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trying not to let on that I'm worried:
Multiply: 687
1029
3998
.33
x.012
x 7.5
    Divide: 687 by .33 1029 by .012 3998 by 7.5
    III
    I wonder if there is ever a time in my whole life that I will have 3998 of something and have to divide it by 7.5. I ask my ma.
    "Even if you don't, Marty," she says, "arithmetic helps you think. It helps you learn to solve problems."
    I'm thinking arithmetic can't help me solve the kind of problems we've got with Judd Travers. If that was true, I'd stay up to midnight every night just studying that arithmetic book.
    The true fact is, I'm wondering if maybe some of Judd's drinking is because of me. The two weeks I'd worked for him during the summer, I'd got to know him some. And after a while we'd talk about his dogs and stuff, so that on the last day, I felt Judd was a little sorry to see me go. Sorry he wouldn't come home from work afternoons and find someone there he could talk to.
    I'd figured to go back now and then to visit him, maybe even take Shiloh. But I could never get my dog to set foot over that bridge again, and since I wasn't all that eager to see Judd myself, a good idea just sort of washed away.
    After we ate Sunday dinner, though, which at our house is about one in the afternoon, Dad lays down for a
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    nap, Dara Lynn's got her paper dolls out on the swing, Becky's in bed, and Ma's got her feet up, reading a magazine. So I set out for Judd Travers's. I mean to come right out and tell him that yes, I was over there the night before, so he won't think I'm sneakin' around.
    This time Judd's working on his truck. Got the hood up, and he's changing the oil. Don't seem like he's been drinking today. Leastwise, he's not drunk yet.
    "Hi, Judd," I say.
    Judd looks up and goes on tinkering under the hood of his truck. "What you up to?" he asks me.
    "Nothin'. Just fooling around the creek," I tell him. "You takin' good care of my dog?" he says.
    Those are the very next words out of his mouth, and what I don't like are the words, "my dog."
    "Shiloh's doin' fine," I tell him.
    "Thought maybe you'd bring him by one of these days," Judd says. "How come he ain't with you now?"
    How do you tell a man that your dog hates him more'n bee stings? "He's home playin' with Becky and Dara Lynn," I say. "They're fixing to spoil him."
    Judd just grunts. "You don't take a dog hunting, he'll lose his touch."
    "Dad'll probably take Shiloh with him when he starts hunting next month," I say. "Hunting season hasn't started yet, Judd. Only thing you can shoot in West Virginia this time of year is dove."
    There's a sly grin pulling back the corners of Judd's mouth. "That a fact?" he says, and spits again as he wipes his hands on a rag.
    What I'm trying not to look at is the remains of that squirrel. Pieces of squirrel all over Judd's yard. Looks to me
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    like he got up this morning and threw that squirrel carcass to his dogs. Can just imagine those lean, mean dogs snapping and snarling at one another, eager to get a little blood on their muzzles.
    I swallow. "Listen, Judd, I came to tell you somethin'." "Yeah?" he says.
    "David and me-he was over to my house last night, and we were playing spy. That was us you heard in your yard."
    This time Judd raises up real slow. "So how come you didn't answer?"
    "We were scared because you had that gun."
    For a moment Judd don't quite know what to say. This amount of truthfulness is almost too much for him to handle. What I haven't counted on, though, is making Judd mad. His eyes get all squinty and the brows come together over the bridge of his nose.
    "You expect me to believe that? You come all the way over here to play spy? You weren't playin', boy, you were spyin', and wouldn't surprise me one bit your dad put you up to it."
    "He didn't! He didn't even know we were here. But we shouldn't have been in your yard, and ..."
    He never even lets me finish. Judd's hollering now: "You and that boy come over here once, you've been here more'n that. And any two boys come sneakin'