Chapter 17: Speaking for Noah

Sunday was the best day Noah had had in months, and it lasted until nine at night.

They swam in the morning.

William lost to Troy by half a body length and laughed about it, which made Troy stop mid-stroke and stare.

Henry cooked eggs on a camp stove and called them a thesis.

In the afternoon the four of them lay on a warm rock in the sun, and nobody said anything, and it was perfect.

At nine the whole camp gathered at the big fire.

Someone had a guitar.

Someone else had marshmallows by the bag.

Noah sat on a log with William on his left, and Henry behind him on the grass with a hand resting on his shoulder.

Troy was getting more wood.

"Hey."

Noah looked up.

The boy in the green beanie stood over him with a paper cup.

"I brought you hot chocolate," he said. "You made all the rolls. It's the least I can do."

"Thanks," said Noah.

"Can I sit?"

Noah glanced at William, who said nothing.

Rule three, he thought.

"Sure."

The boy sat down on his other side, close.

He sat two rows back in Noah's Statistics section, and he talked easily about nothing.

Noah liked him.

He was warm, harmless and funny, and he asked about the bakery as if he really wanted to know.

"I'd love to try a real sourdough," the boy said. "Not the grocery kind. Is that weird?"

"It's not weird."

"Could you teach me? Maybe Saturday. I could come by your mom's shop."

"Sure. That sounds fun."

The boy's smile grew.

He leaned in to say something low, and put his hand lightly on Noah's knee.

A log hit the ground.

It was Troy.

He had dropped his armful of firewood at the edge of the circle.

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