"Hey, Dad -- catch!" Casey tossed the Frisbee across the smooth, green lawn. Casey's dad made a face, squinting into the sun. The Frisbee hit the ground and skipped a few times before landing under the hedge at the back of the house. "Not today. I'm busy," Dr. Brewer said, and abruptly turned and loped into the house. The screen door slammed behind him. Casey brushed his straight blond hair back off his forehead. "What's his problem?" he called to Margaret, his sister, who had watched the whole scene from the side of the redwood garage. "You know," Margaret said quietly. She wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans and held them both up, inviting a toss. "I'll play Frisbee with you for a little while," she said. "Okay," Casey said without enthusiasm. He walked slowly over to retrieve the Frisbee from under the hedge. Margaret moved closer. She felt sorry for Casey. He and their dad were really close, always playing ball or Frisbee or Nintendo together. But Dr. Brewer didn't seem to have time for that anymore. Jumping up to catch the Frisbee, Margaret realized she felt sorry for herself, too. Dad hadn't been the same to her, either. In fact, he spent so much time down in the basement, he barely said a word to her. He doesn't even call me Princess anymore, Margaret thought. It was a nickname she hated. But at least it was a nickname, a sign of closeness. She tossed the red Frisbee back. A bad toss. Casey chased after it, but it sailed away from him. Margaret looked up to the golden hills beyond their backyard. California, she thought. It's so weird out here. Here it is, the middle of winter, and there isn't a cloud in the sky, and Casey and I are out in jeans and T-shirts as if it were the middle of summer. She made a diving latch for a wild toss, rolling over on the manicured lawn and raising the Frisbee above her head triumphantly. "Show off," Casey muttered, unimpressed. "You're the hot dog in the family," Margaret called. "Well, you're a dork." "Hey, Casey -- you want me to play with you or not?" He shrugged. Everyone was so edgy these days, Margaret realized. It was easy to figure out why. She made a high toss. The Frisbee sailed over Casey's head. "You chase it!" he cried angrily, putting his hands on his hips. "No, you!" she cried. "You!" "Casey -- you're eleven years old. Don't act like a two-year-old," she snapped. "Well, you act like a one-year-old," was his reply as he grudgingly went after the Frisbee. It was all Dad's fault, Margaret realized. Things had been so tense ever since he started working at home. Down in the basement with his plants and weird machines. He hardly ever came up for air. And when he did, he wouldn't even catch a Frisbee. Or spend two minutes with either of them. Mom had noticed it, too, Margaret thought, running full-out and making another grandstand catch just before colliding with the side of the garage. Having Dad home has made Mom really tense, too. She pretends everything is fine. But I can tell she's worried about him. "Lucky catch, Fatso!" Casey called. Margaret hated the name Fatso even more than she hated Princess. People in her family jokingly called her Fatso because she was so thin, like her father. She also was tall like him, but she had her mother's straight brown hair, brown eyes, and dark coloring. "Don't call me that." She heaved the red disc at him. He caught it at his knees and flipped it back to her. They tossed it back and forth without saying much for another ten or fifteen minutes. "I'm getting hot," Margaret said, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun with her hand. "Let's go in." Casey tossed the Frisbee against the garage wall. It dropped onto the grass. He came trotting over to her. "Dad always plays longer," he said peevishly. "And he throws better. You throw like a girl." "Give me a break," Margaret groaned, giving him a playful shove as she jogged to the back door. "You throw like a chimpanzee." "How come Dad got fired?" he asked. She blinked. And stopped running. The question had caught her by surprise. "Huh?" His pale, freckled face turned serious. "You know. I mean, why?" he asked, obviously uncomfortable. She and Casey had never discussed this in the four weeks since Dad had been home. Which was unusual since they were pretty close, being only a year apart. "I mean, we came all the way out here so he could work at PolyTech, right?" Casey asked. "Yeah. Well . . . he got fired," Margaret said, half-whispering in case her dad might be able to hear. "But why? Did he blow up the lab or something?" Casey grinned. The idea of his dad blowing up a huge campus science lab appealed to him. "No, he didn't blow anything up," Margaret said, tugging at a strand of dark hair. "Botanists work with plants, you know. They don't get much of a chance to blow things up." They both laughed. Casey followed her into the narrow strip of shade cast by the low ranch-style house. "I'm not sure exactly what happened," Margaret continued, still half-whispering. "But I overheard Dad on the phone. I think he was talking to Mr. Martinez

His department head. Remember? The quiet little man who came to dinner that night the barbecue grill caught fire?" Casey nodded. "Martinez fired Dad?" "Probably," Margaret whispered. "From what I overheard, it had something to do with the plants Dad was growing, some experiments that had gone wrong or something." "But Dad's real smart," Casey insisted, as if Margaret were arguing with him. "If his experiments went wrong, he'd know how to fix them." Margaret shrugged. "That's all I know," she said. "Come on, Casey. Let's go inside. I'm dying of thirst!" She stuck her tongue out and moaned, demonstrating her dire need of liquid. "You're gross," Casey said. He pulled open the screen door, then dodged in front of her so he could get inside first. "Who's gross?" Mrs. Brewer asked from the sink. She turned to greet the two of them. "Don't answer that." Mom looks very tired today, Margaret thought, noticing the crisscross of fine lines at the corners of her mother's eyes and the first strands of gray in her mother's shoulder-length brown hair. "I hate this job," Mrs. Brewer said, turning back to the sink. "What are you doing?" Casey asked, pulling open the refrigerator and removing a box of juice. "I'm deveining shrimp." 'Yuck!" Margaret exclaimed. "Thanks for the support," Mrs. Brewer said dryly. The phone rang. Wiping her shrimpy hands with a dish towel, she hurried across the room to pick up the phone. Margaret got a box of juice from the fridge, popped the straw into the top, and followed Casey into the front hallway. The basement door, usually shut tight when Dr. Brewer was working down there, was slightly ajar. Casey started to close it, then stopped. "Let's go down and see what Dad is doing," he suggested. Margaret sucked the last drops of juice through the straw and squeezed the empty box flat in her hand. "Okay." She knew they probably shouldn't disturb their father, but her curiosity got the better of her. He had been working down there for four weeks now. All kinds of interesting equipment, lights, and plants had been delivered. Most days he spent at least eight or nine hours down there, doing whatever it was he was doing. And he hadn't shown it to them once. "Yeah. Let's go," Margaret said. It was their house, too, after all. Besides, maybe their dad was just waiting for them to show some interest. Maybe he was hurt that they hadn't bothered to come downstairs in all this time. She pulled the door open the rest of the way, and they stepped onto the narrow stairway. "Hey, Dad -- " Casey called excitedly. "Dad -- can we see?" They were halfway down when their father appeared at the foot of the stairs. He glared up at them angrily, his skin strangely green under the fluorescent light fixture. He was holding his right hand, drops of red blood falling onto his white lab coat. "Stay out of the basement!" he bellowed, in a voice they'd never heard before. Both kids shrank back, surprised to hear their father scream like that. He was usually so mild and soft-spoken. "Stay out of the basement," he repeated, holding his bleeding hand. "Don't ever come down here -- I'm warning you." 2 "Okay. All packed," Mrs. Brewer said, dropping her suitcases with a thud in the front hallway. She poked her head into the living room where the TV was blaring. "Do you think you could stop the movie for one minute to say good-bye to your mother?" Casey pushed a button on the remote control, and the screen went blank. He and Margaret obediently walked to the hallway to give their mother hugs. Margaret's friend, Diane Manning, who lived just around the corner, followed them into the hallway. "How long are you going to be gone, Mrs. Brewer?" she asked, her eyes on the two bulging suitcases. "I don't know," Mrs. Brewer replied fretfully. "My sister went into the hospital in Tucson this morning. I guess I'll have to stay until she's able to go home." "Well, I'll be glad to baby-sit for Casey and Margaret while you're away," Diane joked. "Give me a break," Margaret said, rolling her eyes. "I'm older than you are, Diane." "And I'm smarter than both of you," Casey added with typical modesty. "I'm not worried about you kids," Mrs. Brewer said, glancing nervously at her watch. "I'm worried about your father."

father." "Don't worry," Margaret told her seriously. "We'll take good care of him." "Just make sure that he eats something once in a while," Mrs. Brewer said. "He's so obsessed with his work, he doesn't remember to eat unless you tell him." It's going to be really lonely around here without Mom, Margaret thought. Dad hardly ever comes up from the basement. It had been two weeks since he yelled at Casey and her to stay out of the basement. They had been tiptoeing around ever since, afraid to get him angry again. But in the past two weeks, he had barely spoken to them, except for the occasional "good morning" and "good night." "Don't worry about anything, Mom," she said, forcing a smile. "Just take good care of Aunt Eleanor." "I'll call as soon as I get to Tucson," Mrs. Brewer said, nervously lowering her eyes to her watch again. She took three long strides to the basement door, then shouted down, "Michael -- time to take me to the airport!" After a long wait, Dr. Brewer called up a reply. Then Mrs. Brewer turned back to the kids. Think he'll even notice I'm gone?" she asked in a loud whisper. She meant it to be a light remark, but her eyes revealed some sadness. A few seconds later, they heard footsteps on the basement stairs, and their dad appeared. He putted off his stained lab coat, revealing tan slacks and a bright yellow T-shirt, and tossed the lab coat onto the banister. Even though it was two weeks later, his right hand, the hand that had been bleeding, was still heavily bandaged. "Ready?" he asked his wife. Mrs. Brewer sighed. "I guess." She gave Margaret and Casey a helpless look, then moved quickly to give them each one last hug. "Let's go, then," Dr. Brewer said impatiently. He picked up the two bags and groaned. "Wow. How long are you planning to stay? A year?" Then he headed out the front door with them, not waiting for an answer. "Bye, Mrs. Brewer," Diane said, waving. "Have a good trip." "How can she have a good trip?" Casey asked sharply. "Her sister's in the hospital." "You know what I mean," Diane replied, tossing back her long red hair and rolling her eyes. They watched the station wagon roll down the driveway, then returned to the living room. Casey picked up the remote control and started the movie. Diane sprawled on the couch and picked up the bag of potato chips she'd been eating. . "Who picked this movie?" Diane asked, crinkling the foil bag noisily. "I did," Casey said. "It's neat." He had pulled a couch cushion down to the living room carpet and was lying on it. Margaret was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the base of an armchair, still thinking about her mother and her aunt Eleanor. It's neat if you like to see a lot of people blown up and their guts flying all over," she said, making a face for Diane's benefit. "Yeah. It's neat," Casey said, not taking his eyes off the glowing TV screen. "I've got so much homework. I don't know why I'm sitting here," Diane said, reaching her hand into the potato chip bag. "Me, too," Margaret sighed. "I guess I'll do it after dinner. Do you have the math assignment? I think I left my math book at school." "Sshhh!" Casey hissed, kicking a sneakered foot in Margaret's direction