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close too.
    Through that whole time, the For Sale sign had hung from a post hammered into the front lawn. In a strange way, I liked the sign. If the house never sold, then we’d never leave. But when I came home on the Wednesday of finals week, I saw my dad and mom on the porch shaking hands with their realtor. I looked to the post: the For Sale sign was still up, but now the word
Sold
ran diagonally across it.
    My parents smiled all through dinner that night, talking excitedly about Seattle and the Blue Jay restaurant my dad was going to manage. I forced myself to smile too, even though a fist-size lump filled my throat.
    During lunch on the last day of school, Mark tried to cheer me up. “Seattle’s not so far,” he said, as he bit into his hamburger. “I could drive up and visit you, or you could come down and stay with us. It’s not like you’re going to the moon.” After school Lisa and I walked home together. “We can keep up with each other on Facebook,” she said. “We’ve known each other since before kindergarten. We’ve got to stay in touch.”
    That night I lay on my bed in the darkness, unable to sleep. As the cars passed by on the street outside, the shadows created by their headlights danced across the ceiling of my room. My life was being cut up into a thousand pieces, and those pieces were being thrown up into the air. I was going to have to prove myself all over again.
    It was late when I finally fell asleep. I woke up when my dad knocked hard on the door. “Rise and shine, Jonas. The moving guys will be coming in two days. We’ve got packing to do.”

 
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PART TWO

1
    O N THE MORNING OF JULY 1, I was standing in front of our new home, an old house in the Tangletown neighborhood of Seattle. Mom was down in Redwood City closing bank accounts, so in Seattle it was just my dad and me.
    Two musclebound gorillas were unloading our stuff. Because of his leg and his back, my dad couldn’t help, which drove him crazy. When he barked out instructions, the moving guys would grunt and keep doing what they were doing.
    At first I’d stationed myself inside the house, but every place I went, the moving men followed. I’d grinned stupidly at them, but they’d scowled back. “Where’s this go?” they’d ask, their giant tattooed arms holding a chair or a box or a cabinet.
    â€œI guess right there is good.”
    Thump
.
    Then my father would rush in. “Not there,” he’d say, and he’d make them take it down to the basement or into the living room. They’d pick up whatever it was, glare at me, and grumble their way to the new spot.
    I moved to the sidewalk, where the moving guys couldn’t glower at me. But I felt stupid standing around where neighbors could see me.
    I was feeling completely lost when I spotted a tall, sandy-haired kid, hands in his pockets, looking at me from across the street. I could tell from his face—some nasty zits and the beginning of a beard—that he was about my age.
    Whenever I glanced at him, he dropped his head and stared at the ground. My dad noticed. “Invite him over, Jonas. He could be your new best friend.”
    â€œIf he wants to come over, he’ll come over.”
    My dad looked at him, then at me, then back at him. Next, without any warning, he called out. “Hey, kid, come over here and meet my son.”
    â€œWhat are you doing, Dad?” I hissed.
    â€œI’m being neighborly, which is what you should be.”

2
    T HE KID’S HEAD STAYED DOWN as he shuffled over. “I’m Robert Dolan,” my dad said, sticking out his hand. Then he motioned to me. “This is my son, Jonas. My wife, Mary, is back with our old house in California. She’ll be joining us soon.”
    The kid barely looked up. “I’m Levi Rawdon,” he answered in a voice strangely soft for such a big guy.
    â€œYou live