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behavior management.’” He throws himself back on the bed. “Why can’t she just smack me around the way some mothers do, then let it go? It would save us both time and—”
    Maybe because she loves you more than that!
I think. I jump up.
    â€œSarah...wait...”
    â€œCut to the chase, Sullivan,” I say from the doorway. “You called me up here because you want me to help you with the puzzle, right? Why me?”
    â€œBecause Johanna would tell me to piss off if I asked her. Brant’s not here in the evening; even if he were, he would tell me that jigsaws aren’t cool. Taylor scares the hell out of me. Nicky might eat the pieces. Please...will you help me?”
    â€œIs it still punishment if I help you?”
    â€œThat depends on you, I guess.”
    Ouch. Ten points for Sullivan.
    Sullivan tosses the tiger aside, falls off the bed onto his knees and pleads with me. “Puh-leeeeeese, Sarah. Mom never said I had to do it alone. You know how she is, always preaching ‘resourcefulness.’ We can spread the puzzle out on this old ping-pong table that Dr. Fred keeps out in the storage shed. It’s got a broken leg but we can find a way to prop it up.”
    â€œWhat’s in it for me?”
    Sullivan doesn’t miss a beat. “Ratgut is in Ottawa the second week of August. I have two tickets. Won them last week on a radio call-in show. Ninth caller through. I’ve been
so
pumped about seeing them live. They’re amazing. I thought about seeing if one of the guys I was hanging out with yesterday wanted to go with me—they all have cars— but if you help me
and
we get the puzzle done by then, I’ll take you instead. How about it? We’ve got almost a month to finish the puzzle. If I ask, I’m sure my dad will come down from Riverwood to drive us there and back. It’ll be a late night, but you’re allowed off-island after evening chores, aren’t you? Ratgut is...” Sullivan pauses, gets down on all fours, reaches down under his bed again and extracts a CD . He thrusts it up at me. “Here. Take this back to your cabin tonight. You have to listen all the way through to get a real feel for it. It’s...
genius
.”
    Forget the stupid rock concert, I think, my brain spinning faster than any CD . Sullivan is my Golden Ticket.My ticket into the city. My ticket into my father’s restaurant without my mother knowing. My ticket to finding that hated shoe box full of old Polaroids. My ticket to freedom. My future.
    My facial muscles relax for the first time since arriving at Camp Dog Gone Fun. I smile openly at another human being for the first time in what is probably years. “I’ll do it.” I reach out to shake Sullivan’s hand, to seal the deal, hoping he doesn’t take it too personally when I ditch him at the concert gates.

TEN
    A week later, Sullivan bangs into the kitchen through the screen door. I’m slicing carrots for a beef stew.
    â€œNice job,” he says, sidling up to me and watching as the thin slices fall onto the cutting board like orange dominoes. He grabs a few and inspects them. “How do you get them all the same thickness like this?”
    â€œIt’s all in the wrist,” I tell him, holding up my left arm and giving it a shake.
    Now get out, Sullivan, I think. You smell like the dog barn. Your cheerfulness distracts me from my work.
    And work it is.
    Dr. Fred and Victoria have put me in charge of meals. All meals. It wasn’t forced on me; they shamelessly spent this morning begging me to do it. Then, over lunch, the other “volunteers” and Sullivan voted unanimously to take on my dog duties, even Poo Patrol, if I’d take care of breakfast, lunch and dinner for the rest of the summer. It was the promise of no more Poo Patrol that clinched the deal.(“But not Judy. No way,” Sullivan had said. “She’s attached herself to you,