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against the splashguard, he turned the key in the ignition and the engine gently putt-putt ed before catching.
    He revved the engine, which sounded less like a dangerous beast and more like a swarm of angry hornets. He flipped up the kickstand with his heel. “Well, take it easy.”
    That’s it? I grabbed the handlebars before he could turn the scooter around. “Why did you come here today, anyway?”
    He stopped and squinted as the cloud cover shifted, revealing the sharp circle of sun against a pale blue skyscape. “Oh yeah. You talked to Nate?”
    I shook my head. “No reception. You?”
    â€œNope. I sent him an email. He might get it if he can find a landline.”
    â€œI’m sure he’s just between towers,” I said, echoing Mrs. Bingham’s optimism.
    â€œYeah. See ya round,” he called out over the buzz.
    Shielding my eyes with my hand, I watched Lee pull out of the lot and away from the farm, sweeping the dirt road in a lazy S-shaped pattern.
    Helmet, I thought with a start. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.
    Then I stifled a laugh.
    Big, tough no-helmet guy—riding off on his puny little scooter.
    My little sister, Emma, at nine, was at the tail end of her Brownie career. More than anything, she wanted to be older . And crucial to her growing up was me moving out. Not for the room of her own, which she had now, but for the solitude ofbeing an only child. I couldn’t imagine what that was like. Allison had it for a little while before I arrived, and Emma would have it soon, but me? I am the middle child. I have always been surrounded by others.
    â€œYou’ll miss me when I’m gone,” I liked to tell Emma whenever she pounded on the bathroom door.
    â€œNo, I won’t! I’ll watch all the cartoons I want and eat candy on your bed!”
    She would miss me, though, just as I missed Allison. Sure, we chatted online and she came home for visits each semester from Willamette University, but it wasn’t the same without her around. I was the older sister now, the one Emma had to look up to. And it wasn’t easy, especially when it came to projects for her Brownie troop.
    â€œYou’re not doing it right!” Emma fumed as I attempted to iron a patch onto her Brownie sash.
    â€œIt’s fine.” I pressed the tip of the iron against the patch, finished the edging, and held it up in front of me. “Look, it’s perfect.”
    Emma inspected it more closely. “Not perfect. But . . . okay.”
    The ironing was something I’d happily taken over when Allison left. I was afraid Emma would burn herself or her bedspread if she did it on her own. And besides, there was something soothing about pressing all the wrinkles out—making a sheet or a cotton shirt crisp and perfect.
    While I ironed, Emma told me all about her nextBrownie task, which would get her a leadership patch. I wasn’t so sure Emma wanted to be a leader as much as she wanted to gussy up her sash.
    â€œI have to write a story,” she told me as she carefully hung the sash near her beloved Brownie uniform.
    I shut the iron off to let it cool and settled in among the pillows on Emma’s twin bed. I stretched my legs in front of me while Emma arranged and rearranged the items in her closet. “To be a leader, a Brownie has to inspire others,” she said with a proud tilt of her chin. If it hadn’t been for the flowered headband on top of her shimmering blond hair, I’d have thought she was already a teenager the way she carried herself. “I need a story that makes other people inspired.”
    â€œLike . . . ,” I prompted her. “What have other Girl Scouts done?”
    â€œ Brownies , Middie. We are Brownies. Not Girl Scouts.”
    I made a rolling gesture with my hand. “Whatever, Emma. Just tell me.”
    She flopped onto the twin bed next to me and stretched her legs out as I had. The lace-edged