I grumble at that, knowing he's right. “Bill's probably back from work right now.”

Henry rolls onto his stomach. “Want to finish homework at your house?” I say yes, and he tells his mom.

My house is wood, too. Momma says Papa built it for her, and she says he knows every single inch of it. There's no attic like the others, but Momma never liked attics. It's tall, like it's trying to stand a little straighter than everyone else. It's not as big as Henry's or as fancy, but something about that makes it better. The walls make sense. They're lined with dark wood, and the outside is painted gray and darker gray. The basement is big, wet, and empty, with a shower in the corner when Papa comes back from work. But I don't like the basement. It smells like the earth, warm and curved like a cave. Or like being buried alive. Sand is always in the basement.

We take up a spot in the living room, and pretend we're explorers in the jungle watching from an outpost. I borrow Bill's gun he made out of a board and we shoot the streetcar when it turns off Broad Street. We hide from people going home, giggling when they catch us in the windows. The streetlights don't turn on anymore. The wood is dark and make us feel warm while we play. We use the model plane I made and Bill lets me use his train set when he's around so we can get around the world. Henry leaves behind his little army men to be our enemies.

Henry calls himself Mr. Mistoffelees because he likes the sound of it. It makes him laugh. It's from some book he read, and Henry calls it “the most boringest book ever”. I'm Dr. William Green, scientist and collector. I'm British, and Henry calls me “limey”. But I have a wing of the museum named after me for all my discoveries. Dr. Green and Mr. Mistoffelees have discovered a lot of things. We've fought Indians and crocodiles and leopards and saved treasure from villains all named “Jones” (Henry's not good with coming up with names) and one time, we drove a train to escape an earthquake.

Bill is home already. He's at the dining room table doing homework and making sure we stay quiet so he can focus. Gramma and Gramps come home first before Momma. Gramma makes us dinner – navy bean soup is what she calls it, and she says she and Gramps ate it during hard times. It's a off-color, sad-tasting thing with wet vegetables and mushy beans that we dip stale bread in, and Gramps sits with us to tell us stories about the Great War. Gramma tells him it's “World War I” now, and the look he makes is so sad.

Momma comes home from her shift at the railroad late. She comes in from the basement, wet and still oily in parts but happy to be home. Gramma makes sure there's dinner for her warming in the oven.

“Oh, ho,” she sings, tapping Henry. “Has my son abducted you past your bedtime, young man?”

“No, ma'am,” he says.

“Do you know how late it is?” Henry yawns. And then I yawn. And them Momma yawns. “Stop it,” she says, covering her mouth. “It's time for you to go home, Henry.”

Henry slides like a slug on the floor, and throws his arms and legs out like a star. “Just let me sleep here. I've done it before. You like me, too.”

“Your house is 50 feet away,” she says. I don't know if that's true. One time, I counted with my feet, and it was 121 my-feet away. “Come on. Clean up and I'll take you back.”

We do. Henry leaves his homework with me. He says he'll be back over so we can finish our hunt of the great two-headed dragon. It protects the gold, and hides under the witch's house down the street. “What time is Lone Ranger?”

“19:30.”

Henry grunts at that. “Can I stay for dinner tomorrow?”

“Momma, can Henry stay for dinner tomorrow?” I call. She doesn't answer. “Momma?” I go off to see where she's gone. She's coming out of the bathroom when I ask her again.

“Not Saturday, sweetheart. You have the Sunday paper.” Sunday papers are heavier. I don't know why.

“I can handle the paper.”

“'No' means 'no'.”

I grumble and go back to Henry. He shrugs when I tell him. “I'll bring over a sandwich and, just, sit at the table. It'll basically be like you inviting me for dinner.”

“I don't think that counts. Does it count?”

“I don't know.” He grins at me. “Lone Ranger makes me sleepy. Can I stay over tomorrow?”

Momma puts her hand on my shoulder. “You cannot, Henry. Charlie, say goodnight.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because I said no.”

I frown. “Fine. Night, Henry.”

“See you tomorrow.” Henry hops down the porch steps and turns back and waves. Momma puts her hand on his shoulder and walks off, pulling her coat tighter on her. He makes sure the front gate closes all the way.

I go back inside and give back Bill's wood gun. “I'm going to bed,” he says, taking it and his homework. “Did you take anything else that's mine?” Bill yawns, and his eyes sparkle a little.

“No.”

“No trains or anything?”

“Just my plane.”

Bill hums and goes to bed. He closes the door, and I can hear the curtains swish closed. That's my cue to get tired. Momma comes back and shoos me into the bathroom to brush my teeth and change. The house is dim and gold when I come out. Momma tucks me in and kisses me goodnight. The bed's cold and the sheets are stiff, so I wiggle to make it warmer. She goes to Bill's bed and strokes his hair. No goodnight kiss for him. He's 14 and doesn't let anyone forget it.

She leaves the door open just a little for me. I don't really need it, but I like it.

I wonder how Papa's doing. What kind of food he's eating, because we can't get a whole lot of sugar anymore. Momma says it's been rationed, and I kind of know what that means from how everyone talks about it. I wonder if he has a bed to sleep in. The thought that he's sleeping on the ground makes me sad. Also a little angry. Why did they have to blow up Pearl Harbor? Why did the Nazis have to take Poland? It wasn't theirs. All these places are on the map in Ms. Lewis' classroom, but they don't mean anything to me, and that makes me mad.

I hope Papa comes home soon.