"Mr. Eberhardt, it's illegal for a boy your age not to be in school. The offense is called truancy."

"Oh, I know."

"Then you might wish to inform your fleet-footed friend of that fact," the vice-principal said acidly. "Are you aware that the school district has special police who go out searching for truants? They're very good at their jobs, I assure you."

Roy didn't think the truancy police would have an easy time tracking Mullet Fingers through the woods and mangroves, but the possibility made him anxious, anyway. What if they had bloodhounds and helicopters?

Miss Hennepin edged closer, craning her stringy neck like a buzzard. "You let him use your name at the hospital, didn't you, Mr. Eberhardt? You allowed this delinquent to borrow your identity for his own shady purposes."

"He got bit by some bad dogs. He needed a doctor."

"And you expect me to believe that's all there is to the story? Seriously?"

Roy could only shrug in surrender. "Can I go now?"

"Until we speak again on this subject, you and I," Miss Hennepin said. "I know when I smell a rat."

Yeah, thought Roy, that's because you're growing one on your lip.

At lunchtime he borrowed Garrett's bicycle and set out for the junkyard. Nobody saw him go, which was fortunate; it was strictly against the rules for kids to leave the school grounds without a note.

Beatrice's stepbrother was napping when Roy burst into the Jo-Jo's ice-cream truck. Shirtless and mosquito-bitten, the boy wriggled out of the sleeping bag and took the newspaper from Roy's hands.

Roy had expected an emotional reaction to the news of the groundbreaking ceremony, but Mullet Fingers remained surprisingly calm, almost as if he'd been expecting it. He carefully tore out the Mother Paula's advertisement and examined it as if it were a treasure map.

"Noon, huh?" he murmured quietly.

"That's only twenty-four hours from now," Roy said. "What are we going to do?"

"We who?"

"You, me, and Beatrice."

"Forget about it, man. I'm not draggin' you two into the middle of this mess."

"Wait, listen to me," Roy said urgently. "We already talked about this, me and Beatrice. We want to help you save the owls. Seriously, we're locked and loaded."

He unpacked the camera and handed it to the boy. "I'll show you how this works," Roy said. "It's pretty easy."

"What's it for?"

"If you can get a picture of one of the birds, we can stop the pancake people from bulldozing that lot."

"Aw, you're full of it," the boy said.

"Honest," Roy said. "I looked it up on the Internet. Those owls are protected-it's totally against the law to mess with the burrows unless you've got a special permit, and Mother Paula's permit file is missing from City Hall. What does that tell you?"

Mullet Fingers fingered the camera skeptically. "Pretty fancy," he said, "but it's too late for fancy, Tex. Now it's time for hardball."

"No, wait. If we give them proof, then they've got to shut down the project," Roy persisted. "All we need is one lousy picture of one little owl-"

"You better take off," the boy said. "I got stuff to do."

"But you can't fight the pancake people all by yourself. No way. I'm not leaving until you change your mind."

"I said, Get outta here!" Mullet Fingers seized Roy by one arm, spun him clockwise, and launched him out of the ice-cream truck.

Roy landed on all fours in the hot gravel. He was slightly stunned; he'd forgotten how strong the kid was.

"I already caused enough trouble for you and my sister. This is my war from now on." Beatrice's stepbrother stood defiantly in the doorway of the truck, his cheeks flushed and his eyes blazing. In his right hand was Mrs. Eberhardt's digital camera.

Roy pointed and said, "You keep it for now."

"Get real. I'll never figure out how to use one a these stupid things."

"Let me show you-"

"Nah," said the boy, shaking his head. "You go on back to school. I got work to do."

Roy stood up and brushed the gravel off his pants. He had a hot lump in his throat, but he was determined not to cry.

"You done enough already," the running boy told him, "more than I had a right to expect."

There were about a million things Roy wanted to say, but the only words he choked out were: "Good luck tomorrow."

Mullet Fingers winked and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Bye, Roy," he said.

The newspaper contained several items that would have been excellent for current events.

A missing Green Beret soldier had been rescued in the mountains of Pakistan. A doctor in Boston had invented a new drug to treat leukemia. And in Naples, Florida, a county commissioner had been arrested for taking a $5,000 bribe from the developer of a putt-putt golf course.

When Roy's turn came to address Mr. Ryan's class, he didn't use any of those articles for his topic. Instead he held up the newspaper and pointed to the torn page where the Mother Paula's advertisement had been.

"Most everybody here likes pancakes," Roy began. "I know I sure do. And when I first heard that a new Mother Paula's was going to open here in Coconut Cove, I thought that was pretty cool."

Several kids nodded and smiled. One girl pretended to rub her tummy hungrily.

"Even when I found out where they're going to build it-that big empty lot at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole-I didn't see anything wrong with the idea," Roy said. "Then one day a friend of mine took me out there and showed me something that changed my mind totally."

Now the other students stopped talking among themselves and paid attention. They'd never heard the new kid say so much.

"It was an owl," Roy went on, "about this tall."

He held up two fingers, one eight or nine inches above the other, to show them. "When my family lived out West we saw plenty of owls, but never one this small. And he wasn't a baby, either, he was full grown! He was so straight and serious, he looked like a little toy professor."

The class laughed.

"They're called 'burrowing' owls because they actually live underground," Roy continued, "in old holes made by tortoises and armadillos. Turns out that a couple of owl families hang out on that land at Woodbury and East Oriole. They made their nests in the dens and that's where they raise their babies."

Some of the kids shifted uneasily. A few began whispering in worried tones and some looked at Mr. Ryan, who sat thoughtfully at his desk, chin propped in his hands.

"Roy," he said gently, "this is an excellent subject for biology or social studies, but perhaps not for current events."

"Oh, it's definitely a current event," Roy countered. "It's happening tomorrow at noon, Mr. Ryan."

"What is?"

"They're going to start bulldozing to make way for the pancake house. It's like a big party or something," Roy said. "The lady who plays Mother Paula on TV is going to be there. The mayor, too. That's what the paper said."

A red-haired girl in the front row raised her hand. "Didn't the paper say anything about the owls?"

"No. Not a word," Roy said.

"So what's gonna happen to 'em?" called a freckle-faced boy from the back of the classroom.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen." Roy looked at Mr. Ryan. "The machines are going to bury all those burrows, and everything inside."

"No way!" the red-haired girl cried, and the class erupted in agitated conversation until Mr. Ryan asked everyone to please be quiet and let Roy finish.

"The grown-up owls might try to fly away," Roy said, "or they might just stay in the dens to protect their babies."

"But they'll die!" the freckle-faced kid shouted.

"How can the pancake people get away with this?" demanded another.

"I don't know," Roy said, "but it's not legal, and it's not right."