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  “Believe me,” Daddy said, “in our line of work, we know all about amateurs.”

  “So, where is this strange smell coming from?” Al asked.

  “The garden shed. I’ll lead the way.” Mr. Peters marched them single file through the rows of bush beans and corn plants and honeysuckle vines to the garden shed.

  “Whoo, I can really smell it here.” Al took a long sniff. “Not quite gasoline.… You’re right, Keisha. I smell sulfur, too.”

  They opened the shed door, and sunlight streamed into the dark cluttered space.

  Al fell to the ground and started to crawl toward the back of the shed. “Stay back, everyone. Let the expert do the work.”

  All the Carters—Daddy had a firm grip on the back of Razi’s shirt with his free hand—and Mr. Peters crowded into the doorway.

  “Try not to block all the light,” Al said. “What’s this?”

  Keisha could make out the dark outline of a machine. It looked a little like a lawn mower that had been cut in half.

  “An old gasoline-powered tiller. I think it takes diesel fuel. One of the gardeners got it on Freecycle, that Web site where you give away old stuff.”

  It was hard to leave the doorway. Everyone wanted to know what Al was finding as he disappeared into the back of the big shed.

  “Dad?” Al’s voice came from the darkness. “When did this hay get put here?”

  “I’d have to say last fall, when we needed some extra layers to protect against frost damage.”

  “There’s residue. Something was lit … and it wasn’t that long ago.”

  There was a long silence. Keisha’s thoughts stretched back to the Fourth of July. Ping! Zing! Blam! In Grand River, people set off fireworks from mid-June through the first few weeks of August.

  The group outside the shed waited silently for Al’s diagnosis.

  “Okay, then … that’s stinky. Somebody call the undertaker. I’ve got the bottom half of a squirrel here. I’ll give you the tail at no extra charge.”

  “I’m afraid that one’s beyond our help,” Daddy said. “But I do have some experience in carcass removal.”

  “I think that solves your mystery.” Al had emerged from the dark shed and was blinking in the sunlight. “You have residue from illegal explosives.… I found some cherry bombs in there. As I’m sure you know, anything that spins, shoots up in the air or explodes is illegal in Michigan. But Indiana’s only a couple hours away, and they have a cornucopia of exploding fireworks. We see it all summer long.

  “Add to that, diesel fuel and some engine oil soaked into dry hay from a rusting tank on that tiller. Plus, one-half a squirrel carcass. Frankly, what you helped me discover, young lady, is an accident waiting to happen. If a lit match or an exploding firework got into that hay, this old shed would go up like a fireball. Good work. I’m going to recommend you as a candidate for our new JFPOT program.”

  “Jefpot?” Daddy said.

  “Junior Fire Prevention Officer in Training, sir. It’s a very important new branch of the fire department. This young lady could give a report on our findings.”

  Everyone clapped, which made Keisha cross her toes inside her tennis shoes.

  Daddy waited until the applause died down. “It appears I have some work to do, too. I think I’ll get some rubber gloves.”

  “That would be advisable.” As they walked back to the Carters’ truck, Al said to his dad, “What’s that you’ve got there in your hand? You selling something?”

  “Oh no. These are the flyers young Razi made to put up around the neighborhood. It seems that skunk we saw is somebody’s pet.”

  “A pet skunk?” Al laughed. He took the poster from his father. “Wait a minute … a pet skunk. A pet skunk. Is this drawing accurate? Does he have a scar on his nose?”

  “Yes!” Razi said. “I copied it.”

  “I guess it does.” Daddy snapped on his rubber gloves.

  “Well, guess what? I don’t think your skunk is lost anymore. I know who owns this skunk. In fact, I rescued this skunk from a tree when it was a baby!”

  “You’re havin’ us on, Al. You don’t mean that.”

  Al straightened his GRFD badge and said: “As servants of the state of Michigan, we don’t discriminate in rescue operations.” He paused to put his sunglasses back on. “Most people think we only rescue kittens, but we rescue anything that can find its way up a tree and not back down, including Mrs. Tillie Anderson of 1211 Sherman Oaks Boulevard, who was hanging out Christmas tree lights and got paralyzed with fright.”

  Chapter 13

  Keisha and Razi hung out the window of the truck and watched as Daddy carried a pillowcase full of skunk to the lady Al Peters had just telephoned.

  “Chester!” she said as she rushed out of her house.

  “You seem to know this skunk, Ms.…”

  “Downley. Cynthia Downley. I suppose I should check and make sure it really is our dear Chester.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  Ms. Downley began to pull back the pillowcase opening and a furry head popped out, squinting in the sun.

  “Chester. Oh yes, I can tell by this little scar on his nose.…”

  “Where did that scar come from?”

  “Oh dear. He got that launching himself from the butcher block into the pantry, where he ate half a box of Nilla wafers before I discovered him.”

  “So he does like Nilla wafers.”

  “And cashmere.” Keisha poked her brother.

  “Well, he likes them, but you might say they don’t like him. He likes Oreo cookies even better, but they make him very sick. We had to stop keeping all chocolate in the house. Chocolate is deadly for skunks.”

  “Chocolate is deadly for a lot of animals, Ms. Downley. We’ve seen cases of chocolate poisoning in birds, a rat and a snake.”

  “It’s very bad for puppies and older dogs, too,” Keisha said from her spot at the window.

  Ms. Downley turned and looked over at the truck. Then she nuzzled Chester. “We were so worried about you! He’s usually not let into the mudroom because we have a cat door that leads to the outside. But someone must have forgotten. Wait!” She looked up. “We advertised a reward in the paper.”

  “No need for any reward, Ms. Downley. We are just doing our job.” Daddy trotted back to the truck. Keisha had the business card ready. She handed it to Daddy. “However, if you feel like making a donation to Carters’ Urban Rescue, you can underwrite the work we do with Chester’s wild cousins.”

  Ms. Downley had gone back to rubbing her cheek against Chester’s fur. “You little troublemaker,” she said, as if she really didn’t think he was a troublemaker at all. “Wait until the kids hear you’re back.”

  She took the card from Daddy, thanked him again and hurried into the house, calling out: “Kids! Kids! Turn that TV off and come see what I’ve got.”

  “While we’re out, can we check up on Mrs. Sampson and Cocoa?” Keisha asked. “We could give her some of Mr. Peters’s tomatoes.”

  “Maybe she’ll make us grilled cheese and tomatoes for lunch,” Daddy said.

  “I don’t like tomatoes,” Razi said.

  “Then how about a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, hold the tomato?” Daddy offered.

  “I don’t like to hold them, either.”

  “Well, then, give them to me. I’ll salt them and save them for supper. We’ll stop at Wolfgang’s on the way home and you can get your grilled cheese straight up.”

  “But I don’t want it straight up. I want it lying down.”

  The talk about sandwich fixings continued until they pulled into Mrs. Sampson’s driveway.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Mrs. Sampson said as she opened the door to them. “I was just making some lemonade for Jorge. I hope you don’t have any more injured animals, because I’ve got my hands full!”

  The Carters stepped through the hall into the dining room and saw Cocoa on the table. Mrs. Sampson had cut down the sides of the box so tha
t Cocoa could see out. The little dog was wriggling around in the box the best she could. Grandma had given Mrs. Sampson the pink cashmere sweater, and Keisha could see that there were other blankets underneath the sweater, making a nice cozy nest for Cocoa.

  “We’re just finishing up lunch. I added some protein powder to a little boiled hamburger and rice. When I mash it all together, she can’t get enough.”

  “Where does she eat?” Razi asked. “On the kitchen table?”

  “Well … not exactly.” Mrs. Sampson looked a little embarrassed. “I put the box on my lap and let her lick it off a spoon. She can’t support her own weight yet.”

  Daddy patted Cocoa’s head and let his hand travel down the dog’s body. “I’d say she’s gained a pound already, Mrs. Sampson. You are a good nurse.”

  “Well, it’s important for patients to be comfortable,” Mrs. Sampson said, brushing some crumbs off the table and bustling over to the garbage can. “Safe and clean and comfortable and then the appetite returns. I’ve seen it many times.”

  “Where’s Jorge?” Keisha asked.

  “In the potter’s shed.”

  Razi and Keisha went to the front door and looked out. They could see the laundry line where Grandma’s straw purse swung empty in the breeze. They could see the grape arbor where the Z-Team and Keisha first hid from the crows, and they could see the mailbox where the baby crow was first hidden. Where was the potter’s shed?

  “There he is,” Razi whispered, as if calling out would attract the attention of the dive-bombing crows. Tucked into some bushes behind the laundry pole was a little shed, just big enough for one person to stand inside. But Jorge wasn’t standing. He was sitting on an upside-down peach crate, his chin resting on his knees. He was looking out onto the yard. Keisha wondered if he was seeing something they couldn’t. She waved her arms to get his attention. Jorge waved back.

  “I wonder where the baby crow is,” Keisha said.

  “Do you think he flew away?” Razi sounded sad.

  “That’s what he’s supposed to do, Razi.” Keisha put her arm around her little brother.

  As if to answer Razi’s question, Jorge got out of his seat and put something in Grandma’s straw purse. When he got back to the shed, he made a few crow noises. The noises sounded like a cross between a caw and an awp.

  Keisha heard rustling in the trees. At first, nothing happened. Then crackle, snap, almost like falling, but not quite. In a flutter of wings, the little crow landed in Grandma’s purse. He pecked around the bottom until he found the treat Jorge had left.

  The crow looked around for a moment; he seemed to be looking right at Jorge. Then he flew back to the shelter of the trees. There was more rustling and snapping and Keisha could tell there were other crows in the trees, too. They were hard to see, though, especially when they didn’t make any noise.

  Keisha and Razi went back into the house. Mrs. Sampson was sitting beside Daddy, Cocoa’s box balancing on her lap.

  “What will happen to Cocoa, do you think?” Keisha whispered to Daddy. “Will anyone adopt her?”

  “I think someone already has,” Daddy whispered back.

  “But pets cost a lot of money.” Keisha looked around at the cracked plates and the jelly jars. She wasn’t sure Mrs. Sampson had that kind of money.

  Mrs. Sampson tickled the ruff of fur at Cocoa’s neck as the dog took her after-hamburger-and-rice nap.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Keisha, but Mr. Sampson and I didn’t spend a lot of money. We were Depression babies and that meant we learned to make do with what we had. I have enough money. Mr. Sampson left me well provided for.”

  Suddenly Mrs. Sampson teared up and Keisha reached over to get a tissue for the old woman. “Well, he couldn’t have provided for the loneliness, but this old thing”—she picked up the whole box on her lap and squeezed it—“might ease the pain.”

  She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Jorge and I have been talking, too.… Well, I’ve been talking to him. That boy is not much of a talker. But our thought is to set up a bird-feeding station here. Then he can really learn more about this hobby of his, and it will help me pass the time during the winter.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Keisha said. Her mind cast back to the day before when she and Grandma and Mama and Paulo had sat in the warm dozy kitchen. It was just about midday now, and it felt warm and dozy in here, too. Razi was stacking napkin rings, one on top of the other, and Daddy and Mrs. Sampson were talking quietly. Chester the skunk had been found, and Jorge was outside watching after the baby crow.

  Everything felt just right. Keisha tiptoed over to the sleeping Cocoa and, very gently, drew in the dog’s fur the words “The End.”

  FROM THE FILES OF CARTERS’ URBAN RESCUE

  From the Skunk Fact File

  • Skunks are mammals similar in size to cats. They live about 3 years in the wild and up to 15 years as domestic pets. City parks, empty lots and abandoned buildings can all be homes for skunks.

  • Skunks don’t like to fight or bother others. They will only spray when they feel threatened. The spray comes from two glands beneath the tail. Skunks can spray up to 25 feet!

  • All in all, skunks are good members of the animal community. They eat a lot of bugs we don’t like and keep to themselves. A good skunk motto is “Live and let live.”

  • Some people choose to keep skunks as pets. To understand the joys and challenges of owning a skunk as a pet, visit the Web site www.skunkhaven.net.

  From the Crow Fact File

  • Crows are big, glossy-feathered black birds that grow to be about 16 to 20 inches long. If they survive their first year of life, crows can live to be 7 to 8 years old in the wild and 17 to 20 years old in captivity, though the oldest crow was 59 years old!

  • Since crow babies are big, people often think they are injured when they can’t fly. You can tell by watching the bird closely. Can it move around and balance on its own? If so, then it is still learning. Unless it is in immediate danger from a cat or a car, please leave it alone. Most likely its parents are nearby.

  • Crows are very social animals, and if they are kept away from crow society while they are young, they might never be accepted back into it.

  • Crows swoop down on cats, dogs and even kids to protect their babies. After a few days, when their babies have learned to fly, they stop this behavior.

  WHATEVER THE DILEMMA, IF IT’S GOT FUR OR FEATHERS (OR SCALES!)

  THE CARTERS ARE THE ONES TO CALL!

  FROM THE DESK OF SUE STAUFFACHER

  Dear Readers,

  In honor of this book, my German shepherd mix, Sophie, got sprayed by a skunk she found in our yard. Ugh. It is a hard smell to describe. Add one cup of burning wood to one cup of rotten garbage to two cups of rotten egg and you’ll be getting close. After trying lots of homemade recipes (which all worked a little), we went to the pet store and got an odor-neutralizing product. That was the best thing.

  Two crow families also decided to build nests in our yard and raise their young while I was writing this book. I know because Mama and Papa Bird got hopping mad when I walked anywhere near that part of the yard, flapping their wings and cawing like crazy. It was fun to watch the baby crows get big and practice flying, but I don’t know about living next door to them. They are noisy neighbors.

  Another thing writers say to each other is “Write what you know.” Believe me, I know skunks and crows!

  Happy Reading!

  Sue

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank all my readers on the Animal Rescue Team for spreading the word about how to keep wild animals wild and safe. I also want to thank the educators who help us learn by sharing their knowledge on the Web. For example, Kevin McGowan is a behavioral ecologist at the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology. He has studied crows for twenty years and shares his findings with us at www.birds.cornell.edu/crows. Thank you, Kevin! Another of my favorite Web sites for helping kids know what to do when they enco
unter wildlife in their own backyard is the Humane Society’s Wild Neighbors page: www.hsus.org/wildlife/urban_wildlife_our_wild_neighbors.

  Most of all, a big thank-you to the wildlife rehabilitators themselves. These dedicated professionals work long hours to help animals in need. To find a good wildlife rehabilitator in your area, you can contact your state’s department of natural resources office or your local zoo, veterinarian or animal shelter.

  About the Author

  Sue Stauffacher lives with her husband and sons in a 150-plus-year-old farmhouse in the city of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Over the years, possums, bats, raccoons, mice, squirrels, crows, ducks, woodchucks, chipmunks, voles, skunks, bunnies and a whole bunch of other critters have lived on the property. Though Sue is not a rehabilitator herself, she is passionate about helping kids know what to do when the wild meets the child.

  Sue’s novels for young readers include Harry Sue, Donutheart and Donuthead, which Kirkus Reviews called “touching, funny, and gloriously human” in a starred review. Her most recent picture book, Nothing but Trouble, won the NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work—Children. Besides writing children’s books, Sue is a frequent visitor to schools as a speaker and literacy consultant, drawing on two decades of experience as a journalist, educator and program administrator. To learn more about Sue and her books, visit her on the Web at www.suestauffacher.com.

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2010 by Sue Stauffacher

  Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Priscilla Lamont