CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Patrick and I sat on the backdoor step, looking into my yard. The sun was brutal, sitting like a fireball in a cloudless sky, making it too hot to do much of anything other than sit on a backdoor step. Whitney found shade by the maple tree at the side of the yard. I’d set a bowl of water near her, but she looked too hot and tired to raise her head high enough for a drink.
Patrick’s mitt was out on the lawn, next to his bike. My mitt was in the house, in my room, and my bike was in the garage. I had no intention of playing catch or going for a ride. When I told Patrick this, I expected him to leave. Instead he sat on the step with me. This surprised me. Since that baseball game weeks ago I had not been much fun to be around. Patrick kept coming over to see if I wanted to
