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himself to the cart.
    I swallow hard, forcing back the lump in my throat. “I know, Jack. We’ll take care of you. I promise.” I reach for his right hand, the one he used to unhook the latch, and turn his fingers over in my palm to examine the tender flesh.
    A nasty, puckered welt slices across his four fingers.
    That’s it? I expected it to be blistered and oozing. Or worse. All I see are a few swollen red marks.
    Cooper examines Jack’s hand and quirks his brow. “That’s pretty ugly, bro, but I’m betting you’ll live.” He chuckles. “And I think you can walk to the cart by yourself.”
    Jack bites his lip and swallows hard as he rolls onto his side to push himself up. As soon as he places his hand on the ground, he howls and flops onto his back. Tears flood from his eyes, cutting fresh rivulets through his dirt-caked face. Cooper and I exchange confused glances. Jack’s carrying on as if he’s dying. Can it really be this bad?
    Cooper stares at Jack, whose shoulders quake with each new round of sobs, and drags his fingers through his hair. “We’re going to have to carry him.”
    At first we try to split Jack’s weight, with me at his legs and Cooper taking his arms, but with all Jack’s convulsing, it’s nearly impossible. Finally, Cooper slings him over his shoulder and carries him fireman-style to the cart.
    It’s a miracle Dad isn’t there when we get back to the house. Normally he’s slouched on the couch with a beer, watching the six o’clock local news, but the driveway’s empty and the house is quiet, even though it’s eight o’clock. I’m just glad we don’t have to explain to him what happened. Because we couldn’t even if we tried.
    Knowing how much of a neat freak my dad is, Cooper throws Jack, clothes and all, into the shower. While they’re busy upstairs in the bathroom, I race to my room to change my clothes, then sprint to the kitchen sink and scrub with the dishwashing liquid. Cooper and I don’t get many chances to be alone, and I’m not spending this one filthy.
    Just as I’m blotting my face with a dishtowel, Cooper plods down the stairs, stretching his neck and rubbing his shoulder with a freshly rinsed hand. Judging by his soaked head and T-shirt, which, by the way, clings at just the right places, he must have taken a dunk, too. “Well, he’s in bed and clean enough not to wreck the sheets. I figure he’ll sleep it off.”
    Distracting myself from the way he rakes his fingers through his golden-brown hair, I attempt to focus. “Hey, our Internet’s down. Do you mind if we go over to your house to use yours? I want to research how to take care of a burn.” Accidentally on purpose I neglect to mention that, as the caretaker of High Point Bluff Plantation, my dad’s got a fully stocked first-aid kit, and I know how to use every ointment in it.
    He smiles. “Of course. Let’s go.” He takes the dishcloth from my hands and tosses it on the counter.
    A few minutes later, we park the golf cart and plug it in to recharge its battery, then sneak up the steps of the Big House, creak open the shiny double doors, and try to make a stealthy getaway to Cooper’s room. As we’re ascending the stairs, his dad, Beau, stops us in our tracks.
    “Cooper? Is that you?” he calls from down the hall, his southern accent as thick and goopy as maple syrup.
    “Uh, yeah, Dad. Emma’s with me.”
    “Emma? Well, come on in and set awhile.”
    Cooper grunts as we backtrack and head through the grand foyer to the library.
    Beau and Missy, his very blonde and very young fourth wife, lounge on the two oversized red silk sofas that somehow look small in the enormous oak-paneled room. Beau’s chewing on an unlit cigar, reading a business newspaper, and she’s leafing through a gossip magazine, cracking her gum.
    Even though he’s the same age as my dad, Beau strains to push himself off the couch to stand. “Emma! It’s always a pleasure to see you, darling.” His jowls shake