had anything to do with the calf.

Mr. Graf was Wayne's dad. He'd been there when Wayne was born and changed his diapers and burped him and whatever else people did with babies. He'd probably taught him to ride a bike and helped with homework—well, maybe not, that would have been Mrs. Graf's territory. But still, Mr. Graf was Wayne's dad. Whether Wayne liked it or not.

The man had come to their house and howled.

Wayne didn't have any business thinking about Pop being a good father.

"He's going now," Wayne said. "That's what you wanted him to do, right?"

Diggy looked back, saw Joker's lead trailing in the grass, and snatched it up, lucky the steer hadn't stepped on it and tripped. The wrong kind of fall could be a very, very bad thing for an animal like Joker.

Heck, the wrong kind of fall could be a bad thing for anybody.

Diggy made himself concentrate on Joker. Not even here a full day and already the calf had had to suffer several instances of bad treatment—stuck on the fence rail when Wayne arrived, awakened in the middle of the night by man and dogs barking, and pulled at like he was a goat and not a prize crossbred steer. July would be so disappointed if she saw Diggy now.

He led Joker into the pasture, trying to focus on its beauty, even though Wayne trailed behind. The rising sun made magnifying glasses of the morning's damp. The grass seemed taller because of it. A slope led down to the woods that Pop left thick between his and Kubat's land. The sun wouldn't light the trees until it was full up, so walking toward them was like walking to the night. The turn was borderland, the light growing brighter on one side, the woods keeping its secrets on the other. Then came the next turn, the one he never looked at until it was made. His favorite tree lit up like the Fourth of July. The colorful burst of autumn leaves was backlit by the sun, and walking changed the shape of the light shining through, so every footstep created a new set of fireworks. He walked toward the special tree, not blinking, not wanting to miss a thing.

"It's so pretty out here," Wayne said.

He had spoken softly, but it still annoyed the crap out of Diggy. "Why don't you go inside and wait for your dad to get here?"

"What are you so mad about?"

"Jeez, Wayne, what do you think?"

"You don't have to worry about my problems."

Diggy shot Wayne a dirty look. "Where's a yeti when you need one?"

Wayne marched ahead, then stopped.

"You know what he did when he got home?" Wayne said without turning around. "He passed out on the couch. He won't even remember he was out here. Will be freaked that the truck's gone. But it won't be his fault. He'll make excuses, apologize for the wrong things. Act like everything's fine now and I'm the jerk if I'm upset too long."

Wayne kicked hard at the grass. Then did it again.

"But you don't hate him," Diggy said.

"He's my dad. You know?"

Diggy nodded.

"But Pop—he was there for us last night. When we needed him."

All Diggy really heard was that "us" and "we" business, and knew he had to put a stop to it ASAP.

"My dad's a good guy," Diggy said. "He always stops to help people stuck in the road, even if he doesn't know them."

Maybe he'd used a little too much emphasis on the "my" part and the implication that Wayne's dad wasn't a good guy, but push Diggy, and he'd always push back.

He tugged Joker's lead, eased up when the steer started moving, and made a good walk back to the barn. He didn't pay any attention to whether or not Wayne followed them.

Diggy tied the lead so Joker's head was at middle height. It would be weeks before they'd work their way up to show height. The calf didn't like the halter breaking—everybody had something they didn't like to deal with this morning—but at least he could soothe the steer with lavish attention and hair brushing.

Wayne wandered around the barn. He inspected the tractor that was currently outfitted with the grass-cutting attachment. Another month or two, and Diggy and Pop would unhitch it and attach the snowplow to the front.

"Did your mom really leave town on a tractor?" Wayne asked.

Diggy wished he could cut sentences out of his head the way he could cut them out of a book, then cut them in half and word by word and letter by letter until they were bits of nothing that drifted from the scissors' edges, gravity not even interested enough to pull them down.

Because, yes, his mom had left town on a tractor. And he had learned to smile about it like it was no big deal.

Everyone knew the story. How his mom had left him on Pop's doorstep. How she couldn't get her car started again, and, not having the keys to Pop's truck, ended up riding out of town on the field tractor. That's what people liked to talk about, a girl running away on a John Deere. Like it was cute.

Wayne's question—it wasn't like Diggy hadn't heard it a thousand times before and thought it a million times more than that. No one really left town on a tractor.

Unless she really, really, really wanted to get away.

From him.

"You and me," Diggy said, "we're not friends."

Wayne's jaw clenched in the echo of Pop's, firming Diggy's attitude.

Wayne walked over to Joker's stall, eyeing him as if he stank. "You enter it in contests and stuff, right?"

His disdainful tone prompted Joker to turn his rump Wayne's way. Diggy patted his approval.

"Joker's not an it. He's a he," Diggy said. "And no. We compete in the show ring. At the State Fair." He hoped they'd compete. "It's a big deal."

"You get a crown and roses? Wave to the crowd, crying you're so happy?"

"I get twelve thousand dollars."

Wayne blinked so fast, his eyelids could have flown away.

Diggy dragged over the blow-dryer and, scratching Joker near the tailhead, turned it on. The calf mooed, but his alarm at the commotion quickly waned. Diggy kept scratching Joker, pleased at how quickly the calf had settled. He needed to get used to the sound—before too long he'd get a daily wash and blow-dry—and Diggy needed the noise now to hide his unease that he had jinxed himself, talking like the State Fair was already his.

He wanted the win for a lot of reasons—for his steer, for Pop and himself, for July. He would not let this kid screw him up.

The blower wasn't quite loud enough to drown out Wayne when he repeated, "Twelve thousand?" Diggy went ahead and turned off the machine before Wayne asked, "Even if you don't win, you could make out pretty good just by placing, couldn't you?"

"It's not a horse show, where there are, like, ten different ribbons for fancy riding and stuff. With steers, it's the two purples for Grand Champion and Reserve. That's it. The rest are blues for good work and reds for showing up."

The steers sold at auction for $25,000 to sponsors who wanted to support 4-H, and advertise themselves. It wasn't like any steer was truly worth that amount—they weren't bulls, and Hartley's could only jack up the price of a Grand Champion steak so high. The person who showed Grand Champ cleared about $12,000—the other half of the auction money raised went straight into a 4-H scholarship fund—and the Reserve Champ got half that. The rest of the steers, even after having made it through their county fairs to get to State, would only sell for their $1,000 market value.

Like Diggy's had the last three years.

One thousand was a lot less than twelve, and a lot of it went to repaying the Farm Bureau loan he took out to buy and feed his steer. Not that Diggy cared much about the money. What he wanted—heart, gut, and soul—was the win, to be chosen over everybody else.

Last year, Diggy had made it to the final lineup with July, when she took the win for their weight division. He had been really proud of that blue. But this year he was determined to get the purple of Grand Champ. He worked hard. Knew that he could earn it. By next year would deserve it.

"I could leave," Wayne said. "Go away somewhere else."

"And now would be good. An hour ago even better."

"I mean twelve-thousand-dollars away."

Diggy rolled his eyes. "Yeah. 'Cause thirteen is so old, you can do whatever you want."

"I'm fourteen."

Diggy glared. He knew Wayne was older than him. Because Diggy had been born so late in the year, everyone in their class was older than him. But did Wayne have to be so much bigger, too? It wasn't fair.

"You're not going anywhere but back to your house. And you're definitely not winning the State Fair. You don't even know what kind of calf Joker is."

"I know you plan to do it, so it can't be that hard."

Diggy lunged, but Wayne sidestepped, and Diggy ended up on his knees with a hand squished into cow poop.

"Do you ever think first?" Wayne asked.

Diggy lobbed a handful of poop at Wayne's head, but being on all fours messed with his aim. The clump smacked into Wayne's chest.

Wayne stared as it rolled down his jacket, caught briefly on the zipper tail, then plopped to the ground.

He turned wide, wide eyes to Diggy. "That was cow poop."

Diggy got back to his feet, dusting his pants with his clean hand and shaking poop off the other.

"You've got poop in your ear," Wayne said, pointing.

Diggy instinctively poked a finger into his ear. A finger crusted with poop.

Wayne grinned, and Diggy was ready to take another swing, until Wayne's expression suddenly shifted to sadness.

"Mom says people fight instead of think."

Diggy sighed for him. The guy was still using the present tense to talk about his mom. "What's so great about thinking?"

6

BACK AT THE HOUSE POP SERVED BACON, EGGS, TOAST, QUARTERED ORANGES, and tall glasses of milk. The cut oranges were a tip-off—Pop usually stuck a whole one by his plate—but it was the place mats that put Diggy on full alert that Pop wanted to talk about something serious that Diggy probably wouldn't like.

He crumpled two strips of bacon into his mouth and gulped some milk. Pop wouldn't talk about the real thing he wanted to talk about until after they had eaten, and Diggy preferred to get things over with rather than stew.

He glanced out the kitchen window, but the view didn't include Mr. Graf's truck.

Diggy forked at his eggs. Pop had added cheese—tip-off number three. Diggy's knee bounced. He took a couple of bites of toast but needed more milk to get them down. Did Pop think dealing with Mr. Graf when they took Wayne back would be that bad?

Pop's coffee sat on the table, cupped between his hands. The mug, like the fork, was left in its place. Though he leaned back in his chair as if he was relaxed, his eyes squinted against nonexistent brightness, and his orange hair, usually combed first thing, already had its end-of-day muss.

Wayne didn't know the cues. He ate like it was breakfast. Maybe special for a Sunday, and like it was a lot better than anything he'd had in a while.

Which it probably was.

When Wayne finished eating, Pop eyed Diggy's plate. Diggy shook his head no, and Pop nodded.

He sat forward. The coffee mug slid back and forth from palm to palm a couple of times before Pop caught himself and set it aside. "We need to talk about what comes next."

The words might as well have been the snap of a twig in a dark wood. Wayne froze like he'd seen a yeti.

"I think Harold needs some time," Pop said. "He was out every night this week."

"You checked up on him?" Wayne asked.

"While you're my responsibility—"

Diggy cut him off. "Just because you might have—you know—with his mom doesn't make you his father." Diggy stumbled over the words, but he'd said them. They had needed saying.

"Maybe not," Pop conceded. "But Harold left Wayne with us, so we have to watch out for him. Even if that means we have to watch out for Harold, too."

It sounded like Pop… Diggy needed to puke up what little breakfast he had eaten. It was a greasy cannonball at the bottom of his stomach.

"You want me to stay?" Wayne whispered.

"I do."

Just like that. Pop had chosen Wayne just like that, like it was easy and no big deal.

He hadn't even talked with Diggy about it first.

"He's already got a father!" Diggy yelled.

"I know that," Pop argued. "I'm not suggesting anything else, but that father is not in his right mind just now." He turned to Wayne. "But he will be, with some time. Harold can do it. He was a little wild before Ann, but together they were good. He can do it for her, he can do it for you, and he will, because he loves you."

Diggy hyperfocused on the fact that Pop called Mrs. Graf "Ann." Mrs. Graf was Mrs. Graf, Diggy's old teacher. It was weird to think teachers had first names, and disorienting to think Pop had known Wayne's mom as Ann. Even if they had been circling around the idea of it all night, Diggy didn't like Pop calling Mrs. Graf "Ann."

He didn't like Pop telling Wayne to stay, either.

He didn't like what that seemed to mean. About Pop and Mrs. Graf and Wayne.

Mrs. Graf had married Mr. Graf, and if it hadn't turned out that great, it was just too bad for Wayne.

Diggy slouched deeply into his chair.

Mrs. Graf had married Mr. Graf. She was nice and smart. She wouldn't have married a total jerk. And even if she had, that jerk was Wayne's dad. He might be a wacko now, but Wayne had said things hadn't gotten bad until Mrs. Graf died.

That was the part Diggy couldn't get, though. Wayne's mom had died. Wasn't it supposed to be the dad's job to keep it together for the kid? Everything was all backward, and even though Diggy was there, he wasn't really part of any of it, except that he was. Wayne supposedly, maybe… was related to him. It didn't really feel like that meant anything, but that didn't mean it went away.

How was it possible that yesterday Diggy had sat at this table and had his breakfast and gotten ready for Joker to come home, and today he had… this?

"I think I should go back," Wayne mumbled.

"It's not your job to take care of him," Pop said. "You're just a kid whose mom has died."

That Pop's words so closely echoed Diggy's thoughts only made it worse. He didn't want Wayne here! But the thought of him going home was almost as bad.

"Diggy wouldn't leave you," Wayne said.

Pop didn't know what to say to that. He looked at Diggy, looked at Wayne, looked back at Diggy, and finally admitted, "No, he wouldn't."

The spurt of pride Diggy felt at having his loyalty acknowledged was almost immediately dampened by the face of Pop's defeat. Pop usually got his way because he was sensible about what he wanted and went about getting things with logic and kindness. Thinking so almost made Diggy feel like he should want what Pop wanted, too, but how could he? Pop couldn't rescue Wayne from his real life. No matter how great it might be for Wayne to suddenly have a new and improved dad, life didn't work that way. How could Diggy see the truth so clearly when Pop couldn't?

"I can't make you stay with us," Pop said, "but when I bring Harold back, will you talk with him here? So I know you'll be okay?"

Wayne's head stayed bowed while he nodded. When he did look up, the red in his eyes made the pale blue shockingly light. He stared at Pop almost like he wanted to stay, but he said, "We should call him first. To wake him up."

Diggy couldn't imagine the man would still be asleep so late in the day until he glanced at the clock and saw it wasn't even nine. It felt like years had passed, and Wayne hadn't even been here a full twenty-four hours.

Pop suggested they shower, as if he smelled something of their morning's activities, and said he'd call Harold before heading over there but that it might be better to give him another hour or two.

Even though Diggy was smellier, he let Wayne use the bathroom first. He sat in his room while he waited. Like last night, Pop didn't come up to talk with him, and Diggy stared out the window at his tree. He didn't want to think about what everything meant, especially about Pop.

Wayne would go home, and things would get back to normal, and they'd never have to talk about today again.

When Pop finally headed out, Diggy sat on the sofa and didn't complain when Wayne changed the channel every time a commercial came on.

Pop was gone a lot longer than he needed to be to drive to Mr. Graf's and back.

Diggy couldn't help but wonder what was going on over there. Was Pop trying to talk Mr. Graf into letting Pop keep Wayne? Even if only for a while? Pop had a choice this time, and he had chosen Wayne.

Did that mean he would have chosen Diggy, too, if the choice hadn't been made for him?

The worry haunted him the rare times he let himself think about it.

Diggy's mom had dumped him and taken off. Had Pop looked for her? Had he tried to make her parents take Diggy? Diggy didn't really think so—the Pop he knew wasn't like that. But that somehow only made it worse.

Pop did what needed doing. Like with Diggy. Pop had kept him, while some of Diggy's classmates lived with their moms, dads barely in the picture, if at all. He just wished he could make himself believe, deep down in that animal part of his brain, that he would be as close to Pop as he was now even if his mom had never left town.

As much as he hated this whole thing about Wayne, it kind of gave him hope. Which made him feel sick. Because Wayne didn't have Pop; he had Mr. Graf. And Mr. Graf was who he was, and maybe Pop didn't feel much like he had a choice after all. Which made Diggy's thoughts go back to the beginning, like they had ripped off one fingernail and moved on to the next.

By the time they heard the truck in the driveway, Diggy was more than ready to get it all over with. Even if it got bad, it'd be done.

When Pop and Mr. Graf came in through the front door, Wayne didn't move, though Diggy stood automatically and ended up fidgeting halfway in and out of the room.

Mr. Graf looked pretty beat up, but not in a fistfight kind of way—no bruises or anything. His hair was newly washed and combed, but that distinct bar smell of cigarettes and beer drifted from him. What hit Diggy all of a sudden was how Mr. Graf wasn't all that big. He was pretty tall, only about two inches shorter than Pop, but skinny in the shoulders and chest. His legs were actually beany. He had seemed so threatening—dumping Wayne in the driveway, raging at the house last night. It was like bringing Mr. Graf here was a mistake, like they had the wrong guy.

"Wayne? You all right?" Even Mr. Graf's voice was different. The menace was gone, and he wasn't hollering, but it was more than that. It drooped, like his jaw was too floppy to form words properly. His entire face, his whole body, slumped. He was pitiful.

Diggy wanted to kick Wayne for still sitting there, not even looking at his dad, but a glance at Wayne sobered Diggy up.

Wayne's face was like old snow. His shoulders were tensed so high up his neck, he'd practically plugged his ears.

"Wayne," Pop said, "we'll be right across the hall."

"I don't need a chaperone to talk to my own boy," Mr. Graf said.

Pop grunted, then looked at Wayne. "We won't hear anything from the dining room. Unless it gets loud."

"Listen here, Lawson," Mr. Graf began, but Pop cut him off.

"Harold. Remember why you're here."

Mr. Graf breathed hard through his nose a couple of times. "Yeah, yeah."

"I thought I'd clean my room," Diggy said. He'd be able to hear better from the top of the stairs, and that wasn't being nosy but responsible. Wayne was going home with this man.

"Uh-huh," Pop said, buying the story for what it was worth—nothing. "You're with me, kid."

"Diggy can stay." Wayne had finally looked around, though his attention was solely on Diggy.

Which was all it took for Diggy to not want to be anywhere near the conversation. "That's all right. I'll go with Pop."

"No. I want you to stay."

"We don't need anyone else in our business," Mr. Graf argued.

"Please," Wayne said to Diggy, as if his dad hadn't spoken.

Wayne had barely coughed up the word. It was the little bit of choking on it that sold Diggy, though at this point he'd really rather clean his room. He took the chair farthest away, over by the window.

Mr. Graf glared, then fidgeted, then got that hangdog look again. "I guess I deserve it."

Pop faded away toward the dining room. After a bit, Mr. Graf decided to go ahead and sit down, too, taking a seat next to Wayne on the couch and presenting Diggy with the fact that he'd chosen exactly the worst seat in the room. He faced them square on, like a judge, though neither looked at him. Wayne stared at the turned-off TV while Mr. Graf looked at his hands, at Wayne, and back at his hands. Diggy twisted away as much as he could, wanting the bookshelves to be as interesting as he pretended they were.

Mr. Graf cleared his throat. "I know I haven't been the best dad lately."

Right then, Diggy would have chewed off his own leg to escape. Because there was a but coming. He could hear it. The guy had kicked his kid out of his house, and there was a but.

"You know, my dad used to beat the crap out of me." Graf said it like it was funny now, like he'd learned that dads did what they had to do and he was a better man for it—no harm done.

Wayne didn't respond.

Diggy ground his teeth to keep from yelling. At Wayne or Graf—he wasn't sure which. At Wayne for not saying anything. At Graf for not saying what he should. I'm sorry. Stop. End of sentence. I love you. I'll stop drinking and get myself together and do everything I can to let you know I love you and want you to come home.

"I don't think I ever got it right with you." Graf scratched at his stubble. Pop might have waited for him to shower, but they'd skipped the shaving. "Except once, maybe. You were a colicky kid," he said, jovial-like, and slapped Wayne's shoulder too hard.

Wayne twitched with the impact but kept himself turned away.

Graf took his hand back. "Your"—he had to clear his throat—"your mom was up all hours trying to get you to sleep. She looked so bad one night, I made her go to bed, said I'd take care of you." He chortled, all fake-sounding. "You didn't want anything to do with me. Not that I blamed you. I'd have preferred Ann, too." He got that look, like it was then, not now. "You and that screaming. I don't know how she stood it all those nights. It got to where I about lost it, when I had my idea." He smiled. "My grandma used to say something about a teaspoon of bourbon curing most anything. All I had was beer, so I gave you some." He grinned at Wayne, excited by his story. "It did the trick. Ann was ticked when I told her, but that was your last night of crying—I'll tell you that."

Diggy gaped, awed by Graf's total lack of awareness that getting a baby drunk was not a proud-papa moment.

Apparently, Wayne was unmoved, too. Or he'd heard the story before.

After a while, Graf asked, "You got anything you want to say?"

Diggy would have jumped all over the opening, but Wayne remained silent.

"Listen, I'm trying here, okay?" The hangdog hadn't hung around long. Graf's tone was tinged with annoyance. "I don't know what you want me to say."

Wayne held his pose—boy watching TV—but it seemed hard now, like he was struggling to maintain the stance so he wouldn't ruin the shot.

Diggy could barely stand it.

"Look, I'm trying to apologize here—"

"Since when?" Diggy burst from his seat. "You haven't said one word that—"

"You keep out of our business!" Graf bellowed, on his feet, too. "This is between me and Wayne, and—"

Wayne stood, holding himself tall as he watched his dad. "I'm not coming back until you stop drinking."

Wayne might as well have set off a bomb in the room.

Diggy noticed Pop in the doorway, and that he seemed kind of unhappily glad, like he had expected this to happen. Was that why he had insisted Wayne talk to his dad here? Did Pop want Wayne to stay that badly?

"It's what Mom would want," Wayne said. "Until you get… better."

"You think your mom would want you to bail out on your family?" Graf shouted. "For some guy who couldn't keep his hands to—"

"That's enough, Harold," Pop said. Not loudly, but meaning it.

Graf clenched his fists tightly, breathing like a mad bull. "I'm supposed to roll over and give up my son because—" Graf suddenly deflated. "Because he asks me to?"

"It's because you won't give him up that you need to let him stay. Only for a while."

"You can't pretty this up, Lawson, just because you want to."

"You dumped me in their driveway!" Wayne raged. "I get to be mad, and I get to stay here as long as I want, and you get to deal with it, because I say so." He shook all over but still managed to add, "You threw me out like I was garbage."

The only sound in the room came from Wayne, and it wasn't that he was making any actual sound but more like the waves of what he felt were bouncing off the walls and making the room vibrate like a giant bell, and all anyone could do was let the echoes pass through them.

Wayne was staying.

Wayne was really staying.

Just as Pop moved forward as if to fix the situation, Graf mumbled, "I guess I don't deserve any better."

He peered at Wayne like Wayne was supposed to deny it. Which was more proof Graf was crazy.

"Okay. Well." His voice was rough, like teary rough. He cleared his throat and flopped an arm at the door. "I guess I'll go, then." But he didn't move.

Wayne's gaze was a dare.

Graf sighed. "Okay, then."

He headed to the doorway, dragging, clearly waiting to be stopped, and Diggy got a shiver down his spine. Had this scene played out before? Was this when Mrs. Graf would have called him back, and now Wayne was supposed to?

Minnesota would be hot in January before that happened.

When all there was left to do was walk out, Graf did.

Pop said, "A door that's shut too long gets hard to open. It's better to leave it cracked a couple of inches."

Wayne blinked at him. Heck, Diggy blinked at him, too.

"I think Harold did some barrel racing back in the day," Pop said. "Why don't you show him Diggy's steer, Wayne?"

Wayne's expression made it pretty clear what he thought of that idea, but he had just announced he was moving in whether anyone liked it or not, so maybe he didn't think he could ignore Pop. He followed his dad outside.

Diggy stood in the living room, feeling like he was in some weird time loop, like an infinity sign, and on one side he beat the crap out of a sofa cushion, and on the other he curled into a ball. Then he was back at the crossing point, not having moved, with Pop eyeing him.

"You all right?"

Diggy nodded, shrugged, and shook his head in one motion.

Pop ran his hand down his face. "Yeah."

After a while, Diggy couldn't stand it anymore. "You're letting him stay."

"We have to."

7

WE HAVE TO.

THE WORDS ECHOED OVER AND OVER IN Diggy's head while he packed up his rockets to clear the bedroom for Wayne.

We have to.

Diggy's greatest, most secret fear was summed up in those words.

Pop would say it was different. The truth might really be different. But there it was.

We. Have. To.

No choice. Just an obligation a decent man couldn't ignore.

What else could Diggy think except that when he had been left on Pop's doorstep, Pop had picked him up and thought, I have to.

Sure, Pop loved him. Diggy knew that like he knew how to breathe. But Pop hadn't had a choice about it, and that made all the difference.

It was like a yeti had reached into Diggy's chest and torn out his heart and not even bothered to eat it.

So when Pop finally tried to talk with him, Diggy couldn't help but feel it was too late, even though he went ahead and asked, "Did you know?"

"No," Pop said, blinking in surprise. Then he sighed. "Diggy… no."

Diggy believed him, had already known the answer, really, but the real questions he had, he wasn't sure how to ask. Did you love Mrs. Graf? What about my mom? How could both Wayne and me happen?

Sure, Diggy and Wayne were almost a full year apart in age, but Pop had to have heard Mrs. Graf was pregnant. Had he never suspected, before he started dating Diggy's mom?

Diggy realized he hadn't asked the right question and didn't know how to rephrase it. What did you know? When?

Pop ran a hand down his face. "When Ann left me, I was… It hurt. She and Harold had been together forever, and she had even said she was just trying it out, taking some time off from him. But I thought… I don't know what I thought. We were having fun." He shook his head. "I heard she was pregnant and figured the baby had to be Harold's, that that was why she went back to him."

"Do you think she knew?" Diggy blurted, though he wasn't sure what it would mean if she had.

"I don't know. Ann was a wonderful, caring woman—no matter what, I know she did what she thought best for her baby."

Did Pop think Diggy's mom was a wonderful, caring woman, too? Did he think she had done what was best for her baby?

But those were questions Diggy really didn't know how to ask, and it made him mad, though he wasn't sure if it was at Pop or himself.

So the next morning, after another mostly sleepless night, when Diggy didn't wake up right away and Pop tossed a bag of frozen peas onto his feet—a minor prank he had pulled many times—Diggy guessed he shouldn't have been surprised that this time the prank made him steam.

"You're just going to act like everything's normal?" Diggy shouted. "I have to ride the bus to school with WAYNE GRAF!"

Which wasn't the point but was the truth of everything all the same.

"What else can we do?" Pop sighed.

What else could Diggy do, either? He had to get out to the barn and take care of Joker. He had to shower. Choke down some food, with Wayne right across the table from him. Run for the bus, as always, when Mrs. Osborn honked for him.

"Wayne?" Mrs. Osborn said when they boarded the bus, shock popping her face wide open. "What in the—What has Harold done now?"

"Please, Aunt Em," Wayne said, his voice shakier than the bus. "We just need to get to school."

It seemed like Mrs. Osborn—Wayne's Aunt Em—would let Antarctica melt away before she moved the bus without hearing what had happened. But she was the bus driver, and Diggy's was only the first stop of her very long route.

"I'm calling Mom as soon as I get home," Mrs. Osborn said.

"I'll call Grandma after school—I promise."

Things went even further downhill when one of the girls, trying to be nice, asked Wayne if he was okay and why he had stayed out at Mrs. Osborn's. Stupid Wayne said he hadn't. After much conferring, the others figured out he must have been at Diggy's, and one of the guys sniggered, "Did you have a sleepover at Lawson's?"

Diggy hunched low in his seat and pretended to sleep.

Diggy had a couple of morning classes with Jason and Crystal, but it wasn't until lunch that they were able to corner him. Well, Crystal was able to corner him. Jason was a lot like his Uncle Rick, though where Lenz had his cows, Jason did most of his talking to sheep.

Jason and Crystal both competed sheep, though Crystal lived in town and had to keep hers out at Jason's farm. The three of them had always known one another, but it wasn't until that first 4-H meeting in fourth grade that they really became friends.

"So, Wayne Graf," Crystal said as soon as they all sat down with their lunch trays.

"How did you even hear about that?" Diggy wasn't unpopular, but he wasn't popular, either. Neither was Wayne. So the fact that a bit of gossip about Wayne riding the bus with him had spread around school so quickly was kind of baffling. It wasn't like anyone could know why Wayne had been on the bus. Diggy hoped not anyway.

"Darla told me. You know she likes you."

Diggy had meant to stay focused on the bus stuff, but… "She does?"

"You are such a boy."

"When did you get to be such a girl?"

"Birth."

Jason laughed.

Which made Diggy laugh, because Jason's laugh was kind of a suppressed snort from his years of trying to stay low-key around his sheep. Diggy knew animals reacted to human emotion, but Jason took it to a new level. Crystal shook her head at the two of them, then couldn't hold back her own grin.

"Tell us true," Crystal ordered, "or all you'll be hearing next is 'Diggy and Darla sitting in a tree,'" she sang. "That has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Diggy and Darla. Darla and Diggy. I can go on like this the entire period," Crystal warned.

"I'd tell you, but who can get a word in?"

Jason grunted. Crystal thumped his arm. A normal conversation.

Then Crystal got serious and leaned across the table to give them more privacy. "But you're okay, right?"

Diggy sighed. He was really glad these two people were his friends. They had already made him feel better than he had all weekend. But he had no idea how to explain this thing he hardly understood himself.

He cleared his throat. "Wayne's moving in with me and Pop for a while."

"But he's a town kid," Crystal said.

Diggy and Jason stared at her. That was her first reaction? Especially considering where she lived?

"I live in town," Crystal argued, "but I'm a country girl at heart. And you both know it."

"Why?" Jason asked.

"Because I love the animals and the land and the space and quiet and—" Crystal bit her lip. "You meant Diggy." She actually blushed.

Diggy didn't mind her answering the question—he certainly didn't want to. "His dad's a little messed up since Mrs. Graf died."

Jason nodded. "I've heard some stuff."

"You have?" Diggy asked, surprised. Though it wasn't surprising Jason hadn't passed on whatever he'd heard. He took that phrase "If you don't have anything nice to say…" seriously.

"But why you?" Crystal asked. "It's not like you're friends, and he's related to—what, half the county? Isn't your bus driver one of his aunts?"

"How did you know that?" Diggy said. He had been totally caught off guard when Wayne called Mrs. Osborn "Aunt Em" on the bus. Even though he had seen Mrs. Osborn at Mrs. Graf's funeral and knew vaguely that they were related, he just hadn't thought it through all the way.

"Boys," Crystal said again, like that was an answer. "So? Why you?"

The problem with having 4-H friends who competed animals was that they noticed when something was out of place—a hoof, a hairline, a glaring absence of the whole truth.

"Wayne might be…" No, Diggy couldn't go that way. He couldn't use the word brother, or even half brother. "It turns out that… Pop might be Wayne's, uh, actual dad."

He had said it out loud.

Like it was real.

Everything before had been a denial, or at least an argument, but telling his friends was like accepting it was true no matter what he thought about it.

All of a sudden, the cafeteria seemed really quiet, like everyone was listening, even though the volume of chatter around them hadn't changed at all.

"His dad," Crystal repeated.

"Maybe."

"You're skipping your next class," she announced.

"Uh…" Diggy said.

"Lunch period's too short," Jason agreed.

"You're skipping class," Crystal explained, "and we're going to the activities room, and you're telling us everything." Crystal looked at Jason, who nodded, then back at Diggy.

He was reminded of her in the show ring, all determined and surprisingly pretty.

Usually she wore jeans and too-big shirts. If she didn't have a long ponytail, he'd hardly know she was a girl. But in the ring she was most definitely a girl—dressed like all the others with almost-tight jeans; a fitted, Western-style top that matched her blue eyes; rhinestones on her belt and on a clip holding back her blond hair. She was beautiful and confident, and he always cheered like crazy for her, even when they knew she wouldn't win. That wasn't the point.

They were friends.

"Okay," he said.

8

DIGGY FELT SO MUCH BETTER AFTER TALKING WITH CRYSTAL AND JASON, HE HADN'T thought about the riding-the-bus-home-with-Wayne business. But it had been on other people's minds—both Mr. Graf and Wayne's grandparents were waiting for the kid when school let out.

All the other kids knew who they were, too, because as soon as Wayne got outside, Graf started hollering at him to get his butt into the car—so, drinking again—while Wayne's grandpa yelled at Graf to stop yelling on school property, and Wayne's grandma tried to bear-hug Wayne into their car. The teachers tried to herd the students to the buses, but no one made it easy, and quite a few of the parents watched with the clear intention of not missing a thing.

Diggy honestly had no idea how he ended up in the middle of everything, with Wayne clutching his arm like he was a life preserver and with Wayne's grandma staring at him like he was Jaws himself.

"You let him go this instant," Wayne's grandma said to Diggy in her German accent, even though Wayne was the one holding on to him.

Vogl. That was her name.

"Stay away from him!" Graf shouted at her, but Mr. Vogl had gotten hold of Graf, and he couldn't break free. Mr. Vogl might not be young, but he was still as strong as an ox and not drunk. Graf added, "He's my son."

"That you took to Pop Lawson," Mrs. Vogl said, like she meant a strip bar or, you know, hell. "He's our grandson. You bring him to us."

"You always hated me. Never good enough for your sweet, innocent little girl," Graf sneered. "But look what she did!"

Unbelievably, Wayne started pulling Diggy toward the buses, and Graf and the grandparents were mad enough at one another not to notice. It helped that the entire student body of 250 or so was there to witness the scene. Jason had gotten himself in front of Diggy and Wayne and helped make room for them.

Diggy didn't know where Wayne thought they were going, until, unbelievably, he tried to get on the bus. That Mrs. Osborn drove. His aunt.

"Oh, no, you don't," she said. "You march right on over to Mom and Dad. We've already got a family meeting planned to figure things out."

"Do you hear them?" Wayne shouted. "They're crazy! I'm not going—"

"Harold's the crazy one!" she told him. "That loser piece of—He doesn't want you, that's fine. But you're going with Mom and Dad."

"Jeez," Diggy said before he could stop himself.

"Don't you start," Mrs. Osborn snapped.

"Me? Do you even hear how mean you're being? You're talking about his dad. I mean, I want Wayne to go with you guys, too, but… jeez."

"Gee, thanks, Diggy," Wayne mumbled.

"You know what I mean," Diggy muttered.

Mrs. Osborn tried to speak more calmly. "We're adults. You're children. That means we have to decide what's best for you, and what your mom would have wanted." She turned her face away, then her shoulders started shaking. "Ann's not even gone three weeks."

It hit Diggy that Mrs. Osborn was Mrs. Graf's sister. He knew she was Wayne's aunt, and that meant she was Mrs. Graf's sister, but still, it was weird thinking of it that way. Mrs. Osborn's sister had died. And she was Wayne's aunt. And she drove the bus.

The sounds outside shifted. The yelling had stopped, but hundreds of feet shuffled closer to the bus while still making room for Mrs. Vogl to pass by them.

Graf staggered back to his truck, but that didn't make Diggy feel better at all.

"Aunt Em, please," Wayne said. "I just want to go home."

Mrs. Osborn turned around, not bothering to hide that she was crying. "So go with—"

"With Diggy. I want to go home with Diggy."

She studied Wayne's face. "That's what you really want?"

"Yes."

She slapped the door closed.

"Emilyn Rose Vogl, what do you think you're doing?" Mrs. Vogl shouted, her accent so thick, it almost sounded like she was speaking German. "Open this door!"

Emilyn Rose Vogl Osborn cranked the engine.

"Uh, Mrs. Osborn?" Diggy said, grabbing a seat back to keep from falling.

"I hope this is the right thing, Ann," she said as she took off.

Diggy looked out at the kids on his route who were not on the bus. Which was all of them. Because, despite their teachers' efforts, no one had gone to any of their buses, in order to watch the show.

He and Wayne rode off in an empty school bus.

"Uh, Mrs. Osborn?" he said again.

"They can take the activities bus." She gripped the steering wheel and stared down that road like it was a NASCAR race and every second counted.

And thank heavens she did.

Because when Graf swerved his pickup in front of her, she swerved the other way in time to get around him.

Diggy fell hard into Wayne. When Mrs. Osborn corrected again, the two of them were jolted in the opposite direction. Diggy's back felt split in half against a seat before he bounced off and sprawled facedown in the opposite seat, holding on before he rolled all the way to the floor.

"Are you two all right?" Mrs. Osborn asked. But she didn't stop.

Diggy turned over and sat up. Wayne pulled himself up from the aisle. He'd gotten a good smack to the side of his forehead—it was already bright pink but otherwise looked okay.

They stared at each other.

What the heck had just happened?

Diggy remembered Graf and raced to the back of the bus.

Graf's truck was in a ditch.

"Holy crap."

"He's fine," Mrs. Osborn said. "I saw him get out and walk around the truck."

Diggy thought Wayne would say something, but the guy only stared out a window. A side window.

"Don't you think we should go back?" Diggy asked.

"Wayne wants to go to your house, so I'm taking him to your house." Mrs. Osborn's smile reflected at them from the big rearview mirror. "The crazy people can be crazy on their own time."

Diggy decided Mrs. Osborn was the coolest bus driver ever.

Except, on the way home, Mrs. Osborn started talking. The ride should have been a lot shorter without having to make all the regular stops, but it felt longer and longer the more she had to say to Wayne.

About how he could stay with her if he didn't want to be with his grandparents. Or with another aunt who had offered to take him in. Or how he could move in with different members of the family until he decided where he felt most comfortable. How they all loved him, and would he please come to the family meeting tonight. How she would try to support him no matter what he decided, but he should really be with family who loved him.

Diggy wished he'd been left behind to wait for the activities bus, too.

Wayne had all those people who wanted him. So with all those choices, what the heck was he doing at Diggy's house?

9

MRS. OSBORN DIDN'T LET THEM OUT AT THE END OF THE DRIVE. SHE PULLED all the way up to the house, and Pop was already outside waiting for her.

Diggy went straight to the barn. He was sick of being in the middle of all of Wayne's crap.

Joker did a little hop, then bawled, like he was happy to see Diggy but was ticked it had taken him so long to get back. Being alone was a big adjustment for a calf. Weaning was tough, but usually other calves were around, and his mama was nearby even if he couldn't get to her. Diggy liked to think his steers' isolation gave him an edge against competitors who raised a lot of cattle. His animals had only him, so they bonded good and tight. But it made him feel bad to think that way, too—kind of merciless and hard-hearted. Raising a competitive steer took a lot of time, period. But Diggy always gave his steers as many hours as he could to make up for their being separated from the herd.

Diggy got the rice root brush from its peg and gave Joker a good brushing. There wasn't much dead hair to clean out yet, but it was never too early to begin training the hair to stand up straight. Calves were sensitive to their trainer's feelings, but just as often it went the other way for Diggy, and he was grateful for that today. He worked himself—and Joker—into a trancelike state, methodically brushing the calf's hair forward from the legs, rump, middle, neck, chest, and head. When he got to Joker's face, the calf was so zoned out, Diggy thought he could get away with a wash and blow-dry, but it was still early for that much noise and activity—it was enough that Joker was doing so well with the halter.

By the time Pop came out to talk with Diggy, Diggy had almost convinced himself they wouldn't have to talk at all. Pop's face cured him of that illusion and snapped him out of the zone so abruptly, Joker sidestepped until Diggy was pinned against the stall's slats. Pop got ahold of Joker's halter and whispered soothingly into his ear, but Diggy still had to do a fair amount of shoving to get himself free.

Before Pop could start a similar "calm down" routine on him, Diggy put the brush back and grabbed a hose to wash his hands. The water was the kind of cold that made it feel like his fingers might break off, but it was a relief, too. Like, if he could get the ache out through his fingers, it wouldn't get into his heart.

"I'm sorry about what happened today," Pop said.

Diggy wanted to duck his entire head under the water. Pop wasn't apologizing for the right thing.

"Is he still staying here?"

"Yes."

"Why?!" Diggy asked. "You should have seen them fighting over him. Everybody wants him back, so why do we have to keep him? It's not fair!"

"But it's right. Ann's family doesn't know how to be fair to Harold right now."

"So? Mr. Graf doesn't worry about anyone else's feelings, and it's not our business to balance the scales for anybody else anyway."

Pop frowned, but Diggy wouldn't let Pop make him feel bad.

"Harold is Wayne's father," Pop said.

Diggy snorted.

"Hey," Pop barked. "I'll listen to what you have to say, but you have to listen, too."

It was all so like what Wayne had said, about how his dad would apologize for the wrong things, then act like Wayne was the jerk if he stayed mad for too long.

"If Wayne goes with Ann's family, that'll be it for him and Harold. The Vogls certainly won't include Harold in anything and won't go out of their way to help Wayne see his dad."

"Like that's a bad thing," Diggy grumbled, earning a glare.

"You think it was easy for Wayne to say he wanted to come here? Did you think about why he said that?"

Because Wayne was just like his dad and didn't care about anyone else's feelings. Because he thought he was getting a shiny new dad.

"He might not have been able to explain why, but he knew in his heart that going with Ann's family meant giving up on his father, and he couldn't do that. Like it or not, we're neutral ground for Wayne, and with all that he's had to deal with these last few months, is it so impossible to think we can help him?"

Pop was putting a lot of thoughts into Wayne's head, not to mention wildly misinterpreting things, if he thought they were "neutral ground."

What was worse was that Pop was doing it; Pop was making Diggy feel like the jerk.

"You told Wayne it wasn't his job to take care of his dad."

"It's a father's job to care for his son." Pop rubbed a hand down his face. "Both of his sons. I don't know how to do that yet, but I know I have to try. And I could use your help."

Diggy felt like that ice-cold water had gotten to his heart.

He was supposed to help Pop with his new son? Pop might as well have turned into a yeti before his very eyes.

Wayne came in but hung back by the door. "Aunt Em is leaving. She wanted to talk to you again."

Pop put a hand on Diggy's shoulder. Diggy shrugged out from under it and went back to the hose. Pop had held Wayne's shoulder, too, the other night, when Graf had come back howling. Diggy wanted to run the hose over his entire body, but he could feel Wayne still there and knew that would make him look crazy.

Wayne cleared his throat, feet shuffling in the dirt. "I'm sorry about what happened today."

Wayne echoing exactly what Pop had said made it feel like they were ganging up on him. Like they had become a team when Diggy wasn't looking. Barely two days, and he was odd man out.

Diggy held the hose over his head after all.

10

THE ONLY BRIGHT SPOT FOR DIGGY AFTER A TRULY CRAPPY DAY WAS THE MONTHLY 4-H meeting scheduled for that night. Which Pop said they might have to miss, because the Vogls wanted them at their family meeting.

Diggy protested, strongly, but it was thanks to Wayne that he got to go to 4-H at all. Wayne said he really didn't want to go to the family meeting because he'd have to look everyone in the face and tell them he didn't want to stay with any of them. He stuttered when he asked Pop to help him, and then he said it would probably be better if he and Diggy went to 4-H—for the distraction—while they waited for Pop to get back.

Pop bought it, though Diggy didn't know if he was grateful to Wayne or mad that the guy was able to talk Pop into doing something he clearly wasn't wild about doing. Mostly, Diggy was just glad that he'd get to see July.

He rushed to the church basement, hoping to catch July alone and… he didn't know what. Make sure she knew the truth? Check that she still liked him? Get a hug?

But Wayne was right behind him, and as soon as July saw Wayne, she hugged him.

Not the sideways hug Diggy got but a full-on, wraparound hug.

"Are you okay?" she asked Wayne, sparking Diggy's temper. Wayne was fine. He was getting his way everywhere.

"Wayne? What are you doing here?" Crystal said from the doorway, where she had stopped abruptly. Jason was stuck behind her, carrying a little Cloverbud under each arm, the children giggling at being handled like sheep.

Crystal looked at Diggy, and he knew she was trying to gauge how to react—if Diggy had invited Wayne or was okay with him being there. It had to be obvious that he wasn't.

July had her hands out to Crystal like she could calm the cattle before they stampeded, but the heifer had seen the snake and took off.

Crystal went over to Wayne. "I'm sorry your mom died and your dad's… you know"—she spoke quietly, and her voice trembled, but she went on—"but you don't get to take over Diggy's life to make yourself feel better."

Diggy stared wide-eyed at his best friend. It was nice to have someone on his side, especially when he could tell it was hard for her, but he couldn't believe she had said what she had said. Even July was shocked into silence for a few moments.

Jason set down the little kids, who immediately grabbed his hands, sensing that something was wrong.

July pulled Crystal aside. "4-H welcomes everyone, and considering what—"

"I pledge my head to clearer thinking," Crystal recited from the 4-H pledge, "and my heart to greater loyalty. I'm loyal to Diggy."

Wayne was as white as a Charolais steer, staring at Diggy as if this was his fault, too. And Diggy felt bad enough that he let him.

The thing was, what Crystal had said was true. It was unnerving to have the past few days summed up in one sentence that was so true, it hurt. But Diggy couldn't focus on the last part. All he kept hearing was, I'm sorry your mom died and your dad's…

Hearing Wayne's life summed up like that made Diggy feel small. He was really mad, because it did feel like Wayne was trying to take over Diggy's life to make himself feel better. But Diggy couldn't help thinking about how he felt when people joked about his mom leaving town on a tractor and he had to smile like it was no big deal.

Wayne's mom was dead. His dad was losing it.

Pop had said, We have to. What else can we do?

Diggy thought he had seen what else they could do—Wayne had too much family not to have options. But just the way Crystal had said out loud that one true thing no one else had seemed to notice, let alone admit, Diggy suddenly felt another true thing he hadn't wanted to admit.

Wayne was trying to save himself.

The world kept breaking up around him, and the only person so far who had really tried to help him find some solid ground was Pop.

Everyone else had been too busy with their own corners of the world—Graf dousing his grief with liquor, the Vogl family fighting their grief with anger, Diggy wanting to keep his happy, safe corner to himself. That didn't feel wrong, exactly, but he could picture Mrs. Graf so easily, how she'd see him at the farmer's market and brush his hair off his forehead, then laugh and muss it up again. He'd never bump into her like that again. She was such a good person, and she wasn't out there in the world anymore. I'm sorry your mom is dead just didn't cut it.

So before Crystal felt like she had to say more, he told her it was okay and went to their usual seats. She was shaking, but Diggy didn't know what to do to make her calm down or to let her know how much he'd appreciated her defense. Jason patted her shoulder, and the corners of her mouth turned up—not quite a smile but close enough.

Wayne didn't have a usual seat, but Diggy didn't have it in him to find him one.

July pointed Wayne to a seat and got the meeting started. They recited the Pledge of Allegiance and the 4-H pledge before roll call. The Cloverbuds, the kindergartners to second-graders, reliably acted like roll call was the coolest part of the meeting, shouting "Here!" and raising their hands. After the secretary and treasurer gave their reports, the Cloverbud leader took the little kids to the back to work on some craft activity or to learn more about 4-H.

Most of this meeting was about reminding people of deadlines for reenrollment, getting their fair records in for judging, and laying out various deadlines leading up to the next fairs; checking the status of projects in the works, like planning for the road cleanup, awards banquet, and family dinner; and hearing any new business.

Diggy didn't really hear much, because he kept thinking about what would happen when everyone broke off into their three loosely related groups—basically the livestock competitors, the plant and environment kids, and the arts and family science group. Wayne would come to their table. Because he thought he could get a steer and earn a trip to State and compete and win $12,000 and get back some kind of control over his life. Ha.

To make matters worse, when Wayne did come to their table, July followed. Crystal and Jason had positioned themselves on either side of Diggy, and with the small-animal competitors clumped together, that left Wayne and July looking like a team facing off against Diggy, Crystal, and Jason. Diggy had ended up on the wrong side of the July Johnston equation.

"Wayne said he wants to get a steer," she said.

Crystal took a breath to share her thoughts on the topic, but July got in hers first.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea."

This time Wayne opened his mouth to say something, but July beat him to it.

She explained that during the year Wayne and his steer were together, the calf would come to feel like a friend, even more so than a pet cat or dog. But a steer, any steer, was only ever market beef. It would be slaughtered after the fair. Considering Wayne's recent loss, and the timing of that loss—the anniversary would nearly coincide with the next State Fair—July suggested Wayne might try a breeding heifer or something completely different. There were categories for rabbits, lambs, ducks, chickens, or pigeons, stock dog trials, even rooster crowing contests.

She signaled to some of the others at the table, and a couple of the rabbit and chicken kids talked about what they did, what the work was like, and how the competition was judged. Jason even said a few words about raising sheep, and, rather than feel betrayed, Diggy was weirdly glad. 4-H was full of nice people—he and his friends among them. He might not want Wayne there, but he also didn't want Wayne to think badly of 4-H.

Diggy also wanted to be grateful that July was discouraging Wayne from entering, but her words only made his bad day even worse. Words like "market beef" and "slaughter" tended to have that effect on him.

"It probably doesn't matter," Wayne mumbled. "I mean, how much does a steer cost?"

July explained about the Farm Bureau loans. The majority of competitors were from farms that already raised cattle and simply chose a steer from among their stock. Other students bought a steer outright or took a special loan from the Farm Bureau, like Diggy had all but the first year. Pop liked for Diggy to know the steer was truly his, and Diggy liked that the loans were how July bought her steers, too.

"But the money isn't why I want you to reconsider raising a steer," July concluded.

Wayne said he'd think about it, but Crystal shook her head, clearly not believing him.

July sighed. "Wayne, I'm sorry, but I won't feel good about helping you unless I feel like you've really thought through everything. I, um, understand you're out with Diggy for a while, so if it's okay with him, why don't you spend a couple weeks observing his routine? Then we can talk."

She glanced apologetically at Diggy for putting him on the spot, but he felt the first stirrings of hope. Wayne was a town kid. Working with steers was dirty, time-consuming, and required actual physical labor. Wayne looked like he'd hardly even been outside, let alone worked at anything more than taking out the trash.

July might not have meant it quite the way Diggy was taking it, but he had a feeling she had just saved him a ton of aggravation. All he had to do was put up with the guy for a few weeks, and if Diggy had any kind of luck at all, Wayne would move home by then and forget he'd ever thought about raising a steer.

11

FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, DIGGY INSTITUTED HIS CAMPAIGN TO SCARE WAYNE away from steer raising by doing what he always did every morning and night. Walk Joker. Brush him down. Give him a wash and rinse. Blow-dry. Feed and water. Shovel poop. Repeat. He had thought it would only take three or four mornings of waking up before dawn to convince Wayne he'd rather sleep, but he came back every day. The weirdo seemed more spooked by doing all the same stuff at night than he did about waking up early, so Diggy tried changing out a few bulbs in the barn to make it a little darker and creepier, but after stubbing his toes a couple of times, scraping his knuckles, and taking a good whack to the head, he opted to stick with decent light and trust the manual-labor part to work its off-putting magic.

He made Wayne sweep and rake the barn floor, scrub the water trough, and, of course, shovel poop and feed it into the anaerobic digester Pop had rigged to generate electricity from the methane gas. Cow power.

Diggy had to give the guy credit—Wayne had a heck of a poker face about how he felt about his assigned jobs—but Diggy felt pretty confident he was wearing Wayne down. The kid got so pale, his eyes were practically black and blue, and several mornings he didn't make it out to the barn until ten or fifteen minutes after Diggy. Apparently, his grades were taking a hit, too, and that was big for a teacher's kid who always made honor roll.

All in all, Diggy felt that things were going okay.

Until Pop got another call. This one from the jail, and Diggy's hopes of Wayne's imminent departure nosedived. Turned out Graf had broken some stuff at Otto's bar, and the police had kept him overnight until he sobered up. Otto wasn't pressing charges, but the officers on duty had gotten called away for something, and Graf needed a ride home. The fact that Pop was the only person he could think to ask pretty much said it all.

Pop tried, but Wayne didn't want to talk about it.

And the next morning, when Diggy led Joker back to his stall and put out the alfalfa-grass hay, Wayne said, "I called July."

"What?"

"July Johnston. From 4-H."

"I know who she is."

"She said she'd take me out this weekend to look at steers."

Diggy couldn't believe it. Not only was Wayne going through with getting a steer, he had called July. "Seriously, Wayne, what have I ever done to you?"

"It's not about you."

"You move into my house, and we all act like it's no big deal. You want a steer so you can beat me at the State Fair, and now this," Diggy fumed. "July is my friend."

"You should be glad," Wayne said through gritted teeth. "When I get that prize money, I'll leave. You won't have to put up with me anymore."

"You are so stupid. No one's going to let you leave. And you definitely won't win the fair. I will."

Wayne stomped away. "I'm getting a steer."

Diggy threw a brush after him, huffed, then went to pick up the brush and hang it on its peg. Joker chewed his hay and stared at Diggy.

"I know," Diggy burst out. Wayne had made up his mind a month ago. Diggy had never had a shot at changing it. All he'd done was train the competition.

Saturday morning, when Wayne tried to follow Diggy out to the barn, Diggy blocked the kitchen doorway.

Wayne looked like he might insist, hard, but then sneered. "Fine. It won't matter soon anyway."

Wayne's going back to bed should have been the beginning of a good morning alone with Joker. Instead, the calf wouldn't settle. He kept looking around, like someone was missing. Their walk around the pasture was all stop-and-go.

Diggy had three years of knowing that steers sensed human emotions. He didn't like thinking that Joker's being all pigheaded and contrary was an echo of Diggy's confusion or that the steer missed Wayne.

Diggy was not worried. Wayne could get ten steers and still not have a shot at Grand Champ. He could spend every day of every week with July and still not know her as well as Diggy did. He could live with them for the rest of his life and still not be Diggy's brother.

The word tripped him up again. Diggy hadn't really let himself think about Wayne's relationship to him. Why should he? They didn't have a relationship. Pop would make Graf finally get his act together, and Wayne would go home. Diggy couldn't wait for Wayne to go home.

At the turn, Joker ignored Diggy and charged forward, jerking his head to try to pull free. Diggy curved the lead across his forearm and drove his elbow into the calf's neck, strong-arming him to go where he was told to go. Joker did not like it and bucked hard enough that Diggy had to let go. Joker was only half his finishing weight, but that was more than six hundred pounds. If the meathead wanted to rodeo, he'd rodeo.

The outburst was over in all of ten seconds. Then the steer hurried back to Diggy's side, shuddering, head low and wanting reassurance.

Diggy patted him. "It's not you," he said. Because it really wasn't.

The rest of the morning, Diggy stayed in the barn and rambled nonsense to Joker, brushing and brushing and brushing him to make up for getting him so upset earlier. The work—and being solo after so many weeks with Wayne's quiet but still-there presence—helped to clear out his head.

He liked all the things he had to do. Sometimes he felt like if he watched just a little bit harder, he would actually see Joker grow.

At about six hundred and thirty pounds, the steer was exactly where he should be for October. A little more than a pound a day through winter, and Joker would hit eight hundred pounds by April 1, right on target. The food and growing schedule was the easy part, simple math. Hair growth, agility, and temperament were the true markers of a calf that would show well in front of a judge.

Diggy tied Joker's lead at nearly show height. The calf dropped his usual load of poop to make the point that he still was not a fan of this whole halter breaking thing, but he stood calmly, dealing with it.

"Who's a good boy?" Diggy teased with baby talk, laughing and thumping Joker's rump. If cows could raise eyebrows, Joker would be best in class. What he thought of Diggy's teasing was pretty clear. He had even saved a little poop, just in case. Diggy laughed again, shoveled the pile away, and gave Joker a quick once-over with the blower to free any dirt or dust from the hair. Then he let the hose run until the water was extra cold and rinsed the hair forward from the rear to the neck, doing about ten minutes a side. Like cold air, cold water stimulated the hair follicles.

After he squeegeed the excess water off, Diggy used the rice root brush, again working from the rear forward, to train the hair up. He spent extra time around the legs, splitting the hair forward on the front half and backward on the back half.

He worked the same pattern with the blower at a forty-five-degree angle. He made sure Joker was completely dry under his belly and the insides of his legs and brisket. At the legs, Diggy held the blower right at the bone so the leg hair would bloom straight up.

The routine took about an hour, twice a day, and didn't include the time Diggy spent simply brushing and talking with Joker. Soon, he'd introduce the show stick and start practicing setups. Before long, four-and five-hour days with the steer would be the norm.

Mid-morning, Pop brought out a grilled cheese sandwich. He asked if Diggy wanted to talk and let it go when he shook his head. By the time July arrived, Diggy felt much calmer.

Except that she didn't walk to the barn.

Wayne came out the kitchen door, and July went and hugged him.

Not a sideways hug, but another of those full-on, wraparound hugs. "Hey there, Wayne," she said in that voice Diggy had only ever heard her use when she talked to the youngest calves. "I heard about your dad again."

She held on to him, and Wayne not only let her, he hugged back. A long, long time.

Diggy overheated. The sun was bright, like the weather had changed its mind about fall. He slung his vest onto a fence post.

Sure, Graf's latest episode was embarrassing—the man had a knack for making his business everybody's business—but Wayne was taking advantage.

When July finally leaned away from Wayne, she didn't let go. "Are you all right?"

Wayne wouldn't look at her. Diggy wanted to smack him—for hugging her or ignoring her, it didn't matter.

She squeezed him again. "You're in a good place."

Wayne nodded a little, and July finally let him go. "Mom sent food."

Diggy's mood perked up at the prospect of Mrs. Johnston's cooking but quickly sagged again. She had cooked for Wayne.

"I'll need all of you," July said, leading the way to her truck. Three casserole dishes and a Tupperware container of what looked like poppy-seed bars lined the bench seat. July handed them over. "She was upset."

"Please thank her, and tell her not to worry," Pop said. "We're doing fine."

July snorted, looking pointedly at Pop. "Mom would worry even if you really were fine."

The casserole dish Diggy held warmed his hands, but July warmed his heart. He hated that she was out here because of Wayne, but she was one of those rare people who said what was what and faced what needed facing. Like asking Wayne if he was all right and really meaning it and not buying Pop's assurance that they were fine. She made it seem easy, but Diggy knew from experience how tough it was to be straight with himself, let alone other people.

They settled things on the kitchen counter, then July put her arm around Diggy's shoulders, hugging him to her side the way she always did. She looked out the window toward the barn. "How's Joker doing? I've been looking forward to seeing him." She hugged him tighter and rested her cheek on top of his head. "You, too," she whispered. "You doing okay?"

She turned to look him in the eye. Diggy had to swallow a couple of times. He didn't want her to worry, but it felt really good to know that she did.

"You're coming with us, right?" July added.

Diggy nodded, not quite up for talking yet.

July patted his shoulder and turned to Wayne. "You'll want to change."

Wayne had dressed in normal day clothes, like for school. Both Diggy and July wore their steer-tending usuals—water-resistant pants and steel-toed boots. It was kind of stupid that Wayne's having to change his clothes made Diggy feel better. Wayne might be able to join the club, but he wasn't a real member yet.

Normally, Diggy made a stink every time he was relegated to the middle seat because he was shorter than someone. Today was different. The middle seat was now prime real estate, right next to July.

She spent the whole ride talking about steers. She mentioned how lucky Wayne was to follow in Diggy's footsteps, because he was all set up with a proper fence, shed, water trough, feed boxes, hay racks, and the post for halter breaking.

July encouraged Wayne to touch and talk to all the calves and to not be afraid. Animals were sensitive to human fear and wouldn't bond if they felt it. She hoped Wayne would meet a calf that almost immediately slowed at his touch, a sign of trust that meant they'd have a good bond.

Diggy knew how important the touch-and-talk method was, too—he could always tell in the show ring how much time a kid had or hadn't spent talking to his steer. But July seemed to be putting more emphasis on Wayne's bonding with the steer than on choosing a winner. That was fine by Diggy.

She also talked about frame, size, muscling, structural correctness, style, disposition, balance, weight per day of age, hip height measurements, etc. Diggy was absolutely positive that it all was over Wayne's head; he may have let Wayne trail him, but he hadn't made a point of teaching him stuff. July had had her first steer when she was nine—she knew cattle the way some guys knew cars. But Wayne listened like he was truly interested.

Most of the calves were already weaned and grazed in the pasture, but a few stood in individual chicken-wire enclosures. They watched the new arrivals with dark, shiny eyes, hopeful that their mamas with their body-warmed milk were coming back. All of them were uniformly black but unique in poky-boned, gangly ways. Legs were too long or too short, spines arced too high or too low or were invisible under hair that tufted like dandelion snowballs or was glued down with spit, mud, and sweat. Not one looked like he would grow into the stout, rounded barrel of cow that would enter the show ring. They were bumpy and clumsy, and Diggy loved them all at first sight.

He let one suck his first two fingers. The tongue was rough, and the calf sucked hard enough to pop Diggy's knuckles. He grinned. This calf might not be smart, but it was determined. Wayne watched like he was grossed out, even though he had spent weeks around Joker.

"These are all crossbreds," July told Wayne. "Crossbreds are popular because they're usually top winners at competitions. They're a combination of the best traits of different breeds."

She pulled lightly at the hair and skin under a calf's neck. "This one has a little extra leather here. You want a calf that looks cleaner through the throat and brisket."

She went to another and patted his rear. "This one is a bit round here. Calves with bunchy muscles generally grow short-rumped and show seams and creases in their rear quarters. Some people think the more muscle, the better, but too much too early doesn't leave room for your calf to grow."

July pointed to a calf watching from the side of the pasture. "I like that one."

Diggy saw why. He had a long, straight top, sturdy legs, and looked full, not too skinny or too big. July might have seemed to put more of a priority on Wayne's having a good bond with his steer, but she had picked him a winner, too.

July stood close to Wayne, helping him get used to touching the calves still being weaned. When he seemed fairly comfortable with them, she led him to the calf she liked. Watching the three of them together made Diggy's heart hurt. They were like a matched set. Perfect and shiny and meant to win at the State Fair.

While he stood to the side, hands sticky with cow spit and boots wet with poop.