Free The Game of Love and Death by Martha Brockenbrough

with the bow prescribed, every dynamic meant to be the same every time. It was more like real life: unpredictable, unrepeatable, sometimes lousy, but something you loved all the same.
    Working with a melody he’d heard in his head since he was a child, Henry played until the quarter moon rose and his fingertips ached. He burnished the tune until it felt right, and then pondered lyrics that matched, words about the yearning the sea has for the moon. The song that took shape felt like something that had existed for a long time. He played it over and over, setting his bass down only when Mrs. Thorne came out to make sure he’d finished his homework.
    “Nearly,” he said. It wasn’t true, but he did not care.
    “Wonderful,” she said. “You’ve always been such a fine boy. So diligent and reliable.”
    Henry swallowed. Then he followed her through the cool night air into the warm, well-lit mansion.

 
     
    T HE next day, after baseball practice ended, Henry and Ethan traveled to Hooverville in pursuit of their story.
    “Father was right. This is a big encampment.” Ethan shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. He shaded his eyes and scanned the nine acres of dried mud and misery. The air reeked of sweat and waste and burning wood. A nearby train rumbled by, spewing black smoke.
    “Can you imagine trying to sleep through that noise?” Henry said.
    “I’m sure they’re used to it.” Ethan reached into his satchel and handed Henry a fresh notebook and pencil. The two walked past flimsy plywood houses, small fires in metal barrels, and staring men. “Which one do you suppose is James Booth?”
    “Haven’t a clue.” Somewhere, someone strummed an out-of-tune guitar. A small group tossed dice in the dust, occasionally lifting their hats from their heads, wiping away perspiration. People stopped whatever they were doing to stare as Henry and Ethan passed in their clean, well-constructed clothing. Every so often, a whistle rose above the crunch of gravel underfoot. It took Henry a moment to realize these whistles were a signal to let someone know they were there.
    “Welcome, newcomers!” a clear, sharp voice called out. Henry and Ethan turned toward its owner.
    A golden-haired man who couldn’t be more than twenty walked toward them, his arms extended as if he were Christ on the cross. Despite his youth, there was something powerful about him, something you couldn’t help but stare at. His voice was almost hypnotic, even if his suit had seen better years. Embarrassed, Henry looked down at the man’s shoes, and noticed they were oddly clean.
    “I’m James Booth,” the man said. “Mayor of Hooverville. I welcome you to our community, although I can tell from your attire you’re not looking to move in.”
    James Booth clasped his hands over Ethan’s and gave them an enthusiastic shake. Ethan’s expression changed, and Henry felt something effervesce from his scalp to his fingertips.
    “Do you have a name?” Mr. Booth said.
    Ethan looked flustered. “Ethan. Ethan Thorne.”
    “And who’s your friend?”
    Feeling Mr. Booth appraise him, Henry stood straighter as Ethan introduced him. Mr. Booth did not offer his hand, and the whole experience left Henry feeling pinned like a butterfly under a lepidopterist’s magnifying glass.
    “We’re from the Inquirer ,” Ethan said. “Here to do a feature story. If that’s all right by you, sir.”
    “It’s more than all right,” Mr. Booth said. “But you must call me James. I insist.”
    Henry glanced around, wondering whether he was the only one who felt unsettled about this welcome. The other residents of Hooverville had resumed their business tending their fires, flinging dice, mending the soles of their shoes with cardboard, leaving Ethan and Henry to talk with the mayor.
    “You and I — we’ll go someplace private.” James put a lightly freckled hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “Your friend can walk where he likes, taking notes, making