This should not have been any twelve year old's summer vacation. Classroom daydreams of wasted afternoons, cold creek water, and walking Liz home in the twilight were never to be.

He couldn't deny his Mom. The crying had stopped, but she never came back. She was as brittle and delicate as a pile of dead leaves gathered by the wind. If he upset her, she might finally blow away. So he agreed to help Mrs. Cross with her yard work.

She had an adult son living with her. Carl. Everyone called Carl retarded but Brandon was confused. He looked the part, but he still drove a car. He even had a job at Glover's Market. Why couldn't he do all this work? He was certainly strong enough. His arms were as round as his legs.

At first the shouts were heard after supper time. Then they rang out in the morning and sometimes even late at night. Mrs. Cross brushed off any questions. But as her smile faded, bruises spread. One day a cast appeared. His Mom wasn't there. His friends said old people hurt themselves all the time. Nobody was listening. Whatever was going to be done, he was going to have to do it himself.