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Where their secrets are. What are you waiting for?” Harriet knew it was useless to argue. “Wreaths,” she said, nodding. “They’re on the shed wall.”
    “Good thinking, H’spy.” Annie grinned and set off.
    Douglas was sprawled on a stool with his legs splayed out, leaning his broad back against the fence. He had something clutched in his lap, and his lips moved a bit as he peered at it, turning a page. “Look,” Annie whispered. “The Dumbwit is reading a book .” Douglas looked up and she reddened.
    “Can I help you with something?” His voice was woolly and low, with a slight scratchy drawl that made it dead clear he was not from the city.
    “Um, wreaths?” Annie’s voice had gone squeaky again.
    “We’re just looking,” said Harriet breezily, hoping to cover for her friend’s sudden nervousness. “My mom will come back here to pay for one later.”
    “Be my guest,” Douglas nodded. “I’m here if you got any questions.” Annie nodded, mute, scuttling to the far end of the shed, which was studded with twin rows of wreaths. She pretended to look at a huge white pine wreath, braided with holly and tied with a shiny gold ribbon. “How about this one?”
    “Too big,” said Harriet loudly, striding her way. “That’s for a lobby or something.” She stood next to Annie and fingered a smaller wreath, flipping the price tag.
    “Science fiction,” she said in a sidelong whisper. Annie looked blank.
    “What he’s reading ,” Harriet told her impatiently. “The Chronicles of something or other. Douglas’s thumb was on top of the word. His nails are incredibly grimy.” This last observation pleased her no end. Attention to detail was the essence of spying; one never knew what might turn out to be crucial.
    “Science fiction,” said Annie, dripping disdain. “That figures.” She glanced at Douglas, whose back was to them. He turned a page, lost in his reading. “Let’s look inside the shed before Balsam gets back.” Harriet frowned, looking at Douglas. “But…”
    “He won’t even notice, he’s somewhere on Pluto. Come on, you’re a spy.” She reached forward and pushed the door open. Harriet winced as the hinges creaked. Inside the windowless shed they could make out two cots heaped with blankets and sleeping bags, a landslide of discarded clothing and take-out containers, a pair of old boots.
    “What’s that smell?” Annie whispered.
    A figure sat up on the cot, pushing aside the open newspaper that covered his face. It was Balsam, in faded and coffee-stained long Johns. “Private back here,” he said mildly. “Do I go into your living quarters? My very word.”
    “That was awful ,” said Harriet. Her heart was still pounding.
    “Balsam didn’t know we were spying. He just thought we’d made a mistake.”
    “We did. An enormous mistake. We can’t ever go back there again.”
    “You worry too much, H’spy,” Annie said. She climbed down from her stool at the Feigenbaums’ kitchen counter and went to the stove, taking off the white kettle before it shrilled. She poured steaming water into two mugs and opened a packet of cocoa. “It’s diet. That’s all they have.”
    “Any marshmallows?”
    “Dream on. There might be some high-fiber Ry-Krisp or something.” She opened the fridge. “Do you like chopped liver? I hate it.” Barbara Feigenbaum entered the kitchen, her large earrings clunking against her neck. She was tanned even in winter, with close-cropped and lacquered black hair. Her shoulders hunched slightly, giving her the look of a beady-eyed bird. “Oh good, you girls found a snack. Do you have any homework?”
    Annie shrugged. “Couple of work sheets.”
    “And act three of Romeo and Juliet ,” Harriet reminded her.
    “Shakespeare,” said Barbara, taking a bottle of seltzer and drifting back out.
    “Very nice.”
    Annie took the book out of her backpack, holding it at arm’s length. She flopped her hair over one side of her head and