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the yard. It leapt, growling and slavering, trying to get its muzzle over the top. Too late, Gustave noticed the handmade sign: CHIEN MÉCHANT . Mean Dog . Many of the houses had that sign or ATTENTION: CHIENS DE GARDE . Warning: Guard Dogs . Even the animals were unfriendly here.
    Gustave shoved the rock into his pocket and ran down the road. He didn’t feel like exploring anymore. He would buy the bread and go back home.
    At least there were people in the bakery. Three stout ladies stood in front of the counter, chatting with the woman behind it. Beside one of them stood a tall, thin boy around Gustave’s age. As Gustave pushed open the door, they all turned to look at him and fell silent. After a moment, the women went back to their conversation. But the boy was still staring at Gustave. His hair was pale and his eyes were clear, almost colorless. The boy looked Gustave up and down, taking his time.
    “Are you renting from Madame Foncine?” he asked after a few minutes. “You’re those city people from Paris?” He said the word “Paris” in a mocking way, as if there were something ridiculous about it.
    “Yes,” said Gustave.
    The boy didn’t respond.
    Gustave fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Obviously the boy lived here, so there was no point in asking that.
    “Do you know Madame Foncine?” Gustave finally managed. The boy didn’t nod or answer. He just stared silently at Gustave with those peculiar clear eyes. Gustave felt himself flushing hot with anger. Why was the boy acting so strange? When Gustave’s turn came, he quickly asked for his two baguettes, paid, and went out the door, feeling the boy watching him the whole time.
    It was a relief to be outside. Gustave started back along the main street, toward the new house, stopping to look at a small fountain shaded by short, gnarled trees. In the middle, the stone figure of a dolphin waved its tail upward, while water bubbled merrily out of its mouth. Gustave put his baguettes on the wall that surrounded the fountain and leaned over to look down into it. Under the wavering water, coins shimmered on the bottom.
    “Hey, Paris kid!” a taunting voice called out. Gustave turned. The pale-eyed boy from the bakery ran at him and shoved him, hard, making him lose his balance on the fountain’s edge. The water slammed against Gustave’s head and back. He felt a shock of cold as he went under. The boy was peering over the wall of the fountain when Gustave came up, gasping.
    “Go back where you came from!” he jeered. Then his face disappeared, and Gustave heard his feet running away.
    Gustave scrabbled for a foothold on the slippery bottom of the fountain. Next to him, one of the baguettes bobbed in the water, slowly submerging. He climbed over the edge, weighed down by his wet clothes. The other baguette was teetering precariously on the edge of the fountain. He grabbed it and ran after the boy, water sloshing in his shoes.
    “What did you do that for?” he shouted. But the boy had vanished between the buildings or maybe into one of them.
    “Coward!” Gustave shouted again, but only his own voice echoed back at him. He looked around. The shadows were long on the bare road. He had no idea where the boy had gone, and Maman wanted him home before sundown. He checked the change in his pocket. Not enough money to buy a third baguette to replace the waterlogged one. Maman was going to be upset not to have the customary two loaves of bread for the Sabbath. Sloshing and shivering, Gustave slowly made his way back up the hill toward his new house.
    “I did it,” Maman was saying as Gustave opened the door. “I got us ready to have our first Shabbat in Saint-Georges.”
    She and Papa stood together by the table. While Gustave had been outside exploring, Maman had transformed the dark kitchen. Her copper-bottomed cooking pots shone warmly on the walls, and the open shutters let in the smells of spring, the soft