Officer Delinko explained to Curly the problem with filing the complaint as a vandalism. "My sergeant's going to kick it back down to me because, technically, nothing really got vandalized. Some kids came on the property and pulled a bunch of sticks out of the ground."

"How do you know it was kids?" Curly muttered.

"Well, who else would it be?"

"What about them fillin' up the holes and throwin' the stakes, just to make us lay out the whole site all over again. What about that?"

It puzzled the policeman, too. Kids usually didn't go to that kind of trouble when pulling a prank.

"Do you have any particular suspects?"

Curly admitted he didn't. "But, okay, say it was kids. That means it's not a crime?"

"Of course it's a crime," Officer Delinko replied. "I'm saying it's not technically vandalism. It's trespassing and malicious mischief."

"That'll do," Curly said with a shrug. "Long as I can get a copy of your report for the insurance company. Least we'll be covered for lost time and expenses."

Officer Delinko gave Curly a card with the address of the police department's administration office and the name of the clerk in charge of filing the incident reports. Curly tucked the card into the breast pocket of his foreman shirt.

The policeman put on his sunglasses and slid into his patrol car, which was as hot as a brick oven. He quickly turned on the ignition and cranked the air conditioner up full blast. As he buckled his seat belt, he said, "Mr. Branitt, there's one more thing I wanted to ask. I'm just curious."

"Fire away," said Curly, wiping his brow with a yellow bandanna.

"It's about those owls."

"Sure."

"What's gonna happen to them?" Officer Delinko asked. "Once you start bulldozing, I mean."

Curly the foreman chuckled. He thought the policeman must be kidding.

"What owls?" he said.

All day long Roy couldn't stop thinking about the strange running boy. Between classes he scanned the faces in the hallways on the chance that the boy had come to school late. Maybe he'd been hurrying home, Roy thought, to change clothes and put on some shoes.

But Roy didn't see any kids who resembled the one who had jumped over the big pointy-eared dog. Maybe he's still running, Roy thought as he ate lunch. Florida was made for running; Roy had never seen anyplace so flat. Back in Montana you had steep craggy mountains that rose ten thousand feet into the clouds. Here the only hills were man-made highway bridges-smooth, gentle slopes of concrete.

Then Roy remembered the heat and the humidity, which on some days seemed to suck the very meat out of his lungs. A long run in the Florida sun would be torture, he thought. A kid would have to be tough as nails to make a routine of that.

A boy named Garrett sat down across from Roy. Roy nodded hi and Garrett nodded hi, and then both of them went back to eating the gooey macaroni on their lunch trays. Being the new kid, Roy always sat alone, at the end of the table, whenever he was in the cafeteria. Roy was an old pro at being the new kid; Trace Middle was the sixth school he had attended since he'd started going to school. Coconut Cove was the tenth town his family had lived in since Roy could remember.

Roy's father worked for the government. His mother said they moved so often because Roy's father was very good at his job (whatever that was) and frequently got promoted. Apparently that's how the government rewarded good work, by transferring you from one place to another.

"Hey," said Garrett. "You got a skateboard?"

"No, but I've got a snowboard."

Garrett hooted. "What for?"

"Where I used to live it snowed a lot," Roy said.

"You should learn to skateboard. It's awesome, man."

"Oh, I know how to skateboard. I just don't have one."

"Then you should get one," Garrett said. "Me and my friends, we do the major malls. You should come."

"That'd be cool." Roy tried to sound enthusiastic. He didn't like shopping malls, but he appreciated that Garrett was trying to be friendly.

Garrett was a D student, but he was popular in school because he goofed around in class and made farting noises whenever a teacher called him out. Garrett was the king of phony farts at Trace Middle. His most famous trick was farting out the first line of the Pledge of Allegiance during homeroom.

Ironically, Garrett's mother was a guidance counselor at Trace Middle. Roy figured she used up her guiding skills every day at school and was too worn out to deal with Garrett when she got home.

"Yeah, we skate hard until the security guards run us off," Garrett was saying, "and then we do the parking lots until we get chased out of there, too. It's a blast."

"Sweet," Roy said, though cruising a mall seemed like a pretty dull way to spend a Saturday morning. He was looking forward to his first airboat ride in the Everglades. His dad had promised to take him, one of these weekends.

"Are there any other schools around here?" Roy asked Garrett.

"Why? You sick of this one already?" Garrett cackled and plunged a spoon into a lump of clammy apple crisp.

"No way. The reason I asked, I saw this weird kid today at one of the bus stops. Except he didn't get on the bus, and he's not here at school," Roy said, "so I figured he must not go to Trace."

"I don't know anyone who doesn't go to Trace," Garrett said. "There's a Catholic school up in Fort Myers, but that's a long ways off. Was he wearing a uniform, this kid? Because the nuns make everybody wear uniforms."

"No, he definitely wasn't in a uniform."

"You're sure he was in middle school? Maybe he goes to Graham," Garrett suggested. Graham was the public high school nearest to Coconut Cove.

Roy said, "He didn't look big enough for high school."

"Maybe he was a midget." Garrett grinned and made a farty noise with one of his cheeks.

"I don't think so," said Roy.

"You said he was weird."

"He wasn't wearing any shoes," Roy said, "and he was running like crazy."

"Maybe somebody was after him. Did he look scared?"

"Not really."

Garrett nodded. "High school kid. Betcha five bucks."

To Roy, that still didn't make sense. Classes at Graham High started fifty-five minutes earlier than the classes at Trace; the high school kids were off the streets long before the middle school buses finished their routes.

"So he was skippin' class. Kids skip all the time," Garrett said. "You want your dessert?"

Roy pushed his tray across the table. "You ever skip school?"

"Uh, yeah," Garrett said sarcastically. "Buncha times."

"You ever skip alone?"

Garrett thought for a moment. "No. It's always me and my friends."

"See. That's what I mean."

"So maybe the kid's just a psycho. Who cares?"

"Or an outlaw," said Roy.

Garrett looked skeptical. "An outlaw? You mean like Jesse James?"

"No, not exactly," Roy said, though there had been something wild in that kid's eyes.

Garrett laughed again. "An outlaw-that's rich, Eberhardt. You got a seriously whacked imagination."

"Yeah," said Roy, but already he was thinking about a plan. He was determined to find the running boy.