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All the Carters—Daddy had a firm grip on the back of Razi’s shirt with his free hand—and Mr. Peters crowded into the doorway.

“Try not to block all the light,” Al said. “What’s this?”

Keisha could make out the dark outline of a machine. It looked a little like a lawn mower that had been cut in half.

“An old gasoline-powered tiller. I think it takes diesel fuel. One of the gardeners got it on Freecycle, that Web site where you give away old stuff.”

It was hard to leave the doorway. Everyone wanted to know what Al was finding as he disappeared into the back of the big shed.

“Dad?” Al’s voice came from the darkness. “When did this hay get put here?”

“I’d have to say last fall, when we needed some extra layers to protect against frost damage.”

“There’s residue. Something was lit … and it wasn’t that long ago.”

There was a long silence. Keisha’s thoughts stretched back to the Fourth of July. Ping! Zing! Blam! In Grand River, people set off fireworks from mid-June through the first few weeks of August.

The group outside the shed waited silently for Al’s diagnosis.

“Okay, then
 … that’s
stinky. Somebody call the undertaker. I’ve got the bottom half of a squirrel here. I’ll give you the tail at no extra charge.”

“I’m afraid that one’s beyond our help,” Daddy said. “But I do have some experience in carcass removal.”

“I think that solves your mystery.” Al had emerged from the dark shed and was blinking in the sunlight. “You have residue from illegal explosives.… I found some cherry bombs in there. As I’m sure you know, anything that spins, shoots up in the air or explodes is illegal in Michigan. But Indiana’s only a couple hours away, and they have a cornucopia of exploding fireworks. We see it all summer long.

“Add to that, diesel fuel and some engine oil soaked into dry hay from a rusting tank on that tiller. Plus, one-half a squirrel carcass. Frankly, what you helped me discover, young lady, is an accident waiting to happen. If a lit match or an exploding firework got into that hay, this old shed would go up like a fireball. Good work. I’m going to recommend you as a candidate for our new JFPOT program.”

“Jefpot?” Daddy said.

“Junior Fire Prevention Officer in Training, sir. It’s a very important new branch of the fire department. This young lady could give a report on our findings.”

Everyone clapped, which made Keisha cross her toes inside her tennis shoes.

Daddy waited until the applause died down. “It appears I have some work to do, too. I think I’ll get some rubber gloves.”

“That would be advisable.” As they walked back to the Carters’ truck, Al said to his dad, “What’s that you’ve got there in your hand? You selling something?”

“Oh no. These are the flyers young Razi made to put up around the neighborhood. It seems that skunk we saw is somebody’s pet.”

“A pet skunk?” Al laughed. He took the poster from his father. “Wait a minute … a pet skunk. A pet skunk. Is this drawing accurate? Does he have a scar on his nose?”

“Yes!” Razi said. “I copied it.”

“I guess it does.” Daddy snapped on his rubber gloves.

“Well, guess what? I don’t think your skunk is lost anymore. I know who owns this skunk. In fact, I rescued this skunk from a tree when it was a baby!”

“You’re havin’ us on, Al. You don’t mean that.”

Al straightened his GRFD badge and said: “As servants of the state of Michigan, we don’t discriminate in rescue operations.” He paused to put his
sunglasses back on. “Most people think we only rescue kittens, but we rescue anything that can find its way up a tree and not back down, including Mrs. Tillie Anderson of 1211 Sherman Oaks Boulevard, who was hanging out Christmas tree lights and got paralyzed with fright.”

Keisha and Razi hung out the window of the truck and watched as Daddy carried a pillowcase full of skunk to the lady Al Peters had just telephoned.

“Chester!” she said as she rushed out of her house.

“You seem to know this skunk, Ms.…”

“Downley. Cynthia Downley. I suppose I should check and make sure it really is our dear Chester.”

“Probably a good idea.”

Ms. Downley began to pull back the pillowcase opening and a furry head popped out, squinting in the sun.

“Chester. Oh yes, I can tell by this little scar on his nose.…”

“Where did that scar come from?”

“Oh dear. He got that launching himself from the butcher block into the pantry, where he ate half a box of Nilla wafers before I discovered him.”

“So he
does
like Nilla wafers.”

“And cashmere.” Keisha poked her brother.

“Well, he likes them, but you might say they don’t like him. He likes Oreo cookies even better, but they make him very sick. We had to stop keeping all chocolate in the house. Chocolate is deadly for skunks.”

“Chocolate is deadly for a lot of animals, Ms. Downley. We’ve seen cases of chocolate poisoning in birds, a rat and a snake.”

“It’s very bad for puppies and older dogs, too,” Keisha said from her spot at the window.

Ms. Downley turned and looked over at the truck. Then she nuzzled Chester. “We were so worried about you! He’s usually not let into the mudroom because we have a cat door that leads to the outside. But someone must have forgotten. Wait!” She looked up. “We advertised a reward in the paper.”

“No need for any reward, Ms. Downley. We are just doing our job.” Daddy trotted back to the truck. Keisha had the business card ready. She handed it to Daddy. “However, if you feel like making a donation to Carters’ Urban Rescue, you can underwrite the work we do with Chester’s wild cousins.”

Ms. Downley had gone back to rubbing her cheek against Chester’s fur. “You little troublemaker,” she said, as if she really didn’t think he was a troublemaker at all. “Wait until the kids hear you’re back.”

She took the card from Daddy, thanked him again and hurried into the house, calling out: “Kids! Kids! Turn that TV off and come see what I’ve got.”

“While we’re out, can we check up on Mrs. Sampson and Cocoa?” Keisha asked. “We could give her some of Mr. Peters’s tomatoes.”

“Maybe she’ll make us grilled cheese and tomatoes for lunch,” Daddy said.

“I don’t like tomatoes,” Razi said.

“Then how about a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, hold the tomato?” Daddy offered.

“I don’t like to hold them, either.”

“Well, then, give them to me. I’ll salt them and save them for supper. We’ll stop at Wolfgang’s on the way home and you can get your grilled cheese straight up.”

“But I don’t want it straight up. I want it lying down.”

The talk about sandwich fixings continued until they pulled into Mrs. Sampson’s driveway.

“Well, look who’s here,” Mrs. Sampson said as she opened the door to them. “I was just making some lemonade for Jorge. I hope you don’t have any more injured animals, because I’ve got my hands full!”

The Carters stepped through the hall into the dining room and saw Cocoa on the table. Mrs. Sampson had cut down the sides of the box so that Cocoa could
see out. The little dog was wriggling around in the box the best she could. Grandma had given Mrs. Sampson the pink cashmere sweater, and Keisha could see that there were other blankets underneath the sweater, making a nice cozy nest for Cocoa.

“We’re just finishing up lunch. I added some protein powder to a little boiled hamburger and rice. When I mash it all together, she can’t get enough.”

“Where does she eat?” Razi asked. “On the kitchen table?”

“Well … not exactly.” Mrs. Sampson looked a little embarrassed. “I put the box on my lap and let her lick it off a spoon. She can’t support her own weight yet.”

Daddy patted Cocoa’s head and let his hand travel down the dog’s body. “I’d say she’s gained a pound already, Mrs. Sampson. You are a good nurse.”

“Well, it’s important for patients to be comfortable,” Mrs. Sampson said, brushing some crumbs off the table and bustling over to the garbage can. “Safe and clean and comfortable and then the appetite returns. I’ve seen it many times.”

“Where’s Jorge?” Keisha asked.

“In the potter’s shed.”

Razi and Keisha went to the front door and looked out. They could see the laundry line where Grandma’s straw purse swung empty in the breeze. They could see
the grape arbor where the Z-Team and Keisha first hid from the crows, and they could see the mailbox where the baby crow was first hidden. Where was the potter’s shed?

“There he is,” Razi whispered, as if calling out would attract the attention of the dive-bombing crows. Tucked into some bushes behind the laundry pole was a little shed, just big enough for one person to stand inside. But Jorge wasn’t standing. He was sitting on an upside-down peach crate, his chin resting on his knees. He was looking out onto the yard. Keisha wondered if he was seeing something they couldn’t. She waved her arms to get his attention. Jorge waved back.

“I wonder where the baby crow is,” Keisha said.

“Do you think he flew away?” Razi sounded sad.

“That’s what he’s supposed to do, Razi.” Keisha put her arm around her little brother.

As if to answer Razi’s question, Jorge got out of his seat and put something in Grandma’s straw purse. When he got back to the shed, he made a few crow noises. The noises sounded like a cross between a caw and an awp.

Keisha heard rustling in the trees. At first, nothing happened. Then crackle, snap, almost like falling, but not quite. In a flutter of wings, the little crow landed in Grandma’s purse. He pecked around the bottom until he found the treat Jorge had left.

The crow looked around for a moment; he seemed
to be looking right at Jorge. Then he flew back to the shelter of the trees. There was more rustling and snapping and Keisha could tell there were other crows in the trees, too. They were hard to see, though, especially when they didn’t make any noise.

Keisha and Razi went back into the house. Mrs. Sampson was sitting beside Daddy, Cocoa’s box balancing on her lap.

“What will happen to Cocoa, do you think?” Keisha whispered to Daddy. “Will anyone adopt her?”

“I think someone already has,” Daddy whispered back.

“But pets cost a lot of money.” Keisha looked around at the cracked plates and the jelly jars. She wasn’t sure Mrs. Sampson had that kind of money.

Mrs. Sampson tickled the ruff of fur at Cocoa’s neck as the dog took her after-hamburger-and-rice nap.

“I know what you’re thinking, Keisha, but Mr. Sampson and I didn’t spend a lot of money. We were Depression babies and that meant we learned to make do with what we had. I have enough money. Mr. Sampson left me well provided for.”

Suddenly Mrs. Sampson teared up and Keisha reached over to get a tissue for the old woman. “Well, he couldn’t have provided for the loneliness, but this old thing”—she picked up the whole box on her lap and squeezed it—“might ease the pain.”

She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Jorge and I have been talking, too.… Well, I’ve been talking to him. That boy is not much of a talker. But our thought is to set up a bird-feeding station here. Then he can really learn more about this hobby of his, and it will help me pass the time during the winter.”

“That’s a great idea,” Keisha said. Her mind cast back to the day before when she and Grandma and Mama and Paulo had sat in the warm dozy kitchen. It was just about midday now, and it felt warm and dozy in here, too. Razi was stacking napkin rings, one on top of
the other, and Daddy and Mrs. Sampson were talking quietly. Chester the skunk had been found, and Jorge was outside watching after the baby crow.

Everything felt just right. Keisha tiptoed over to the sleeping Cocoa and, very gently, drew in the dog’s fur the words “The End.”