Flyers (9781481414449) Read Online Free PDF

and you could almost see it climbing. Ethan stayed quiet, which was pretty much how he stayed most of the time, but mornings, forget it—I hardly ever heard Ethan’s voice before ten o’clock. His eyes were wide, though, and his jaw was dropped down, so I knew he was enjoying the whole thing too. We kept watching until the sun was above the horizon and moving up through some tree branches.
    â€œImpressive or what?” Bo asked, cocking an eyebrow.
    â€œNot bad,” I said. “What do you do for an encore?”
    â€œBe here tonight and I’ll set her back down for you,” he told me, smiling. “Right over there.” He waved his arm west over our campsite, where Jeremy andRosasharn were still sacked out—Jeremy tucked way down inside his sleeping bag and probably scowling, and Rosasharn on his back, eyes closed but his mouth already smiling up at the new day.
    â€œTry not to land it near Jeremy if you want it to come again,” I told him.
    The sleeping bag containing Jeremy moved a little, so I figured he was awake and listening to us.
    â€œHey, Ethan,” I said. “Is that a snake over there by Jeremy?”
    Ethan gave a little smile and nodded. He knew the routine. For years I’d driven Jeremy crazy by pointing at the ground under his feet and saying, “Snake!” because it was so much fun to watch him dance. A few times there really had been a snake there, so Jeremy could never be sure if I was putting him on or not.
    â€œShuddup,” the sleeping bag told me.
    â€œI think it’s one of those timber rattlers, Ethe. Remember how they caught a couple of those around Lake George last summer?”
    Ethan nodded again. The sleeping bag said to shut up again.
    Rosasharn’s eyes were open now and his smile was bigger than ever. He slipped the rest of the way out of his sleeping bag and started tiptoeing toward Jeremy. When he was almost there, Jeremy’s sleeping bag sat up and Jeremy’s scowly head popped out the top.
    â€œDon’t even start, ya tub,” the head told him.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Pop was up and all set to cook a big breakfast for us when Ethan and I walked in.
    â€œAaah,” Pop said, breaking into a smile when he saw us, “our modern-day Daniel Boones have returnedfrom the wilderness.” First he pulled us both into him and gave a squeeze, and then he leaned back to get a good look at us.
    â€œI’m no Daniel Boone, Pop,” I told him. “If he’d been like me, we’d still be waiting for somebody to discover Kentucky.”
    Pop laughed. “Notwithstanding the native population’s claim to that distinction.”
    â€œThey’re another reason I’d’ve passed on Kentucky,” I said, grabbing my hair and miming a scalp removal.
    â€œRaaah,” Pop laughed, rocking back on his heels. “Billy admits they used to trim a little close,” he said. “But they didn’t charge anything for the service, so how could you make a case against them?” He let loose another laugh at that one. Billy was William Whitecloud. He and Pop had become friends years earlier when Pop represented his tribe in a land-claim action in the Adirondacks. I remember the first time Mr. Whitecloud and his wife came to dinner at our house. Pop, never being one to walk on eggshells, had opened the door for them and yelled back to us, “Indians, boys! Quick, circle the automobiles!” Without batting an eye, Mr. Whitecloud responded in an old Hollywood Indian accent, “Come for Irish seven-course dinner—six-pack and heap-big potato.” Pop loved it. He bear-hugged both of them and must have kept laughing for five minutes.
    Humor and affection went hand in hand with Pop, and I think he believed that to leave somebody out of a joke was another way of saying you didn’t feel entirely comfortable with him. Some of Pop’s best stories were