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nod. I hadn’t realized Dad even noticed Gillicut in the park. He didn’t say anything. He never did come up with any advice for me.
    â€œDoes that boy have anything to do with your South American beetle illness?” Mom asks.
    â€œNo,” I say. “There was this strange beetle yesterday that climbed on me and probably bit me.”
    She pats my shoulder. “Sounds like a twenty-four-hour sickness. Right?”
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œOkay. You can stay home. But what will you do all morning? I can be here, but I have a ton of bills to pay for the shop.” Suddenly I notice that my mom has lines around her mouth. Her hair is showing gray because she hasn’t gone to the salon like she usually does.
    â€œI’ll play with my imaginary friend,” I tell her. “No problem.”
    She laughs.
    * * *
    Inkling cheats at Monopoly. But I beat him at Blokus.
    â€œWolowitz,” he tells me as he’s reading the strategy tips. “I have news.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œSquash news.”
    â€œDid you find some?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    â€œDid you figure out how to get some?”
    â€œKind of.”
    â€œâ€™Cause it would be good for you to have some squash before tomorrow,” I say. “So your strength is up for the big attack.”
    â€œYeah, well. Squash in Brooklyn. I’ll believe that when I see it.”
    â€œI thought you said—”
    â€œWolowitz,” interrupts Inkling. “I hate to tell you this, but after I save your life tomorrow, I gotta go.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    He heaves a sigh. “The squash problem. It’s killing me. I told you I couldn’t stay here without squash.”
    â€œFor serious?”
    â€œThere’s a pumpkin farm in upstate New York. Land o’ Pumpkins. I read about it in the paper.”
    â€œOh.” I am in shock.
    I feel dizzy.
    Inkling is moving away.
    Forever.
    And not even against his will.
    â€œDid you know there’s a holiday called Halloween?” Inkling asks.
    I nod.
    â€œAnd on Halloween, human beings actually hollow out pumpkins and throw away all the yummy inside bits?” Inkling asks.
    â€œI’ve heard of that, yeah.” My voice comes out choked.
    â€œWolowitz, I gotta get to this Land o’ Pumpkins. I’m one of the last bandapats. If I don’t eat squash regularly, I’m gonna . . . You know I’ve only had that half a butternut since I got to Brooklyn.”
    â€œI tried to get you squash. I really did.”
    â€œI know. But it’s a serious situation. A pumpkin farm is a much better place for a bandapat than a squashless Brooklyn full of rootbeers.”
    â€œDon’t go,” I whisper.
    â€œYou’ll get over it,” Inkling says. “This is not a life-or-death problem for you.”
    â€œPlease, Inkling. I’ll try even harder.”
    â€œWolowitz, you’ve tried and you’ve tried. You’re just not a guy with a lot of squash. It’s a fact you’ve got to accept about yourself.”
    â€œI’m so, so sorry,” I say.
    â€œI’m sorry, too,” he says. “But once I’ve paid the Hetsnickle, I’m off to Land o’ Pumpkins. It’s just the way it’s got to be.”
    I excuse myself and go to the kitchen. I open the freezer and pull out a tub of Heath bar brownie ice cream. It’s not even my favorite flavor, but I eat two bowls of it anyway before Mom comes in and makes me stop.
    At noon Mom has to go to Big Round Pumpkin. Inkling and I tag along with her. I pretend to be sick in the overlook.
    I lie on the floor up there in a fog. Inkling and I don’t talk. I wouldn’t even know he was there with me if it wasn’t for an occasional cough from his favorite corner.
    I read a book about volcanoes I got from the library.
    I do my math homework.
    I start drawing a picture of me and Inkling—only