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Ingrid got on board. Girls were always “petunia” to Mr. Sidney, guys “guy,” as in “any more shenanigans and you’re walkin’, guy.”
    “Hi, Mr. Sidney,” said Ingrid, moving toward the back. Stacy was already there, saving a seat for her, but—what was this? A grown-up in one of the front seats? And what was more, a grown-up she knew—Mr. Samuels, editor, publisher, arts and entertainment critic, and chief reporter for the Echo Falls Echo . Oh my God. Was he doing some follow-up on Brucie? “Up Close and Personal with Echo Falls’s New Young Funnyman” or something even more nauseating? She glanced ahead, saw Brucie a few rows behind Stacy, patting his headwhile rubbing his stomach for maybe the zillionth time. But Mr. Samuels didn’t seem aware of him. He was writing in a notebook, the words tiny and precise, his long nose close to the page.
    “Ah,” he said, looking up. “Hello, Ingrid.”
    “Hi, Mr. Samuels,” Ingrid said.
    “How’s that grandfather of yours?”
    “Pretty good.”
    He laid the notebook on his knee. “Actually, you might be able to do me a favor in that regard. Got a moment?”
    Ingrid exchanged a puzzled look with Stacy, sat beside Mr. Samuels. He was a tiny old guy with alert little eyes and a scrawny neck, knew more about the history of Echo Falls than anyone, a fact that had helped her more than once in the recent past.
    “Right now,” said Mr. Samuels, lowering his voice as the door closed and Mr. Sidney shifted into gear, “you’re wondering what the heck this old coot is doing on the school bus.”
    “Everything but the old coot part,” said Ingrid.
    Mr. Samuels laughed. “A career in journalism—don’t rule it out,” he said. He angled the notebook so she could see. At the top of the page he’d written WW2 . “Planning a special multipart series,” he said,“celebrating all the World War Two vets from Echo Falls. The ones still alive and kicking, that is.”
    Was it Ingrid’s imagination, or did Mr. Sidney floor the pedal, just for a split second, at the words alive and kicking ? His Battle of the Coral Sea cap was perched low on his head. Mr. Sidney and Grampy had been at a place called Corregidor together, something Grampy never talked about.
    “What they did then and where are they now—profiles,” said Mr. Samuels. “Today I’m working on Boom Boom Sidney.”
    “Boom Boom?” said Ingrid. “I thought his name was Myron.”
    “Yup,” said Mr. Samuels. “But he had a great slap-shot when he was a kid.”
    Ingrid glanced at Mr. Sidney. His shoulders were so bony. “How many are there?” she said.
    “How many vets left?” said Mr. Samuels. He slapped his bony knee. “There’s a reporter’s question for you. Answer: five, four still living in Echo Falls or close by. Three from the Pacific theater, two European, and so far I’ve got promises of cooperation from all but one.”
    He didn’t have to name the noncooperator.
    “I’ve sent letters,” said Mr. Samuels. “No response.And the phone just rings and rings out there.”
    “No voice mail,” Ingrid said.
    “Be a shame to leave him out of the piece,” said Mr. Samuels. “Probably the only surviving genuine World War Two hero in this part of the state.”
    Grampy a war hero? First she’d heard of it. “What did he do?” Ingrid said.
    “Exactly what I’m trying to nail down,” said Mr. Samuels.
    “Then how do you know he was a war hero?”
    “Lots of good journalism schools, but if I were you, I’d take a shot at Columbia, Ingrid,” said Mr. Samuels. He rose, tightened the knot of his skinny brown tie, already pretty tight. The bus slowed down. “As for how I know, that’s a matter of public record. Aylmer Hill of Echo Falls, Connecticut, was awarded the Medal of Honor in August of 1945.”
    “For what?” Ingrid said.
    “The details are sketchy,” said Mr. Samuels, moving past her. “That’s why I’d like to talk to him.” He handed Ingrid a white envelope.