But first thing Saturday, I threw on an old sweatshirt and a pair of dungarees and went to Miss Cogshell’s. She was in her backyard hanging laundry on the clothesline. Bleach-scented sheets puffed up slowly, bright against the green pines. Sunlight defined the many fine lines on her face. Removing a clothespin from her mouth, she said, “Go on in, I’ll be another minute.” I could hear Pup splashing and followed the noise into the bathroom. Craig was sitting on the floor next to the tub. At first I thought it was the shower curtain that made a shadow on his face, but then I realized he had a long, thin bruise on his cheek. I was about to ask what happened, when the back door slammed. Wordlessly, I knelt beside Craig. Soon Miss Cogshell filled the hallway, and the three of us watched Pup in silence. I listened to Miss Cogshell’s cuckoo clock ticking from the parlor. I shifted my position and peeked at my friends. A feeling that something else wasn’t right began to creep over me.
