In his mother’s world, ten-year-old boys required fresh fruit, homemade oatmeal cookies (they weren’t so bad), half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, a bag of Ritz crackers made into sandwiches with Jif peanut butter for filling, some celery and carrot sticks (yuck!), and hearty ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

Then there was the thermos of lemonade, the stack of paper napkins, and the two boxes of Pop-Tarts she wedged into the basket for breakfast.

“Mom, we’re not going to starve to death,” he complained as she stood deliberating in front of an open cupboard. “We’re going to be right in Fox’s backyard.”

Which was a lie, and kinda hurt his tongue. But she’d never let him go if he told her the truth. And, sheesh, he was ten. Or would be the very next day.

Frannie Hawkins put her hands on her hips. She was a pert, attractive blonde with summer blue eyes and a stylish curly perm. She was the mother of three, and Cal was her baby and only boy. “Now, let me check that backpack.”

“Mom!”

“Honey, I just want to be sure you didn’t forget anything.” Ruthless in her own sunny way, Frannie unzipped Cal ’s navy blue pack. “Change of underwear, clean shirt, socks, good, good, shorts, toothbrush. Cal, where are the Band-Aids I told you to put in, and the Bactine, the bug repellant.”

“Sheesh, we’re not going to Africa.”

“All the same,” Frannie said, and did her signature finger wave to send him along to gather up the supplies. While he did, she slipped a card out of her pocket and tucked it into the pack.

He’d been born-after eight hours and twelve minutes of vicious labor-at one minute past midnight. Every year she stepped up to his bed at twelve, watched him sleep for that minute, then kissed him on the cheek.

Now he’d be ten, and she wouldn’t be able to perform the ritual. Because it made her eyes sting, she turned away to wipe at her spotless counter as she heard his tromping footsteps.