No—it was a pole. “Nice,” I said. “You’ve only been here a day and already you’ve run away from your parents to go fishing. And goof off.” “They’re making me fish, Rosi,” Edwy said. “They said I can’t come home until I catch enough fish for the whole family. Aunts and uncles and cousins and everything. They say the Freds spoiled us and we don’t know how to work.” “Oh,” I said. The way I was thinking shifted again. The creek here was wide but shallow, not much more than a trickle. It would take him a long time to catch any fish, let alone enough to feed a lot of people. I was supposed to be hurrying sandwiches to the father for lunch. Edwy and I hadn’t been friends in more than a year. But I sat down on the bank of the creek anyway, right behind Edwy. “Are your real parents . . . okay?” I asked him. “Are you okay with being here?” Edwy flicked his pole, sending the worm and hook on the end of his line into deeper water. “You know I didn’t like Fredtown, anyhow,”
