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“Why not?”

“Because…I don’t know, it’s just wrong. Tell him, Eli.”

Jack looked from Greer to Eli, who seemed caught off guard to suddenly be remembered by his sister.

“Maybe it isn’t wrong to rip off all old ladies,” Eli said carefully. “She did try to get rid of the Richardsons’ dog that time, remember?”

Greer was quiet for a moment. “I do like that dog.”

“She was so mean to it,” Eli continued. “Didn’t she even throw a croissant at it when it peed on her tulips?”

“An innocent dog.” Jack shook his head somberly. “It could’ve been killed.”

“Lulu ate the croissant,” Greer said.

“It could’ve choked,” Jack countered.

Greer shook her head.

“Besides, old lady or not, who hates dogs? No one worth keeping their ten bucks, that’s who.”

The girl cocked her head, not unlike a dog about to have a baked good thrown in its general direction, and finally slouched her shoulders forward in defeat. “Fine. I guess it’s the sentiment behind the croissant or whatever. Screw Mrs. Sullivan, then. How many more leaves do we need?”

• • •

A piece of paper clung weakly to Mrs. Sullivan’s perfect white picket fence, still damp from the light rain of the previous day. On it were the words:

$10 cash to rake this garden* *must be raked during the reasonable hours of 6am–6pm, no exceptions

Jack opened the gate and ushered the others inside, dragging the bag of leaves behind him. Together the trio blanketed the perfectly manicured yard in a sheet of brown and yellow. Jack pocketed the empty bag and jabbed a finger on the doorbell. A buzz echoed through the compact stone house, summoning the dog-hater within. A moment later Mrs. Sullivan stood in the doorway, face carved downward to frame a frown that seemed as much a permanent part of her physiology as her silvery curler-set hair.

“Yes?”

“We’re here to rake your yard,” said Jack, indicating the rake in Eli’s hands with a tip of the chin.

Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, some nice boys from a few houses down already did the job.”

“They clearly didn’t do a very good job,” Jack said.

Mrs. Sullivan’s pale brow furrowed. She looked over the cluster of children on her front stoop to the yard beyond and blanched.

“B-but it was only just raked last evening,” she sputtered. “I don’t understand.”

Her focus shifted back to Jack, catching on something.

“There are leaves in your hair,” she said slowly, pointing with a finger that bent like a fishing hook at Jack’s forehead. “Young man, have you defiled my garden?”

“No,” Jack said, mostly because he didn’t know what “defiled” meant, but also because he wasn’t going down without a fight. “There must have been a gust of wind.”

“ ‘Gust of wind’ my eye,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “You’ve got a garbage bag hanging out of your back pocket. What’s a child need a garbage bag for?”

Jack winced. “Collecting…garbage,” he tried.

For the first time since answering the door, Mrs. Sullivan looked to the other two children standing there.

“I know you,” she said to Eli and Greer. “You’re the Abrams kids. Do your parents know what you’re up to? No? I’m informing them this instant.”

Mrs. Sullivan gave a self-satisfied smile and took a step back into the house when something stopped her in her tracks. A whimper, small and pathetic. Jack turned to his left to see Greer’s lower lip trembling. A fat tear freed itself from her right eye and traced a round cheek before leaping boldly off her chin.