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course he was on drugs now, idiots. Either that or he'd be screaming in agony all the time. And no, they weren't holding up under the strain. The strain? His father hadn't gone into work for days. He never left the house. He didn't answer phone calls, or shave, or wear shoes. His mother went around so tight that she was about to snap in two. Louisa had come out of her bedroom once, and then run back in. They were all about to break apart.
    "Franklin is fine," said Henry. It was his left arm. He didn't think there was much pain now. He supposed there were drugs to relieve the discomfort. And his family was doing fine. Just fine. They were all fine. They were all so fine they could be America's Fine Family. Fine.
    That's what he said.
    And then there was silence, because no one knew what to say after they had figured out that everything was fine. Not even Sanborn, who was the only one at Whittier to ask, "How are you?" But he asked too late in the day.
    "Fine, Sanborn. Just fine. How else would I be doing? I mean, I've just got a brother lying in a coma in the hospital with indeterminate brain activity—whatever that means—and missing most of his left arm. I should be fine, right? Every time I go to bed I try not to sleep because I think I'm going to dream about this bloody stump where an arm should be, but everyone has dreams, right? I'm fine, Sanborn, fine.
So stop asking.
"
    Sanborn stopped asking.
    It was a relief to get to Physical Education, where he could run and work his head off and where Coach Santori never said anything except threats against all health and happiness and future success.
    "Three weight sets, and do them well or you'll do them all over again," he announced. And after they were all done lifting, "Two paced miles, and I mean paced, or you'll run them again—barefoot." Henry ran them very fast.
    That afternoon after school, he rowed hard at crew practice—and not just because he had missed a few days, and not just because he was afraid of any new Coach Santori threats. He rowed so hard that it was impossible for him to keep the rhythm, and more than a few times Brandon Sheringham, the perfect and unerring coxswain, barked at him for upsetting everyone else's stroke. "Stay together," he yelled, mostly at Henry. "Together."
    That's what I'm trying to do, thought Henry. Stay together.
    Afterward, in the varsity locker room, Brandon Sheringham wondered kindly if Henry might think about taking this season off, since it must be hard to keep his mind on rowing. Henry wondered less kindly if Brandon Sheringham might think about keeping his nose out of his business, even though it must be hard to keep a beak that size out of anything.
    He ignored Brandon Sheringham's glares, dressed, and went to Thwaite—Why did it always smell of meat loaf?—where he watched Sanborn and the rest of the debate team finish haggling over the future of nuclear power. Then he and Sanborn waited outside for Henry's mother to come pick them up.
    "I've got a dog," said Henry.
    Sanborn looked up from his note cards on nuclear power's danger. "Your parents let you have a dog?"
    "Yes, my parents let me have a dog. Sort of, anyway. I guess it depends on what she does to the house in the next few days."
    "What kind?"
    Henry shrugged. "Black."
    "Does your dog have a name?"
    "Of course she has a name. Black Dog."
    Sanborn raised a single eyebrow crookedly. "Black Dog? So she's a pirate, right? Billy Bones. Long John. Black Dog. Like that."
    "If you're going to make fun of someone's name," said Henry, "shouldn't you be pretty sure you have a decent one yourself?"
    "If you're going to name a dog," said Sanborn, "shouldn't you use a little more imagination than 'Black Dog'?"
    "She likes 'Black Dog,'" said Henry.
    "Oh, she came up to you and said, 'I really like this stupid name you gave me, and it doesn't matter that it sounds like something out of a first-grade reader.'"
    "It doesn't sound like something out of a first-grade