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dog outside," she said.
    Henry led Black Dog out of the house and down to Salvage Cove. The tide was high, and the waves came in, and came in, and came in, battering on the shore, sounding like
Katahdin, Katahdin, Katahdin.
Henry's heart beat wildly within him, thinking of how Louisa would love to run with Black Dog. How Franklin might have loved to run with Black Dog, and now he might never. ... And then he squashed down the traitorous thought.
    Of course Franklin would run again. He was Franklin Smith, O Franklin Smith, the great lord of us all, Franklin Smith.
    But Henry had to admit, deep down, that he hoped that Black Dog would rather run with him than with his brother or sister.
    Then his mother called him back from above the black boulders.
    Mr. Smith, who had planned to drive Henry into school, had decided to stay home that day—he hadn't been to his Boston office since the accident. So Henry's mother drove him instead. Black Dog rode in the back seat, because she jumped in before they could do a thing about it. Except for Black Dog's panting, they drove in silence. Silence, Henry figured, was Trouble's good friend.
    Henry was surprised that Whittier was so unchanged, since he had been gone for something like half a lifetime and the whole world had changed for him. But Whittier—and maybe even the whole world, too—had gone on as if what had happened to Franklin Smith didn't much matter. The clipped grass was sotted with the morning dew, as it had been every spring morning. The ivy that ran up the burnt brick walls had not faltered but was greening up in the spring sun. The paths across the quadrangle were perfectly swept—as they always were. The bright flags of country, state, and academy flew briskly—as they always would. The cars were arriving one by one to let off students, their books shiny with red-and-white Whittier Academy book covers. Inside, the slightly sweaty smell of the halls mixed with the wax of Bates Gymnasium and the meat loaf aroma of Thwaite Cafeteria. It was all the same.
    Henry stopped at his locker, and his fingers told the combination. His books still in the same place. The red-and-white crew sweats he kept meaning to bring home to wash but kept forgetting to. Notebooks leaking frayed paper. Very, very important school announcements to bring home scrunched up in balls.
    It was all the same.
    He went in to his first class, American History, which hadn't made much progress since they began Lewis and Clark.
    When Sanborn Brigham sat down behind him, Henry pointed this out. "You're still on Lewis and Clark? How can you still be on Lewis and Clark?"
    "Because Lewis and Clark are Great American Heroes, True Adventurers who Helped Found Our Country. Because we need to read Every Single Page of their journals Out Loud."
    "I guess that explains it," said Henry.
    "That explains it."
    Sanborn, as it turned out, wasn't kidding. Mr. DiSalva came into the room, nodded at Henry to show that he knew he was back, and cleared his throat while he adjusted his red-and-white Whittier tie and extracted from a briefcase a pair of leather-bound books that held—really—every page of every journal that Lewis and Clark ever wrote.
    Mr. DiSalva began to read aloud, pointing out Significant Places on the map of the western United States behind him as he read.
    Henry tried not to fall asleep.
    During the rest of the day, a few of his teachers—and even Dr. Sheringham, Whittier's principal—did more than nod at him. Their voices got low and quiet, and they tilted their heads, and they asked him politely and sadly how his brother, Franklin, was doing. Was it true that he had lost his right arm? What a shame for such a fine athlete. Was he in much pain? Undoubtedly, he was being drugged to relieve the discomfort. How was the family holding up under the strain?
    Franklin was in an induced coma, you jerks, thought Henry. Was there any pain? He'd had his arm ripped off! Was it a shame? Are you kidding?
A shame?
Of