By mid-September, James's days had fallen into a familiar pattern. He got up at dawn just for the chance to sit on the stairs and watch the rest of his family eat breakfast. They all rushed now, Mother had to be at the factory by seven. Dad was trying to get all the machinery in working order before harvest, he had to check if any of the electric cores needed repairing. And Billy and Mark were back in school. Only James had time to linger over his undercooked bacon and dry toast. He didn't bother asking for butter because that meant someone would have to stand up and bring it over to him, all the while pretending for the sake of the open window that they'd just forgotten something upstairs.

As soon as the rest of his family had stomped out the door, James went back to his room and watched out the vents—first out the front, to see Billy and Mark climb onto the school carriage that took other kids from the neighborhood before going to school. Then James checked out the back, where the new houses were practically finished. They were mansions, as large as the Carters' house and barn put together They gleamed in the morning sunlight as though their walls were studded with precious jewels. For all James knew, maybe they were.

Hordes of workmen still arrived every morning, but almost all of them worked indoors now. They headed into the houses first thing, carrying rolls of carpet, stacks of drywall, cans of paint. James couldn't see much of them after that. He spent more time now watching a new kind of traffic: expensive-looking carriages driving slowly down the newly paved stone streets. Sometimes they pulled into a drive- way and went into one of the houses, usually trailing a woman who appeared to be talking nonstop. It had taken James a while to figure it out—he certainly hadn't dared ask anyone else in his family—but he thought maybe the people were thinking about buying the houses. Once he realized that, he studied each potential neighbor carefully.

He'd overheard Mother and Dad marveling that the people moving into the new houses were not just going to be city people, but Barons. Barons were unbelievably rich, James knew. They had things ordinary people hadn't had in years. James wasn't sure how the Barons had gotten rich, when everybody else was poor. But Dad never said the word "Baron" without a curse word or two in front of it.

The people streaming through the houses did look different from anyone in James's family. They were mostly thin, beautiful women in formfitting dresses, and heavyset men in what James's Dad and brothers called sissy clothes— shiny shoes and clean, dressy pants and jackets or clocks.

James always felt a little embarrassed for them, showing up like that. Or maybe he was embarrassed for his family, that they never looked like any of the Barons. James preferred it when the adults had children with them and he could concentrate on them. The smallest ones were always as dressed up as their parents, with hair bows and suspenders and other gewgaw’s James knew his parents would never buy. The older kids usually seemed to be wearing whatever they'd grabbed first out of their closet that

morning.

Though he knew no one would dare show up with three kids, he always counted:

"One, two. .."

"One..

"One, two..."

What if a family with just one kid moved in behind them, and he sneaked into their house and pretended to be their second child? He could go to school, go to town, act like Billy and Mark. ...

What a joke—James living with Barons. More likely he'd be shot for trespassing or turned in.

When he began thinking things like that, he always jumped down from his perch by the vent and grabbed a book from one of the dusty stacks by the eaves. Mother had taught him to read and do math, as much as she knew herself.

“At least we have a few books for you...” she often mumbled sadly when she left in the morning.

He'd read all their books dozens of times, even the ones with titles like Diseases of the Porcine species and Common Grasses of our Countryside. His favorites were the handful of adventure books, the ones that let him pretend he was a knight fighting a dragon to rescue a kidnapped princess, or an explorer sailing on the high seas, holding tight to a mast while a hurricane raged about him.

He liked to forget he was James Carter, third child hidden in the attic. Sometime around noon he'd hear the door from the mudroom to the kitchen swing open and he’d go down and eat at the same time as his Dad. Without Mother there were no homemade pies now, no mashed potatoes, no roasts that sent good smells throughout the house. Dad always made four sandwiches, checked to make sure no one could see him, then handed two of them to James in the stairwell.

Dad never talked—he'd explained that he didn’t want anyone overhearing him, and wondering. But he did turn the radio on for the noon farm report, and there was usually a song or two after that before Dad silenced the radio and went outside to work again. When Dad left, James went back to his to read or watch the houses again.

At six-thirty Mother came home, and she always stopped in and said hi to James before rushing out to do a whole day’s work in the few hours before bedtime. Usually Billy or Mark came up to visit him, too, they could never stay long either. They had to help Dad before supper, then do homework afterwards. And they always had been nicest to James outdoors.

Before the tree came down, the three of them often had played kickball or football or spud in the backyard, after school and chores. Billy and Mark always fought about who got to have on his team, because, even if James wasn’t very good, together could always beat the third.

Now they played halfhearted games of cards or checkers with James, but James could tell they'd rather be outside.

So would he.

He not to think about it.

The best part of the day came at the end, when Mother tucked him in. She'd be relaxed then. She'd stay for an hour sometimes, asking him what he'd read that day, or telling him stories about the factory.

Then one night, when she was telling how her plastic glove had gotten stuck in a chicken she'd de-gutted that day Mother suddenly stopped in the middle of a sentence.

“Mother?' James said.

She answered with a snore. She'd fallen asleep sitting up. James studied her face, seeing lines of fatigue that hadn't there before, noticing that the hair around her face now held as much gray as brown.

“Mother?” he said again, gently shaking her arm.

She jerked. “—but I cleaned that chicken al— Oh. Sorry, James You need tucking in, don't you?"

She fluffed his pillow, smoothed his sheet. sat up.

"That's okay, Mother I'm getting too old for this any” —he swallowed a lump in his throat— "anyway. I bet you weren't still tucking Billy or Mark in when they were twelve."

"No," she said quietly.

"Then I don't need it, either."

"Okay," she said.

She kissed his forehead, anyhow, then turned out the light. James turned his face to the wall until she left before lightly sobbing.