Free Willow Run by Patricia Reilly Giff

found as soon as I can and then you can start writing to him again.
    Yours truly,
    Meggie Dillon
    Dear Grandpa,
    Remember the time we were lost in the Catskills and Eddie found the way home?
    What do you think, Grandpa? Won't he find his way again?
    Love,
    Meggie
    To the Hot-O Soup Company:
    The first thing I'm going to do when the war is over is hope that there won't be another one. And if my brother comes home, I won't need to hope for anything else.

Chapter Thirteen
    “Meggie?” Patches said through the wall.
    I leaned closer to the wall. “I'm here,” I said into the dark.
    “Are you okay?”
    I wasn't. Everything was wrong. Eddie. Mom and Dad crying. Grandpa alone at home. Owing Arnold the Spy all that money. “If only I hadn't taken the ice cream,” I said, then blurted out, “I hate it here.”
    Patches took a breath. “It's wonderful here,” she said slowly. “You can switch the lights on and off, and there's a bathroom inside, and enough money for school shoes.”
    No electricity, no bathroom. Who ever heard of that? “Where did you come from?”
    She didn't answer for a moment. “The mountains,” she said.
    “When the war is over,” I said, “we'll all go home. There'll be parties.…”
    “That's true,” she said. “My three brothers and their wives will come over again on Sundays. My sister, Lou, always brings raisin pies, and Mom will roast a possum.”
    I covered my mouth. A possum. It sounded worse than Spam.
    We were both quiet. I kept thinking about the shoes on Patches’ table. And then I fell asleep, to wake up while it was still half dark. I had dreamed of Grandpa and Eddie in the garden, dreamed that I had been left out, watching the two of them talking and laughing. I sat up, tears on my face.
    At home in Rockaway I loved to wake up early while everyone else was still asleep. I'd patter around in the kitchen to peer out at the waves, silvery as they folded over on themselves, and listen to the
swish-swish
sounds they made on summer mornings. But this wasn't Rockaway; there was no Atlantic Ocean. Dad was at the factory on the graveyard shift. Only Mom slept; I could hear her mumble as she turned over in her bed.
    I went into the rabbit-hutch kitchen. The floor was wet, the linoleum squishing between my toes. Ronnelle must have been doing the wash earlier. Sometimes, if I listened against the wall, I could hear her humming as she put theclothes through the wringer. It was always that pilot song: “Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer.” She was thinking about her husband Michael.
    I looked out the window. The sky was still dark but the moon was almost full, throwing shadows across the street and onto the kitchen floor. One of Grandpa's sayings was about the moon, but I couldn't remember what it was, only that it had something to do with when to plant, or not to plant.
    I swallowed. I went back to my bedroom, standing still on one foot as I heard Mom turn over.
    I wondered what Dad was doing at work, what part of a plane he was working on. He said that the motors were made by Rolls-Royce, whoever they were, and that they were the best motors in the world. I wished he were home in the back bedroom, giving me that safe feeling.
    Ronnelle was at the factory now, too. Yesterday she had come across the lawn, running, the strings of her Hooverette apron flying, and Lulu toddling along with her. She called as she opened our door, “Mail for me. Michael has only two missions left. Then he's coming—” She broke off, looking at Mom's face. “I'm sorry.”
    Mom had put her arms around her. “Do you think I'm not happy for you? Oh, Ronnelle.”
    “But still…,” Ronnelle had said. “Two more. I'm so tired of being afraid for him.” She leaned her head back tolook into Mom's eyes. “If we get through this, I'm going to be the best person.”
    Mom smiled. “You are that now.”
    I thought about being the best person, too, and wondered if Eddie felt the same way. I had to smile thinking