Nick spotted Cassidy in the crowd in busy downtown South Haven. Her ponytail swung from side to side. It played peek-a-boo with the white label sticking up from her blue tank top.

Nick felt a sudden urge to tuck in her shirt label. He wanted to take care of his new friend. His diabetic friend.

"Hi!" he called, when he was close enough to read the label.

Cass spun around and smiled. "Oh, hi," she said. Her eyes smiled too. "Remember Julianna?" she asked, pointing a thumb at her friend.

The two girls leaned toward each other for a moment. They smiled, but didn't giggle.

I bet they've been talking about me, Nick guessed. I hope it was all good stuff.

Cassidy's cell phone rang. "Yes, I know. I know. Uh-huh. See you later. Me too," she said.

I'm glad her dad is checking on her, Nick thought. I wonder if she has checked her blood sugar levels. Maybe she needs a shot. Does she have some glucose tablets in her purse?

There was a whole row of port-a-potties near the first tall ship.

"Oh, look," Nick said. "Bathrooms, lots of bathrooms."

Both girls turned to him at once. They looked confused.

"Whatever," Julianna mumbled.

"If you ever need one, that is," Nick added. He felt clumsy and dumb.

They looked up from the deck of the 100-year-old ship into the rigging. It climbed forever in a tangled knot of criss-crossing lines and rope ladders.

"Could you imagine trying to climb all the way to the top crossbars?" Julianna asked.

"Not only that," Nick said, "but then the sailors had to climb out along those bars to tie up the canvas sails."

"What did they stand on?" Cass asked.

"On those ropes," Nick said. He pointed to the ones that looped like a lazy clothesline.

"I'd be scared to death," Julianna admitted.

"And if it was really stormy or icy, they still had to do it," Nick said. "Can you imagine if you were on the top row and the ship was rocking from side to side? Man, what a ride!"

"How do you know about all of this stuff?" Julianna asked.

"Books," Nick answered. "I've read a bunch of books about old-time sailing ships and pirates."

"You read? For fun?" Julianna asked. Her face scrunched like she had bitten into a lemon. "How boring."

The next ship was a one-mast sloop. It was smaller than the first one. But it still had a maze of ropes and ladders.

"How would you know which ones to pull and which to let go of?" Cass asked.

"Who cares?" Julianna said. "I'll take a waverunner any day. Less work, more fun. Have you ever ridden one, Nick?"

"Nope. And I never will. I'm a sailboarder," Nick said.

"And I like real horsepower in the water," Cass said.

"Well, excuuuse me," Julianna said. "It's about time for me to go, anyway. I think I'll try to find a car ride home, if using a gas-powered engine doesn't offend you mast-hugging book-readers." Julianna waved before blending into the crowd.

"I've seen enough," Cass said. "Want to walk out on the pier?"

"Maybe we should get something to eat. A little snack," Nick said. "You thirsty?"

"No, I'm okay," Cass said.

The silence grew as they walked along the wide concrete path beside the river. Nick couldn't think of anything to talk about.

Across the river, the boat named Making Waves rocked in the gentle wake from passing boats. Maybe Cass would enjoy Uncle Frank's game. He could try joking with her one more time.

"Can you guess what the owner did for a living?" Nick asked, pointing out the name on the boat.

"Making Waves... hmmm," Cass said. "Whatever he does now, the owner was probably the class clown when he was a kid. The one always making trouble. Do you have someone like that in your homeroom?"

Nick nodded.

He was disappointed. He wanted to say, "No. A hairdresser. 'Making Waves.' Get it?" But Cass had ruined his punch line. Now he had to talk about class pranksters. So much for Uncle Frank's advice that girls liked a sense of humor.

They sat on the end of the cement pier. They were quiet again, leaning against the bright red lighthouse. Quiet was okay.

Boats came and went from the calm, blue lake that stretched to the horizon on three sides. A sailboat motored by with no wind for its sails. A small boy in a bright orange life vest waved to Nick and Cass. High Cs was written across the back of the boat.

"Who do you think owns that boat?" Cass asked, picking up the earlier game. "An opera singer?"

"A big lady with a Minnesota Vikings helmet and an iron bra," Nick added.

"Or maybe a school teacher who's a hard grader. The highest grade she'll give is a high C," Cass said.

They both had to think about the next boat: WindsR Us.

"Toy store owner?" Cass guessed. "Sells wind-up toys?"

"I know! I know!" Nick said. "They're Canadians from Windsor. Get it? WindsR?"

Cass stared at him. She looked confused.

"That's the city right across the river from us in Detroit," Nick explained.

Cass nodded. "So, that's where you're from," she said.

"Well, yeah, but I'm not just another fudgie," Nick said.

Cass's cell phone buzzed.

"Yes! I know. I'll be home in an hour. I'll do it then," she said angrily. She ended the call and dropped the phone in her purse. "Sometimes he gets me so mad. Treats me like I'm a baby."

"He's worried about you. Maybe he should be," Nick said.

Cass stared at Nick for a long moment. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"Um... dads are supposed to worry about their daughters," Nick said.

"And?" Cass asked. "What else, Nick? Do you have something to say? You've been acting strange ever since you got here."

"I— I'm just worried about you," Nick said.

"Not you, too. I don't need..." Cass stopped. She glared at Nick. "Oh, I get it. The potty breaks, the water, the food. You finally figured out that I have diabetes. Aren't you clever."

"I'm just trying to help," Nick promised.

"I'm okay, Nick. I'm just like everyone else. I just happen to have a condition that always needs attention. And I'm doing pretty good on my own. Geez," she said. There were tears in her eyes. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

Nick watched her stomp away. The label on her tank top waved behind her angrily swaying ponytail. He still wanted to tuck it in.

Nick made a quick call to Tanya.

"Hi, Tanya. I think I just blew it with my horse-riding friend, Cassidy. The diabetic," Nick said. "I tried to help her. You know, look for ways to remind her of what she needed to do. There are so many things to remember. But she just got mad at me."

"If this girl already has a daddy, she doesn't need another one," Tanya said. "And besides, she's not 'a diabetic.' Just like my cousin with allergies isn't 'the allergetic.'"

Lying on the lumpy couch after dinner, Nick was mad.

I don't know what's right anymore, he thought. Maybe I'll just go see what bull riding is all about. It's got to be simpler there. You're either on or you're off.

"Aunt Jo," he called, heading out the door. "I'm going for a ride."

"Be back before dark," she ordered.

"Okay," he shouted. Since it didn't get completely dark until almost 10:00, he had three hours to himself.

Tidrow's farm had a large, gray pole barn with a corral along one side. Behind the arena, one field held longhorn cows and steers. There were maybe twenty in the herd. There were eight or nine bulls in the next pasture.

A man on foot walked through the ankle-deep mud. He was waving his arms, shouting, and trying to drive the bulls toward an open gate.

Nick realized he was early. There were no other cars around. Still, he didn't want to be seen riding a bike to a rodeo event. He hid Cass's bike behind a hay roll in back of the barn.

Standing by the bull pasture's gate, Nick watched the man. It was probably Tidrow. He got all the bulls moving toward a runway leading into the bullring. At the last moment, just before heading through the chute, one of them would turn away. The rest would follow.

They seemed to know what was waiting for them inside the arena. They didn't want to go to work, even if it only meant bucking for eight seconds once a week.

Knuck, the laid-back sheep dog, would know what to do, Nick thought.

He pictured himself trying the Knuck challenge. He would walk to within four feet of the nearest bull. Stop. Stare. Inch forward.

The bull would pound the ground, sending shockwaves up to the short hairs on the back of his neck. Nick would inch forward again. The bull would lower his head and lunge.

Nick would run just far enough to keep the four-foot distance between them. Then, inching forward, he would make the bull charge again. The other bulls would follow. As soon as they were all past the gate, he would hop through the fence rail.

"Hey! Hey you!" Tidrow called. "Grab some grass."

Nick nodded. He knew what Tidrow was trying to do. This would be a much safer plan.

Nick held handfuls of tall grass and weeds from the roadside. He walked along the outside of the fence to the nearest bull. Jericho.

"Remember me?" Nick asked.

He held out a handful of tasty greens toward the bull's drooling mouth. When the bull stretched his neck for a mouthful, Nick ran along the fence waving the grass.

Jericho followed him. So did all the others, until they were past the gate. Tidrow slammed it shut.

Tidrow and Nick both waved their arms and kicked dirt. The little herd trotted into the metal bull-riding ring in the middle of the arena.

"Thanks," the red-faced man said. He was hosing off his dirty boots. "Just for helping out, I'll let you in free tonight. The name's Tidrow. Jerry Tidrow. Welcome to the Plugged Nickel."

Nick walked over to the pen to look at Jericho and his buddies. They were all different. Some had short, curled horns. One bull had a huge hump over his shoulders. Another had horns that stuck straight out on both sides.

A bearded man leaned against the metal rails of the bullring. He was short and thin. His t-shirt showed an arm-waving bull rider and the words Raise your hand if you love Jesus.

"That one's Rusty," the man said. He pointed a finger at a red longhorn bull. "Last week, ol' Rusty took on one of them hay bales you seen in the field. Just stuck it with his horns like he was a forklift and ragged it from side to side 'til it fell apart. He was just trying to impress the cows. Big showoff."

"I heard he hurt someone," Nick said.

The man pulled a long hemp rope out of the bag at his feet. It was flat on one end, like a woven belt. It had a copper cowbell hanging from a loop in the middle.

"Todd? You talking about Todd over there in the loose-fitting shorts?" he finally said. "Yeah, he got whacked in the jewels pretty good. Gotta move quick out there."

"Are you riding tonight?" Nick asked.

The man pulled a yellow leather glove onto his left hand. He searched in a small box, finding something that looked like a chunk of clear crystal.

"Uh-huh," he said.

Next, he put the crystal in the palm of his gloved hand. He squeezed it against a metal crossbar on the bullring fence. The crystal crunched into a sticky-looking powder.

I bet that's rosin, Nick thought. What pitchers use to grip a baseball.

"I've rode every one of these guys," the man said. It would have been bragging if he hadn't made it sound like a simple fact.

He looped his bucking rope on the fence. He grabbed the last two feet of the woven end with his gloved hand. He squeezed and pulled the rope, forcing the sticky powder deep into the hemp fibers.

"Nope," he said. "Not too many surprises left."

"Tell that to Todd," Nick said.

The rider raised an eyebrow at Nick. "You riding tonight?" he asked.

"No way," Nick said. "I don't know the first thing about it."

"My name's Chet," the man said. He pulled the rope, working the rosin in.

"I'm Nick," he said.

Nick spit in the loose, dry dirt of the arena. He made a small mud ball with the toe of his boot.

"They make you wear a mouthpiece and a special vest," Chet said. "No one laughs if you wear a helmet for your first ride."

Nick looked across the ring. Roy had come in with some of his friends. Two girls hung around the edges, smoking.

Roy looked up. He caught Nick's eye.

He looked like Mack, the wrangler at Camp Wa-Tonka who had taught Nick to ride. They both had black eyes with no bottoms. It was like staring into a double-barrel shotgun. Challenging. Can you do it?

Nick wasn't sure. He remembered what his uncle had said about not getting pushed into doing something dangerous. And it was dangerous, vest or no vest.

"I think I'll just watch," Nick said. Then he added, "for a while."

He climbed next to a chute that was so small the bull inside could hardly move. Small black flies crawled over the hump on its yellow shoulders. Tidrow laid a rope over the bull's back, near the hind legs.

"Easy, Sam," Tidrow said when the bull struggled in the narrow stall. "Don't fight it, Samson. You've been here before."

He reached a hooked metal rod under the bull and snagged a rope draped across the bull's flank. Then he tightened it and tied it in a pull-away knot.

A young Mexican man climbed onto the bull. He was a little shorter than Nick but powerful across full shoulders.

He forced his left hand under the bull rope and laid another layer of rope across his palm. Clamping his fingers shut, he pounded them once with his right fist as if to lock them in place.

He settled himself. Then he nodded.

The gate flew open. Samson rushed out from his cage. He bucked and twisted to his right. He bucked again. He twisted to the left.

"Andale!" someone called in Spanish.

The rider flew through the air.

The announcer called out, "Five seconds!"

Roy rode next. He held on for six seconds before Jericho slid out from under him and left Roy on his seat in the dusty arena.

Just down the rail from Nick, Chet was talking to a guy. The guy swayed unsteadily between the two girls hanging on his arms.

"What you do," Chet said, "is sit tall and picture yourself spitting straight down on the bull's back. Right there in front of your rope hand. If you can keep sitting so you can look down at that spot, you'll be in great shape, see?"

"Whatever you say, coach," the drunk guy said.

It took one buck for the drunk guy to land nose first in the dirt. He got up laughing and waving to his girlfriends. He was slapping at his dirty pants.

Someone yelled, "Watch out!"

The bull took several steps toward him.

The new rider ran across the ring with his arms waving. He put both hands on the middle rail of the fence and jumped over the top like a pole vaulter in the Olympics. He landed on his butt, still smiling.

"Ha!" Chet shouted. "He got two thrills for his ten-buck entry fee. You going to try, Nick?"

Roy glared from across the ring.

Nick stared back. Without thinking, he said, "Yeah, I'll give it a try."

For the first second, Nick felt like he was on a roller coaster with a loose seat and no metal bar. He slammed forward, fell sideways, flew back, and twirled in a circle.

The next second, his arm stretched tight when the bull ducked his head. It hurt. He couldn't hold anymore. The bull bucked, throwing Nick high in the air.

For a split second, he could see all the faces around the ring staring up at him. Then he landed in a heap. He had a great view of the bull's underside and two hammering hooves before he rolled, got up, and ran for the rail.

"Two seconds. Not bad for a first-timer," Chet said.

Nick looked for Roy. He was nowhere to be seen.

"What are you going to do today, Nicky?" Aunt Josie asked over breakfast.

Nicky. It was a good thing she had her back turned, working at the stove. Nick glared.

She wouldn't have called him Nicky last night when he stayed on that bull for two seconds.

"I don't know yet," Nick said. He gently flexed his back and arm muscles. They were sore from the bull riding.

"There's an arts and crafts fair in the city park today. I was planning to go this afternoon. Want to come along?" Aunt Josie asked.

Be still my heart, Nick wanted to say.

"Haven't you got enough crafty junk around the house already?" Uncle Frank moaned. "Some of these fairs give craftiness a bad name, know what I mean?"

Nick grinned in spite of himself. He was beginning to like his uncle's sense of humor. After all, it worked with Cassie. For a while, at least.

After a bike ride north along the Blue Star Highway, Nick stopped in West Side County Park for a drink of water. He noticed a group of people huddled around something on the beach. Curious, Nick hurried down the wooden stairway and pushed his way through the crowd.

A young man lay face up on the sand. His brown skin and black hair were the same as the people crowded around him. There were Spanish words whispered. Soft weeping. The guy's dark eyes stared into the blinding sun. His lips were still and almost purple.

Nobody seemed to know what to do.

"Someone ought to help the poor guy. Does anyone know CPR?" Nick shouted.

"I'm a nurse," a bikini-wearing woman answered. "We've called 911."

"Well, don't stand there," Nick said. "Let's get started before they get here."

"You should be concerned about contagion," the nurse said.

"What? Oh," Nick said. He realized she was thinking about getting a serious disease like AIDS from the unconscious man.

"If you're so worried," Nick said, "I'll do the mouth-to-mouth and you do the chest compressions."

"But it's been over ten minutes since they pulled him out. And who knows how long before that..." the nurse went on.

"Well, we can't just leave him here without trying," Nick said. He dropped to his knees in the sand.

Nick bent over the young man. He tried to remember how many chest pushes and how many breaths you were supposed to give. He knew it was five to one, but which was which?

Then he thought for a moment. Of course. Your heart beats a lot faster than you breathe, so it must be one breath for every five chest pushes.

Nick arched the man's neck, pinched his nostrils shut, and placed his own mouth over the blue lips.

The nurse leaned forward on stiff arms to press on the man's chest. She counted, "one, two, three, four, five."

Breathe! Nick thought

After five breaths, Nick heard a strange gurgling noise.

"Get back!" the nurse called.

Nick pulled back just in time to watch vomit slide out of the man's mouth. Sirens circled in the park above.

"You didn't have his head far enough back," the nurse explained. "You were blowing air into his stomach, not his lungs."

Nick bent over to try again.

"Don't!" the nurse said. "The EMS folks are here and we didn't have a chance, anyway. He was gone before we even started."

The paramedics took one look. "How long has it been?" one of them asked. The other felt for a pulse.

"Twenty minutes, at least," a man answered.

Nick recognized him as Ramón, the bull rider from the night before.

The paramedic taking the pulse shook his head. Then they both lifted the young man onto a stretcher and pulled a blanket over his head.

"Any family members around?" the head paramedic asked.

"No," Ramón answered. "They're all in Mexico."

"Well, where was he staying or working? Anybody know?" the paramedic asked.

"Yeah, he worked at Fennville Farms in their packaging plant," Ramón said.

"Listen, would you mind coming with us so we can make arrangements?" the paramedic asked.

The bull rider nodded. He motioned to a friend to follow.

None of the beachgoers went back in the water. Parents packed up coolers and blankets. Before long, Nick was alone.

He sat still for a long time. Then he rode back to South Haven and the crowds of lively, healthy people enjoying the bright colors and busyness of a craft fair.

Feathery white fabric flapped against metal frames. Suncatcher feathers and spidery weavings filled round frames. Lawn ornaments had Disney figures and a Dutch boy and girl kissing over a tulip.

The guy's lips were rubbery and cold. They felt like after-the-dentist lips. Like puffy flaps of skin belonging to someone else.

There were puzzles made of children's names: Paul, Carrie, Kim, and Sean.

What was his name? Did he have any brothers or sisters? A girlfriend who will miss him?

Nick saw colorful rag rugs and jewelry boxes made of wood with secret compartments.

Would Cassie think I was cool, trying to save that poor guy? What did the sheriff mean when he said the medical examiner would call me tomorrow? Could I really catch some horrible disease? he wondered.

Sheepskin rugs felt soft and comforting. A dog whined.

"Wuss!" Nick said.

He went down on one knee to pet the herding dog. Unlike her son, Knuck, Wuss loved lying on her back and getting her stomach scratched.

"How do you know my dog?" Mark, the sheep breeder, asked.

"From the herding demonstration you gave a few days ago," Nick said.

"Oh, now I remember you. I don't suppose you're interested in any natural dyed yarn? How about sheepskin slippers? Mittens?" Mark asked.

Nick smiled. "Guess not. My aunt already bought some knitting stuff when she was out at your place." He scratched the dog's belly. "Wuss, the thunder hater. Isn't she Knuck's mother?"

"Uh-huh," Mark said. "But I don't think she considers that her biggest claim to fame."

"Hey, Knuck is cool. He knows what he's doing. He just doesn't want to do any more than he has to," Nick said.

"Not exactly how you think of a high-energy herding dog bred for action," Mark said with a frown.

"Will you sell all this today?" Nick pointed to the booth filled with products.

"I wish," Mark laughed. "No, we have a website and sell online."

"Cool," Nick said.

"We may be making clothes from animal skins, like the cavemen used to do. But we can still use the latest technology to sell it," Mark said.

"Are you doing pretty good at it?" Nick asked.

"Oh, yeah. Real good," Mark said. "But you have to keep thinking of new things to sell."

They paused to watch a flock of Canada geese waddling along in the grass near the river.

"Those birds sure make a mess," Mark said. "No one wants to walk or sit on the grass after they've been around for a while."

Wuss whined, looking for attention. Mark patted her on the head.

"Too bad you can't get her to herd those geese back to the water," Nick said.

Mark turned his head slowly to stare at Nick for a long moment. He nodded in agreement. Then he put Wuss through her paces. Soon the flock was hissing and squawking their complaints before flying away.

"There's another business opportunity for you," Nick said. "Goose patrol for city events."

Mark smiled again. "Hey, guy. I like the way you think."