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    â€œDon’t forget you,” he said.
    I felt pleased. “I’ve done more prospecting than most of them. Some of them hardly know how to hold a geological hammer.”
    I heard him sniff sympathetically. “I hope they don’t smash anything good.”
    â€œThe soldiers will be even worse; I’m hoping Papa doesn’t let them help.”
    Too late I realized I’d just let something slip.
    â€œHow many soldiers will you have?” he asked conversationally. It was a natural enough question, but I knew he was prospecting for information—just like me.
    â€œNo idea really. They’re giving us an escort because of the Indians.”
    â€œGood idea,” he replied. “That didn’t ever occur to my father.”
    â€œWell, we’ll certainly attract a lot more attention.”
    â€œWith the singing and all.”
    I laughed. “Yes. It’s just you and your father?”
    â€œPretty much.”
    We were quiet for a little bit, jotting down our words.
    â€œWill you spend the whole summer out west?” he asked.
    I didn’t look up; I’d found a good clump of letters. “Yes.”
    â€œYour mother won’t miss you too much?”
    â€œI have none.”
    When I glanced up, I saw the frank surprise in his face.
    â€œMe either. She died of influenza.”
    â€œMine in childbirth.”
    Eyes back on the game, he said, “So we both grew up motherless.”
    I glanced at the dwindling sand in the timer, then back at the letters. “With only the influence of our fathers.”
    â€œFor better or worse.”
    He laughed, and I laughed with him.
    â€œI suppose that’s why you’re such a tomboy.”
    â€œThe last person to call me that was punched in the nose.”
    â€œAnd who was that?”
    â€œMatthew Kyles, in the schoolyard when I was nine. The timer’s out.”
    He put down his pencil. “Interesting. So my father’s not the only one who has a quick fist.”
    I was aware of the heat in my cheeks and hoped I wasn’t blushing. I got splotchy when I blushed. “ I was a child.”
    â€œSo why did he call you a tomboy?”
    â€œI took an atypical interest in a worm that had been cut in half.”
    Samuel nodded eagerly. “I ate one once.”
    This was good. “What did it taste like?”
    â€œDirt mostly. Dirt and . . .” His brown eyes looked up and to the right. “Cucumber. Did you get in trouble for punching Matthew?”
    â€œHe cried, and I had to stay in at recess and lunch all the next week. Which suited me fine. I got to read undisturbed.”
    â€œWell, I hope you won’t punch me,” he said.
    â€œI might, if you call me a tomboy again. Maybe you’d cry too. I’m going to read out my words. The ones we have in common we cross out, and then I’ll show you how we score the rest.”
    I could already see my list was much longer than his. He hadn’t done very well. It was very satisfying trouncing him.
    â€œHow are you so good at this?” he demanded.
    â€œA youth misspent on word puzzles and reading.”
    â€œI imagine you were quite abnormal as a child.”
    â€œVery.”
    â€œDid your friends enjoy losing over and over?”
    â€œI didn’t have friends.”
    â€œNot even at school?”
    â€œI spent recess reading under a tree.”
    â€œThe teacher’s pet, I bet.”
    I shook my head. “That would’ve involved being helpful and chatty.”
    â€œI’d have sat with you under the tree,” he said, and I raised my eyebrows doubtfully until he added, “if you ate a worm.”
    â€œAnother game?” I asked, shaking the letters up again, because I could feel my cheeks redden, and I knew I was doing a very poor job closing the gate on his charm. What I really needed was more a windowless dungeon door, very thick.
    â€œYes,” he said.