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every day. I’d be afraid to borrow it anyway. I need something older. When I get to Chicago, I’ll let them know where they can pick it up. I’m not a car thief.
    There’s not another car in sight on the property. Still, I can’t imagine they’d be stuck out here without one. With his duties as a part-time fireman, Popeye’s got to have wheels.
    I decide to explore. I circle the house, but there’s nothing. Then I lap the barn. Parked at the far end is an old beater pickup, with a snub nose, rusted high fenders, a metal truck bed, and a missing tailgate. I’m guessing this monstrosity has got to be 50 years old. Could it still run?
    I walk closer. The tires are good. I glance both ways, then get in. The seat’s huge, with gray tape stuck at weird angles to hold in the foam stuffing. It smells like hay and manure. My feet don’t reach the pedals.
    I go for the glove compartment and bump into the knobbed stick on the floor. Great. So not only do I have to learn to drive, I have to learn to drive a stick shift.
    I feel around the glove box for a key. Nothing. I check the visor. It’s there. At least I can find out if the old truck will start. I stick the key in the ignition and turn when someone yells:
    “Hey! What are you doing in there?”

Seven
    “You heard me! What do you think you’re doing?”
    I nearly jump out of my skin at the shrill voice.
    A girl about my age is standing at the window, glaring in at me. “This is private property.” She narrows green eyes at me. Her auburn hair is short and stylish. I’m not sure what her face looks like because she’s wearing enough makeup to put on her own theater production. Her name-brand jeans cost more than everything in my suitcase. “Well? What are you doing in Hank’s truck?”
    So the truck is Hank’s? I don’t answer her. I open the truck door, and she has to step back or be hit by it. Neil taught me that the best defense is a good offense. I shift into my best offensive manner. “ I live here. This is my home. And the last time I looked, you weren’t part of it. You’re the one on private property.”
    “ Me ? ” she asks, sounding outraged. “Hank and I are . . . friends! I’ve never seen you around here before. Who are you?”
    “Who are you ?” I ask, not backing off. “What are you doing here?”
    “My horse is here! Hank is helping me train it.”
    “Lancelot, right?” That makes sense. No wonder the poor horse is so mixed up.
    She nods. I think I’ve surprised her again by knowing her horse’s name.
    “So,” I say, taking a step toward her, “what’s your name?”
    “Guinevere.”
    I laugh. “Cute. What’s your real name?”
    Her eyes get even skinnier—green slits under perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Guinevere!”
    “Oh.” I think she’s telling the truth. Maybe it’s time to make nice and play well with others. “So, what do they call you? Gwen? Gwenie?”
    “Guinevere,” she says through clenched teeth.
    Hank strolls out from the barn. “Hey! I didn’t hear you drive up.”
    Guinevere doesn’t turn from our stare-down. “I didn’t. Daddy dropped me off at the road, and I walked in. Then I found her in your truck.”
    “Great!” Hank says, sounding totally clueless to the drama before him. “Then you two met already?”
    “Gwen and I are gal pals,” I answer. “Could I meet Starlight now?”
    “Sure.” Hank turns back to the barn, and Guinevere shoves me aside to walk next to him.
    “Who is she?” Guinevere whispers.
    “I’m sorry,” Hank says, turning back to me. “I thought you guys did this already. Dakota, this is Guinevere La Roche. Guinevere, Dakota Brown.”
    “Dakota?” Now it’s her turn to laugh. “And you made fun of my name? What kind of a name is ‘Dakota’ anyway?”
    On cue, I let my face fall. I stare at my fingers and let my voice shake. “It’s . . . it’s the only name I have. My parents abandoned me on the plains of North Dakota when I was just a baby. I was almost