Chapter 24: Round One

Megan's flight left Pittsburgh at noon on Friday, the fourteenth, with her seat empty.

I know because Shane checked.

He sat on my dad's tailgate on Saturday morning, scrolling the airline's page.

Jo took the phone out of his hand.

"Stop looking," she said.

"I wasn't looking."

"You were looking at the seat map."

He grinned, a little embarrassed, and let her keep it.

We were in the Hesketh backyard, under the oak tree.

Our fathers stood at the bottom of the trunk with a coil of new rope and a tape measure.

They had been arguing about a ladder for twenty minutes.

"You want a rope ladder," my father said. "A rope ladder doesn't rot."

"You want a rope ladder because you can't build a straight one," said Shane's father.

"My father built this treehouse's frame."

"Your father built a crooked frame, and you know it."

"He did," my father said, and for a second he looked up at the planks, and his face changed.

Shane's father put a hand on his arm.

Then he said, "I'll hold the tape."

Jo climbed the trunk first, because she could.

She went up in jeans and her old sneakers and swung into the doorway in one move.

Shane followed her, and I came last, with a thermos.

The treehouse floor was still covered in dry leaves.

The sleeping bag lay in its corner, and next to it was the tackle box.

I knelt and took the letter out.

It was creased soft, and it stopped in the same place, at the bottom of the page.

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