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garage. When we stopped in front of Deak’s house, I asked if he wanted to do something after I finished cutting the grass. “You don’t have to hang around with me all day, Hutch. I’m okay. I’m not going to say anything.”
    â€œIt’ll get better with every day that passes. We just need to get some time behind us.”
    â€œI’ll be fine.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do for the rest of the afternoon?”
    â€œI’m going up to my room, close the door and pray for the soul of Petey Sanchez and for our forgiveness.”
    I thought about that for a moment and said, “Put in an extra word or two for me, will you?”

Chapter Five
    T he fire whistle, as it was called in Crystalton, began as a slow, tinny whine, grew to a gurgle deep in the throat, and bloomed into a screaming, air raid siren-like blast that lasted a full ten seconds before dying back down into the throat, recycling for another round.
    The whistle blew every night at nine o’clock. It was a daily test, but parents called it the “curfew whistle,” and anyone under the age of twelve and living in the home of Miriam Van Buren had better be home by the time the single blast settled down. When the whistle blew and it wasn’t 9 p.m., the hearts of mothers throughout Crystalton palpitated and they all conducted a quick inventory of their children. Those with children not within eyesight—a teenage son out in the car or a daughter at the swimming pool—could not relax until they had been accounted for.
    Unlike police or ambulance sirens that blare all hours of the day and night in big cities, the occasional blast of the whistle in a town of sixteen hundred people signified problems for someone you loved, cared about, or at least knew.
    On Tuesday, June 15, we were winning three to one with two outs and none on in the top of the fifth inning of a summer league game against Dillonvale when the whistle began its tinny whine. The umpire suspended the game while the siren blew. I took off my catcher’s mask, retrieved the bandana I kept in my hip pocket, and mopped up the sweat captured in the peach fuzz on my upper lip before wiping away the thin line of mud that encircled my facewhere perspiration and dust from the ball field congealed beneath the pads of my mask. During the second siren blast, I walked to the pitcher’s mound. Adrian and Pepper were playing catch just to keep Adrian’s arm loose. I held up my catcher’s mitt and called for the ball, a tacit sign that I wanted to join their game of catch. Pepper tossed one to me side-arm and it snapped into my mitt. On the fifth blast of the whistle, a Crystalton Police cruiser could be seen climbing New Alexandria Pike, a twisty, two-lane road carved out of the hill just above the water tower, and one that led to Chestnut Ridge. As the tenth and final blast of the whistle began to sound, the rescue squad appeared on the road, its red beacon flashing off the backdrop of foliage.
    In centerfield, Deak had his throwing hand and glove on his knees, looking down at the ground so all we could see was the top of his purple cap. “He’s going to crack,” Adrian said.
    â€œHe’ll be fine,” I said, turning my head from the home crowd. “How are you holding up?”
    He responded with silence and a glare, as I knew he would before I asked the question. I never knew what was going on in Adrian’s head because he would never let me in. He didn’t let anyone in. As the final blast died down, I said to Adrian, “You’re up oh and two, keep the next pitch down and out. Make him chase it.”
    â€œShut up and go catch,” he said.
    I hunkered down and set up on the outside corner, knee-high. Adrian did not have that focused look in his eyes. Rather, he looked scared, maybe angry. He went into his windup and never once looked at my glove. The ball flew high and tight, hitting the Dillonvale