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said. “Wasn’t he already here today?”
    May, Gretchen, Bonnie, Will, and Sam were crowded around another cardboard carton—a big one this time, about a foot high.
    â€œWhat is it, what is it, what is it?” Ben called.
    May glared at me.
    â€œGuess,” Bonnie said. “It’s from Jake.”
    Inside the carton, squatting on loose hay, was a box turtle, about seven inches long. Its shell was high and round and black with eight orange splots. There was no sign of its head.
    â€œIs it alive?” Ben asked.
    â€œJake said it was,” Gretchen said. “He also said its name is Poke, and it’s a weather predictor. If Poke keeps his head inside, it’ll be good weather. If Poke sticks his head out or scrabbles around, it’s going to rain.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense,” Ben said. “Wouldn’t you think he’d rather stick his head out if the weather was good? And go inside when it rained?”
    â€œI’m just telling you what Jake said, is all,” Gretchen said.
    Just then, the turtle poked his head out, and as he did so, a raindrop splatted on his shell.
    â€œCan I have it?” Ben asked, lifting it from the carton.
    Bonnie said, “Put it down. It’s for Zinny.”
    â€œWhy for Zinny?”
    â€œBecause Jake said so.”
    â€œBut why for Zinny?”
    May rolled her eyes. “Probably because she collects all those stupid and immature things. He probably will bring over any old piece of rubbish he finds and give it to Zinny just to get rid of it. It’s so embarrassing.”
    That night the tree cricket chirped one hundred and twelve times in one minute. I divided that by four, and added thirty-seven, and it came out to sixty-five. I got out of bed and went down to the kitchen and checked the thermometer fastened to the outside of the window. The temperature was sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.
    I stared out the window at the oak tree. Beyond stretched dark shadows. Was Aunt Jessie out there? If I looked hard enough, long enough, would I see her?

CHAPTER 12

T HE B IRDS, THE R OSE, AND THE T URTLE
    E very evening after dinner, Aunt Jessie and Uncle Nate used to swing slowly back and forth, back and forth, on the porch swing, gazing out at the ash tree and the rose garden in the front yard and at the river far in the distance. Railroad tracks ran alongside the river, and at six o’clock the mournful song of the train’s whistle drifted through the valley.
    Sometimes I sat with them on the swing. One evening, shortly after the train passed below, a male cardinal swooped to the ash tree. The brilliant red bird sat there a minute or two, looking around, as if he were waiting for someone, and then he plunged to the feeder which hung on a nearby branch. He snatched seeds, tapping them against the perch, breaking them open, and snipping out the soft insides with his beak. Seeds that didn’t appeal to him were flung to the ground with a toss of his crested head.
    â€œWhere’s his mate?” Uncle Nate asked. “He’s all by his lonesome. Poor old thing.”
    After Aunt Jessie died, Uncle Nate sat alone on the swing. One night, from my upstairs window I heard the train whistle below, softly, then louder, then fading into the distance. I saw a flutter of red as the male cardinal approached the tree and settled in it. He sat there for several minutes looking around. And then— there —there she was, fluttering down beside him—a pale-brown female with red streaks on her head and wings.
    The male flew to the feeder, selected a few seeds, and returned to the ash tree. He broke one open, snipped out the insides, and passed them to the female.
    Uncle Nate stopped swinging. He leaned forward, watching. “You lucky thing,” he said. “You lucky old thing.”
    At the sound of his voice, the female sprang from the branch and drifted across the yard toward a birch grove. The