Jude was a very impatient person. He couldn't wait any longer to return to the house. He told me so the day after the failed expeditions to the library. I didn't know what to tell him. I wanted to learn more about the man who lived there before I went back. To be honest, I didn't want to return to that place at all, but I knew that if I wanted to help Jude, I would at least have to try it. What I decided to do was somewhat deceiving."We can go back today after school," I told him during silent reading while Ms. Montague spoke with another teacher out in the hall. "But first you have to do something."

He didn't seem worried. "All right." I expected him to ask me what that something was, but he didn't say anything else.

So, after the last bell rang, I decided to carry out my plan. It wasn't much, but because Jude had agreed to do what I wanted him to, I didn't have a choice other than to go on with it. What I was hoping was that he would end up not wanting to do what I asked him to, and then we could put off returning to Mr. Black's house until I was better prepared. But Jude let me take him all the way back into the pine forest before he questioned me about what we were doing. By that time, I was nearly praying that he wouldn't agree to my plan.

"I thought you wanted me to do something before we went there," said Jude, his words floating off into the black shadows between the tree trunks.

"I do," I replied. Knowing that I had to tell him now, I stopped walking. "You remember the old stump?" He shrugged; I knew he remembered. "I want to sit up on top of it. But I'm too short to get up on my own. So I want you to climb up there and then pull me up." At least I was being honest; I was too small to get up on my own without a good struggle. Still, I was also hoping desperately that he wouldn't go along with it – that he would refuse and then I could tell him too bad about going to the house. I really thought that he would refuse, too, because he had been so against going near the pine stump the last time we'd seen it.

For a brief moment, I was sure I had won for the day. Jude thought silently. He was troubled. He didn't like my idea. Then, to my shock, he muttered, "Fine," and pushed past me toward the place where the stump lay.

My stomach sank somewhere inside me. I wanted to take back what I'd said. I wanted to make my request harder. Maybe I should have asked him to go for a swim in the lake or climb a really high tree. I'd been so sure he wouldn't want to touch the stump! Not knowing what to do, I followed him. When I reached the clearing, I was startled to see him already on top of it. Jude was tall and thin, so he'd had little difficulty scaling the sides of peeling bark.

Seeing him up there made my breath catch. With everything so dark around him, Jude looked like some sort of ghostly, ancient spirit standing tall atop the mystical stump. Shaggy little mushrooms stood out against the black on the forest floor, echoing the white of his skin.

I blinked several times. Jude bent down and lowered his hand. There was nothing I could do but take it. He pulled me up fast, and the two of us stood there in the thin silence.

"Why didn't you want to come up here?" I asked him as I sat cross-legged on the ancient rings.

He sat opposite me. When he replied, after a serious pause, he said, "I don't know."

I sighed. Jude never made much sense. I wanted to know things. I had to know things. "You have to tell me why you play the way you do, or I'm not going anywhere near that house. If I help you, I want to know why I'm doing it. What's wrong with you? Why do you get so sick when you play the piano?"

"Sick . . . I get sick." He rubbed a tennis shoe against the mold growing in the center rings. He talked like he hadn't thought of his illness before, even though I knew he had. "I don't know why I play. I just do. If I didn't, I think I'd die. Maybe that would be better. I don't know when it started or why it started . . . the pain or the playing. I can't remember. I've had both forever. I get sad – so sad it hurts. My legs hurt, my arms hurt, but mostly, my chest hurts. It's like I can't breathe because something so heavy is sitting on top of me. I can't move. All I can think about is how much it hurts. I don't know why I feel it. It's gotten a lot worse in the past few months. It comes at least once every couple of days. It came every day until a few weeks ago, and then it hurt a little less. But it always comes back. I never know when, or where I'll be when it comes. That's why I can't be in school very much. I never know when it will come. And I've had it forever. For as long as I remember. He thinks it's something I make up. He thinks I do it for attention. He won't listen to me play. He wants to throw out the piano. He would, too, if he ever heard me play. So I have to do it when he's not there. And sometimes it hurts so much to wait . . . but I have to do it. He hates me. He thinks I'm worth nothing, I know. He wishes I wasn't there. If he ever caught me playing, he would burn the piano. He said he would. But if I can't play it, I can't get the heaviness off of me. I won't be able to feel better. I'll never move the pain. It would kill me. I want it to . . . except that I'm too scared of how much it will hurt . . ." His words trailed off.

My amazement must have been clear. When Jude noticed how I was staring at him, he lowered his head ashamedly. I myself felt somewhat embarrassed. "Listen," I said to him in trepidation, taking time to consider my words. "I have to tell you something." He didn't lift his head. He pulled his knees in toward his chest and sat with his arms around them. "I was trying to help you. I thought that you . . . what you felt was what other people felt. I mean, if they were sad, you would be too. So I . . . I tried to make them happy. But I don't think that worked."

"Wait!" Jude's head jerked up. He looked squarely at me. "I felt better sometimes . . . I wasn't as scared to come to school because it wasn't happening every day, like it used to."

"Maybe what I was doing helped you a little," I said, some pride edging its way into my tone, "but it wasn't enough. You still feel the way you do. And your music . . . the last time I heard it, it was too much for me, even. You played it after being near that house. So what I think – if I'm still following my idea that you feel other people's problems – is that the most miserable person of all is Mr. Black, the man who lives there."

"And what you're saying," Jude interrupted me, "is that he has to be happy before I can be better?"

I was surprised that he was listening to all of my ideas as if they made perfect sense to him. Maybe he had tried every possible cure he could think of, and none of them had worked. Maybe he was willing to believe anything if it held some promise. "Yes." I said. "At least . . . that's what I think. But I don't think you should go back until we have more information about him. We can't just go knock on his door and ask him what's wrong. We don't know anything about him."

"I want to. It's like I feel as if I should know about him, because it would help me know more about. . . . I don't know. Something."

I studied Jude. What I couldn't believe was that he was telling me so much. And why did I suddenly feel so confident about telling him everything I was thinking? Some wall had crumbled between us. "I want to try and help you," I said quietly. "But you have to wait a little bit longer so that I can come up with a plan. All right?"

He nodded, knowing that what I said made sense.

The two of us fell silent, then, and we were only called to attention when the sound of a car engine sputtered somewhere off to my left. The noise was beyond the place we sat, far past the pines. But the sound of it, though faint, was clear as daylight. I looked at Jude with wide eyes. Quickly, we climbed down from the old stump. At once the air of familiarity that I had felt with him vanished. Seeing his concerned face, I knew that he noticed the return of restraint as well. Atop the stump, we'd been stripped of our hesitations. Back on solid ground, the barriers returned. I was dismayed.

We had not forgotten the car engine. I wasn't quite certain where the sound had come from, but it seemed to have gone from my left side around to the front of me. I was facing in the direction of Mr. Black's house. One of the last things I wanted to do was return to that place, especially since I'd told Jude that I wasn't going to go back there until I knew more about Mr. Black. Still, there was an eager curiosity inside me – one that had to be satisfied.

What I was positive of, though, was that Jude should not go with me. "Stay here," I said to him sternly. "Please . . . I'll be right back. Don't follow me." I didn't wait for an answer. Hurrying away from him, I went through the trees until I was close to the barren area, where the pines had lost their needles. I could see Mr. Black's house clearly through them.

I saw at once the car that had made the noises. A ring of blacktop circled around one half of the house, likely connecting to some sort of road that came up through the forest. Parked on the pavement near the massive front porch was an old blue car. A young man was stepping out of it. I guessed he was Martin Switchett. He lived a couple of blocks away from me. He went to the high school. My sister Allison thought he was funny. I mostly thought it was him because Mrs. McBride had mentioned that he brought groceries to Mr. Black once a week because the old man didn't drive, and this guy held two full, brown paper bags awkwardly in his arms.

Kicking his car door shut, Martin walked up the porch steps. Then, balancing the load in his arms, he knocked on the front door. "Mr. Black!" he called cheerily. "It's me! I've got your food!"

I wanted to hear more of what he was going to say, so I crept closer to the house-- until I was practically right underneath the porch ledge. I had a clear view of Martin. I couldn't see the person who opened the door shortly after Martin's shout, though; he was partially blocked from my view.

"Sustenance for the week, Mr. Black," sang Martin, his cheeks red from the chill. Blond hair stuck out around his ears from under a wool hat, and his words came out in clouds of frozen breath. "I even picked you up a pumpkin pie! You know, for the holiday mood I know you'll be getting into. 'Tis the season, right?" He laughed.

"I don't like pumpkins, and I hate pie," I heard a voice grumble. "I don't know what possessed you to buy me something with two things I detest. Don't expect me to pay for it."

"Like I said, sir," Martin said, a bit of stress in his voice, "'tis the season. Thanksgiving is in the air!"

"Foul cold is in the air. I'm getting ill just standing here with the door open. I suppose you want your pay?"

Martin grinned and took off his hat, revealing a mess of hair. He then held out the hat. "If it wouldn't be too much to ask."

"It is," muttered Mr. Black. He didn't sound happy. "If I didn't have to eat, I'd be a rich man."

Waiting until the rolled bills were safely dropped into his hat, Martin replied, "You already are, Mr. Black. I wish you ate fifty times more than you did. Maybe then I'd be a rich man!" With an amused cock of his hat, Martin hopped down from the porch and jogged over to his car. I was directly behind a bush next to the house, and I saw him laugh to himself as he got into his vehicle.

After Martin had backed down the driveway and managed an expert U-turn (I supposed he was used to the feat) I decided that I should be getting back to Jude. I'd almost forgotten about him in my strain to hear Martin Switchett's conversation with Mr. Black. Without thinking, I came out from my hiding spot and started to head back into the trees. I didn't do it carefully enough, because I was seen. Mr. Black hadn't closed his front door as I assumed he had, and suddenly I heard his gravelly voice shouting, "You there! Hey! What are you doing on my property! Hey! Stop!"

I wanted to run. Every instinct I had told me to dart off into the trees like a rabbit. But something made me freeze. Even though I didn't want to, I turned around. Mr. Black stood on his porch, leaning over the stone ledge of it. "Come here immediately!" he said. "Now!"

I felt his fury like a whip. I'll go a little closer, I thought anxiously, but not so close that he could hurt me.

When I was several feet away from the porch, I stopped. I refused to go any nearer the angry man. Now I could see him clearly, though, and I was surprised at how black his hair was, considering that he was an old man. His age was obvious by the wrinkles beneath his eyes and above his brow. Bags of skin hung from his chin. He looked like a bloodhound, and I suddenly feared he was smelling for my blood.

"Who are you?" he growled, his dark eyes squinting down at me as if I was a vicious animal.

"My name is Nat, Mr. Black." I was surprised at the strength in my own voice. Had I been any closer to the man, I was sure my knees would have given out.

He peered at me. "How do you know my name?" I heard the suspicion in his words.

I was slightly at a loss for what to say. "I . . . I heard . . . Martin. He said your name. I heard him."

Mr. Black scowled. "What are you doing spying on my affairs?"

I really didn't know what to say to that; I had been spying. "N-nothing, sir. I swear!"

"This is private property you're on," he spat. "Don't you know? You aren't allowed here! I could have you arrested for trespassing!"

"But I didn't see any signs . . ." I replied. That was true. I hadn't.

Mr. Black gripped the stone ledge hard. "How dare you talk back to me! Get off my land! If I ever see you here again I'll call the police. Now go away, you little miscreant!"

He didn't have to tell me twice. I was off as soon as he said the words. By the time I reached the old stump I was a ball of nerves. Jude was waiting for me there, just as I'd asked him to. He looked up when I approached. I saw the questions in his face, and I knew that if we'd been sitting on top of the old stump he would've asked me things and I would've answered. But we were standing on solid ground, so neither of us said anything at all.