“Dad, when're you coming home?” I asked.

“After the trial,” he replied.

The plan was to use his big day in court to expose Dusty Muleman's illegal polluting.

“But Mom says you can bail out and come home and still have your trial later,” I said.

“No, I need to stay here and show I'm totally committed to the cause. You know how many jails around this world are full of people who spoke up for what they believed in and lost their freedom? Lost everything they had? Look at Nelson Mandela,” my father said. “He spent twenty-seven years in a South African prison. Twenty-seven years, Noah! A couple of weeks won't hurt me.”

“But Mom misses you,” I said.

That seemed to catch him off guard and take the steam out of his big speech. Dad looked away.

“It's a sacrifice, I know,” he said. “I wish it didn't have to be like this.”

I didn't say anything about Mom and the plaid suitcase because she'd put it away. That morning I'd peeked in their bedroom closet-her clothes were still hanging there. So were Dad's.

When I stood up to leave, my father perked up slightly. He said, “Oh, I almost forgot. A reporter from the Island Examiner might drop by the house. It's all right for you to speak with him.”

“About what?” I asked.

“My situation.”

“Oh. Sure, Dad.”

His “situation”? I thought. Sometimes it's like my father lives on his own weird little planet.

In July the days get long and stream together. I try not to look at the calendar because I don't want to think about time passing. August comes way too soon, and that's when school starts in Florida.

Summer mornings are mostly sunny and still, though by midafternoon huge boiling thunderheads start to build over the Everglades, and the weather can get interesting in a hurry. I've always liked watching the sky drop down like a foamy purple curtain when a summer storm rumbles across Florida Bay. If you're on the ocean side of the islands, it can sneak up on you from behind, which happens a lot to tourists.