The longer I looked around, the more I felt like forgetting the whole thing. Why bother? It wasn’t our property. Mr. Finnegan should be the one making repairs.

But then I remembered my mother’s words from the night before. Surely, I thought, a few bushes and some dilapidated wood couldn’t stop someone’s best and brightest blessing! Surely not!

And with that, I picked up the clippers and got to work.

Half an hour later I was keeper of the knowledge that one bush equals many branches, and that the volume of a bush increases exponentially as it’s cut and tossed into the middle of a yard. It was ridiculous! Where was I going to put all this stuff?

Mom came home and tried to talk me out of my mission, but I’d have none of it. Oh, no-no-no! I’d already pruned two bushes down to a respectable size, and before long she’d see— the place was going to look just dandy.

“You didn’t get that stubborn streak from me,” she said, but came back outside with a glass of juice and a kiss for my cheek. Good enough for me!

By the end of that first day, what I’d made was a big mess. But if chaos is a necessary step in the organization of one’s universe, then I was well on my way. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself when I flopped into bed that night, dead tired.

And the next afternoon I was busily expanding the chaos of my little universe when I heard a deep voice say, “That’s quite an undertaking, young lady.”

The man standing on our sidewalk was Bryce’s grandfather, I knew that much. But I’d only ever seen him outside one time. All the other times I’d seen him had been through windows— either one in their sitting room or one in their car. To me he was just a dark-haired man behind glass. Having him appear on my sidewalk was like having someone from TV step through the screen and talk to you.

“I know we’ve seen each other from time to time,” he was saying. “I’m sorry it’s taken me over a year to come introduce myself. I’m Chester Duncan, Bryce’s grandfather. And you, of course, are Julianna Baker.”

He stuck out his hand, so I took off my work glove and watched my hand completely disappear inside his as we shook. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Duncan,” I said, thinking that this man was way bigger than he looked from the sitting-room window.

Then the strangest thing happened. He pulled his own work gloves and a pair of clippers from a back pocket and said, “Are you pruning all of these to the same height?”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, yes. That is what I was thinking. Although now I don’t know. Do you think it would look better to just take them out?”

He shook his head and said, “They’re Australian tea shrubs. They’ll prune up nicely.” And with that, he put on his gloves and started clipping.

At first I didn’t know what to say to this man. It was very strange to be getting his help, but from the way he was acting, it was as though I shouldn’t have thought a thing of it. Clip-clip-clip, he went, like this was something he really enjoyed doing.

Then I remembered what Bryce had said about our yard, and suddenly I knew why he was there.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, throwing his clippings into my pile. “Did I cut it down too far?”

“N-no.”

“Then why the look?” he asked. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought you might like a little help.”

“Well, I don’t. I can do this by myself.”

He laughed and said, “Oh, I have no doubt about that,” then got back to clipping. “You see, Julianna, I read about you in the paper, and I’ve lived across the street from you for over a year now. It’s easy to see that you’re a very competent person.”

We both worked quietly for a minute, but I found myself throwing the clippings into the pile harder and harder. And before long I couldn’t stand it. I just couldn’t stand it! I spun on him and said, “You’re here because you feel bad about the eggs, aren’t you? Well, our eggs are perfectly fine! We’ve been eating them for nearly three years and none of us have gotten poisoned. Mrs. Stueby and Mrs. Helms seem in good health to me, too, and the fact of the matter is, if you didn’t want them, you should’ve just told me so!”

His hands fell to his sides and he shook his head as he said, “Eggs? Poisoned? Julianna, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Inside I was so angry and hurt and embarrassed that I didn’t even feel like me. “I’m talking about the eggs that I’ve been bringing over to your house for more than two years— eggs that my chickens laid that I could’ve sold! Eggs that your family has been throwing away!” I was shouting at him. Shouting at an adult, like I’d never shouted at anyone in my entire life.

His voice got very quiet. “I’m sorry. I don’t know about any eggs. Who did you give them to?”

“Bryce!” My throat choked closed as I said his name again. “Bryce.”

Mr. Duncan nodded slowly and said, “Well,” then went back to pruning his bush. “That probably explains it.”

“What do you mean?”