I hadn't been to the old Hitchcock Mill in over twenty years. In all that time, the place hadn't gotten any less condemned. But it was about to.

"This is where it all started," Simon said. He was carrying the camera in one hand while pointing with the other. "Us, I mean. This is where we met."

"I remember." Dash stood and looked up at the place. "It wasn't bad, for an old abandoned ruin. Most of the floors were intact, there was lots of cool stuff around-which is still there, by the way; most of it was too big for me to steal-and the place was well-ventilated."

"Yeah," I asked, "how are you gonna fix all the bullet holes?"

"Siding, probably. I'll have to consult with my guys. It's not correct for the period, so the Historical Society may not approve it, but it's the easiest solution to the problem."

"I can't believe they're restoring this old place," said Simon.

Dash shrugged. "Makes sense if you think about it. It's been pretty much unchanged for the past hundred and fifty years. There's even some of the old equipment still inside. We've got a specialist from Chicago coming in to work on that, get it restored as part of the exhibit."

"What about upstairs?" I asked.

"There shouldn't be anything upstairs. I cleared out my stuff a long time ago."

"I mean the hole in the floor. Where . . . you know . . ."

"Where I found Grungy Bill's gun?" He grinned. "I still have the pieces, you know. Don't know why."

"It was our first case," I said. "I still have the haunted toaster. Gonna have to move that out of my parents' place soon, though. They're looking into buying a condo at Golden Acres."

"What's Golden Acres?"

"It's a senior living community. Fifty-five and older. Sounds like a really nice place-they have a tennis court, a swimming pool, a weight center, and even a function room for parties. Best of all, all the maintenance is taken care of. They don't even have to pay for utilities."

"That's if they get the place," Simon pointed out.

"I hope they do. It's close to the kids' school, too, so they can pick them up in an emergency."

"Let's get some shots from out here," Dash suggested. "Sort of a before and after thing. Then I'll compare them to the pictures the Historical Society has of the mill when it was new, and I'll go from there."

Simon took some pictures from the front, then moved around to the side. "Should I get some of the water wheel here?"

"Yeah, that's great. I'm not doing that, but for reference, yeah. Then we'll move inside."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Just take notes. Hey, maybe you can publish an updated version of The Ghost of the Old Mill with the real-life story of the mill's restoration."

"That sounds like a great idea. I'll talk to my editor about it."

"And I get seventy-five percent of the proceeds."

"Nice try, buddy. No. You get a dedication and that's it."

"You're kidding me." He put on his offended face. "All this hard work and I don't even get paid?"

"The Historical Society's paying you."

"Not nearly enough. Besides, I can always use a little extra to feather my nest. Maybe for a future down payment on a house, when I ask a certain someone a certain question."

"Wow. You're really going to ask Dana to marry you?"

"Yeah, once I'm done with this job. Okay, let's move it inside. We ain't got all day, you know."

Two weeks later, we met up at my parents' house to clear out the Evidence Locker. They were bound for Golden Acres right after Town Days, which left us not much time to get everything packed up.

"I could just pop this whole thing out," said Dash, eyeing the construction, "and ship it over to your place."

"We don't have anywhere to put it," I told him. "I'll take some stuff. The important stuff. The rest we can just throw out. It doesn't mean anything to anyone but us, so we couldn't sell it at a yard sale or give it away."

"Right. Where do we start?"

Simon closed his eyes and reached in until his hand found something. He pulled it out and examined the tag. "Item 1175 . . . a very old, crumbling, disgusting Harvest King wreath."

"Trash," I said, opening the bag.

"You'd think they'd have made this thing out of plastic at least."

"They didn't expect it to last any longer than the Harvest King," I conjectured. I touched one of the leaves and it crumbled into dust under my fingers. "Ugh."

"Lemme help." Dash took the whisk broom and brushed the dust and fragments into the bag.

"It's funny," Simon said. "All this stuff, it all used to mean something to us. But I look at it now . . . and it's like, why did we save this stuff? It's junk." He held up a fragment of a fake space capsule. "Is this what growing up means? Leaving stuff like this behind?"

"I guess," I said. "I might keep a few things for props at book signings. But most of it's bound for the recycling center. Or the landfill."

"What's that?" Dash asked, pointing to a twisted lump of wire and plastic.

Simon and I looked at each other. "That's Steve's retainer," I said. "He heard dogs talking on it."

"O . . . kay."

"We think," said Simon, "that the metal was able to pick up the dogs' particular frequency. It was fun at first, but then it got nasty pretty quickly."

"Does it still work?"

Again, we looked at each other. "Probably not," I said. "I think we should just toss it."

Into the bag it went.

Mom had said not to save more than ten percent of the stuff. "Otherwise," she said, "it's just moving the junk from one place to another. If you really need it and can use it, take it. If not, out it goes."

Ten percent, I thought, was too generous. Out of three years' worth of artifacts, I had saved maybe five things. The rest either were too degraded to save, or just plain didn't mean anything to me anymore.

Simon declined taking anything. "I don't have room for this stuff."

"No, but you have room for fifty million Sherlock bobbleheads," Dash teased him. He spotted something and scooped it up. "Can I have this?"

It was the Loyal Order of Corn hat that had belonged to my dad, way back when. "Sure," I said.

"I know it sounds weird, but . . . I kinda miss Ned. I wish he was here to explain things to me. Sometimes I have fantasies about the two of us traveling the universe like Doctor Who and his companion."

"Which Doctor?" Simon asked.

"I don't know! Uh . . . Ten."

"Good choice."

"I've always liked Nine better," I said. "Oh, hey, here's Grungy Bill's toaster. You want that?"

"And do what with it?" Dash didn't seem very enthused about taking the haunted toaster off my hands.

"I figured since you're working on the mill and all . . ."

"Yeah, about that. The Historical Society is telling me now that they want the place done by Town Days."

I stared at him in shock. "But that's two weeks! How are you supposed to finish all that work in two weeks?"

"That's what I told them! I've already got my guys working fourteen hours a day, six days a week! But no, they want the restoration done so they can get the interactive exhibits up and ready for Town Days. They said it fits the whole general theme."

Eerie's Town Days were an annual celebration of the town's founding back in 1862. People dressed up in old-fashioned costumes and even fixed up buildings in the old style, like the bank Grungy Bill and I had tried to rob.

"Good thing we're almost done then," I said. "After this one last thing, you can go and enjoy the rest of your one day off, and I'll finish this on my-look out!"

The toaster was hanging half on and half off the shelf, and when I turned away and moved my hand, it overbalanced and fell to the floor. Something crunched. There were little pings and pops as random bits of metal flew off into the corners of the room.

"Crap," I said. "Well, so much for that idea."

"Marshall, look!" Simon pointed to the slots, which were beginning to smoke.

"Should I get a fire extinguisher?" Dash asked me.

I took a closer look. "No, wait. That's not smoke. It's mist. It's . . . ghost mist."

"Déjà vu," said Simon. "Spooky."

The mist rose up and coalesced into the form of a middle-aged outlaw. When I'd first seen him, back when we were kids, Grungy Bill had looked so old-at least fifty, which is practically ancient when you're thirteen. But a quarter-century later, I realized Bill probably wasn't so old after all. Maybe only a decade older than I was now.

"Well, what in tarnation?" He looked around, and then at us. "Who're you fellas?"

"Bill," I said, "it's us. We're just . . . older. You've been in there for a while."

"How long?"

We looked at each other. Someone had to tell him. Apparently that someone was me. "Almost twenty-five years."

If a ghost could faint, Grungy Bill would have been laying out cold on the floor.

"I'll be hornswaggled," Bill said. "Twenty-first century?"

"That's right," I told him.

"Are we on the Moon? Man tole me once that we'd have cities on the Moon by the year 2000. That where we are?"

"No, we're still in Eerie. We've been to the Moon, but not for a real long time."

"But they're talking about going back," Simon interjected. "Or to Mars. Maybe in the next ten years or so."

"Just don't 'spect me t' come along." Bill reached down and picked up a little metal piece that had fallen off the toaster, and as he touched it, he became solid. "That's better. Well, what're y' waitin' fer? Let's get out there and see what's become o' the town!"

"We're not robbing another bank," I said, in the voice I used when my kids asked if they could help make dinner. Don't get me wrong, I love it when they actually want to help out, but in this case, "make dinner" is code for "make a huge mess." So, no.

"Why not? Just get me m' gun, and let's go!"

"And no guns!" Now I was using my "No, Holly, you can't have another Princess Elsa" voice, which was just one step below "Because I said so!"

Dash coughed. "Actually," he said, "I sent the gun off to a guy in Indianapolis. A collector. He's reconstructing it for the-for you know what. He said he might not be able to get it to work. I told him it didn't need to. Anyway, it won't be ready till next week."

"I can't go out there without a gun!" Bill protested.

"Why not? You're already dead. What more can they do to you?"

Suddenly I heard footsteps. "Oh, crap, that's my mom! Bill, hide!"

"Why?" he asked.

"Cause . . ." I racked my brain for a suitable excuse. "Cause she'll turn you in to the sheriff! You're a fugitive, remember?"

"Oh, yeah!" Bill ducked behind an old recliner just as Mom came to the bottom of the stairs.

"You boys need any help? I heard a big bang. Did you drop something?"

"Yeah," I said, "but we've got it. We're picking it up."

"What was it? Did it break?"

"Yeah, it kind of did."

"It was the old toaster," Dash piped up. "Our toaster stopped working, so I was gonna take it. But I dropped it. But it's okay, cause I can have one of my electrical guys take a look at it."

"We might even be able to use parts from our old toaster," Simon added.

"All right, then. Make sure you get the light when you leave."

"Sure thing." I flashed her a thumbs-up as she left. Then I breathed a sigh of relief that we'd gotten away with it. "You can come out now, Bill."

He stepped out into the open, shaking his head. "I don't know . . . what do we do now?"

"Did you mean it," I asked Dash, "about fixing the toaster?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not? Take a couple days, but then we just pop him back in there, and no problem."

"What if he doesn't want to go back in?"

"I'm right here, y'know," Bill reminded us. "I don't know if I want t' go on bein' a ghost. I been dead a long, long time . . ."

"You'll have time to decide," Dash said, tucking the remains of the toaster under his arm, "while we get this thing fixed. C'mon, you're going to our place for the duration."

"How long we talkin' 'bout?"

"Maybe a week. Maybe two. Hey, you'll be around for Town Days. It'll feel just like home to you."

"What's Town Days?"

Dash smiled that smile that always makes me nervous. When he smiles like that, he's up to something. "Oh, Bill. You and I are gonna have such fun!"

That was actually the last time I talked to Dash in person for two weeks. Simon told me he would leave at about five o'clock in the morning, before the sun was even up, and not come home until eleven o'clock or sometimes even after midnight. He had to get this thing done, and though I offered to come over and help him, he refused, saying that I could see it when it was finished.

Meanwhile, the toaster still sat, unfixed, in Dash and Simon's apartment. Bill was just hanging around by himself all day long while Simon was at work, but after the incident with the stove, it was decided that it was too risky for even a ghost to be home alone, and Simon started dropping him off at my place when he went to work. Bill sat on the couch all day watching the Game Show Network.

"Benjamin Franklin, ya durn fool!" he shouted at the contestant who'd given the wrong answer. "Are all folks in the future this dumb?"

"You should watch Jeopardy sometime. All the smart people are on that show."

"Mebbe I should." He started to put his feet up on the couch, and I shoved them down.

"At least take your boots off first."

"What for?"

"Cause we're down to one bottle of upholstery cleaner, and my kids are messy eaters."

"Fine." He slowly untied his boots, slipped them off, and set them neatly under the coffee table.

"Bill," I said. "Do you want to go back into the toaster?"

"Huh?"

"You've been a ghost for a long time. Do you want to go on with that, or . . . are you ready to give up and go on to whatever awaits you out there?"

"Out where?" He looked up at the ceiling.

"I mean . . . the afterlife. Whatever you believe in."

"My daddy was a preacher. Real fire-and-brimstone kinda man. He always told me that I was bound fer Perdition, t' burn in a lake of fire forever."

"Well, we don't really know what the afterlife is like. Maybe there is no Heaven or Hell."

"Ah hope not. I done a lot o' bad things."

"Not really."

He looked at me in surprise.

"You never actually shot anyone with your gun, did you?"

"Well, no, but-"

"And you never actually robbed the Bank of Eerie."

"I did too!" he insisted. "I stole that there toaster!"

"Actually, you didn't. The toaster was free."

I realized it was a mistake as soon as the words jumped out of my mouth, but it took Bill a few more seconds to catch on. "I ain't leavin' this Earth till I rob that bank! Now get me m' gun and let's go!"

"I don't have your gun. Dash sent it to that guy in Indianapolis. I don't know if it's back yet."

"Then get me a gun. Jus' somethin' I can threaten folks with."

"I don't have a gun! Are you kidding? I have little kids!"

"All the more reason to protect 'em! Back in my day, a man needed a gun to keep his family safe!"

"Times have changed," I told him. "I don't have a gun, and I don't know anyone who does."

Bill didn't let this stop him for long. "Don't matter," he said. "I'll rob that bank if I have to beat them with m' bare hands!" And he took off running out the front door.

"Bill, wait! Come back here!" Boy, I'd really done it this time. I picked up the phone and called Simon.

"Marshall, what's up? I'm in class."

"We've got a problem. I might have sort of accidentally told Grungy Bill that he didn't actually rob the Bank of Eerie."

"You what?'

"I didn't mean to! It just slipped out! Now he's headed for the bank armed with nothing but his determination and his bare hands, and we've got to stop him!"

"Okay, okay!" I could hear the wheels turning as Simon tried to think of something. "Meet me at the mill and we'll talk to Dash. He's better at plans than I am."

"You're the smartest guy I know!"

"Yeah, but he covers all the angles. He thinks of things I don't even consider. I'll call and tell him we're coming."

"Okay." I hung up and got my jacket on. I hoped that Dash was able to come up with a plan before Bill got to the bank.

The siding looked great. You couldn't tell this place had ever been riddled with bullet holes. The steps no longer creaked, and all the KEEP OUT and NO TRESPASSING signs had been taken down.

"Nice, huh?" Dash said. He was sitting on the porch rail, balancing a Thermos on his knee.

"You've done a great job," I told him.

"Yeah, well, wait till you see the inside."

"Later. Right now we've got a problem."

Simon showed up just then. He must have run all the way from the school; he still didn't have a car. "What's . . . the . . . plan?" he huffed.

"Oh, you're gonna love this," said Dash. "And I'll tell you on the way to the bank. We don't have any time to lose."

Simon groaned. "I just came from downtown! You'd better drive us!"

"Whatever. You see, our mutual friend could not have picked a better time to reappear. You've noticed what's going on all over town?"

"Sure," I said. "Some of the businesses are even getting a makeover for Town Days . . . oh, I see what you're saying."

"So here's what we do . . ."

By the time we got to the bank, Bill was already near the front of the line.

"Why is he waiting?" Dash whispered to me. "Why doesn't he just do what he came here for?"

Simon shrugged. "He's polite, I guess."

"A polite bank robber?"

"So which one of us," I asked, "does the heavy lifting?"

Both of them looked at me.

"Oh, no! I had to wear a dress last time we did this! You do the hard job!"

"This is your thing," Dash said. "We'll be doing our thing. This is what you do best."

"But I tried to talk him out of it! What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll be working on Plan B." The two of them shuffled away and approached the counter. I went to do my part.

"Not my 'thing,'" I muttered. "I don't have a 'thing.' What's their problem?"

I caught up with Bill just as he was about to be called next. "Bill! Look, don't do this, man! You don't have to! You don't have anything to prove to anyone!"

"I can't rest in peace till I rob this here bank," he said in reply. "You can either help me, or step aside, pardner."

"But you don't even have your gun!" I said as loudly as I could.

That got people's attention, all right. At the mention of the word "gun," most of them ran out the door. This was part of the plan; fewer bystanders if something went wrong. Which it did, in very short order.

"I don't have m' gun," he said, "so I'll borrow this fella's!" And he snatched the security guard's gun right out of its holster before I could stop him.

"Bill, no!"

"I came here t' rob the bank, an' that's what I'm gonna do!" He pushed his way to the front of the line and waved the gun in the clerk's face. "Gimme all the money, right now!"

"Yes, sir." The clerk grabbed a canvas bag and started shoving cash into it. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Then Dash sidled up to me and winked.

"Plan B," he said. "Okay, Simon, you got that?"

Across the room, Simon held up his phone and nodded.

Dash turned and addressed the remaining bank customers. "It's okay, folks. This is a little Town Days production we're preparing for you. Nothing to worry about."

"You're filming this?" I whispered.

"Why not?" he replied. "One more exhibit for the mill. Wait till you see it!"

"You could have told me!"

"And cheat the audience of a genuine reaction?"

"I'll give you a genuine reaction!" I moved toward him threateningly, but he just backpedaled, that smug smile never leaving his face. I wanted to punch him so badly. He did this all the time! It was getting a little old, to tell you the truth.

The bank clerk finished filling up the bag with money and tried to stuff it through the slot, but it wouldn't fit. "I'm gonna have to come around," he said. "I can't fit it through the window."

"No funny business now, y'hear?" Bill kept holding the gun on him while he got up from his stool and came around the counter. He handed the bag off, and Bill didn't even look inside before he tossed the gun to the security guard and ran out the door.

"Aaaaand . . . that's a wrap! Thanks for your assistance, folks. The finished product will be unveiled at the opening of the newly renovated Hitchcock Mill Museum, on Friday! Let's go, Simon!" Dash took a bow, and I stopped wanting to punch him and found myself admiring his nerve. Just like always. The only reason he got away with this whole routine was that he was so good at it. He could have stolen the world.

We caught up with Bill at the far end of Main Street, where it became Water Street and led back to the mill. "Well," I said, "you did it. You robbed the bank. Congratulations. Bucket list achieved."

He screwed up his face in confusion. "Bucket who?"

"It's an expression. Sometimes people make a list of things they want to do before they kick the bucket. You may be the first person in history to complete the bucket list after the bucket was kicked."

Now he smiled, his face crinkling in the other direction. "Yeah, I'm gonna be famous!"

"You have no idea," Dash said. "Bill, before you mosey on up to the Last Roundup, I've got something to show you. Not now, though; it's not quite ready yet. Tomorrow night. I'll give you the free preview before we open to the public. You're gonna love this."

"I will? What is it?"

"Ah, ah, ah! That's for tomorrow night. Come hide out with us for one more day. Then you'll see everything."

As they walked away, Dash held the bag open enough to show me what was inside. It was Monopoly money. I just hoped neither of them told Bill.

Thursday night, we met at the mill at seven o'clock. Bill had spiffed himself up a bit; he'd found himself a new suit in a pile of costumes for Town Day. "Fer the occasion," he told me when I remarked on his appearance.

"And what an occasion it is," said Dash. "The grand opening of this place is tomorrow, but you get to see it first. Sorry that none of the interactive exhibits are up yet, but if I powered them up now, I'd get in trouble. None of this is what I want to show you, anyway. Come on."

I hadn't been inside the mill in twenty-five years, and boy, had it changed. For the better, of course. Everything was cleaned up and fixed up. There were little plaques everywhere describing the equipment and what those old-time people did with it.

"What I want to show you's upstairs," Dash said. "Come on, Bill, you don't wanna miss this."

We went up the stairs, which didn't creak at all. "Reinforced floors," Dash confirmed. "Except for that one spot. Wait till I show you."

And there we were, in the place where we'd first met Dash, all those years ago. But wow, how different it was.

"This," Dash said, turning on the lights, "is 'Grungy Bill: The Man Who Wouldn't Give Up.' And over here . . ."

The hole Dash had made in the floor stamping on my video tape was now a trap door with a handle. When I lifted it . . .
"That's not the real gun," he said. "This is a plastic replica. Don't want the kids handling real guns, now do we?"

"Where's the real one?" Bill demanded.

"Over here." He led us across the room to where the real gun, Betsy herself, was enclosed in a glass case affixed to the wall. "Part of the exhibit now."

"She looks brand new!" Bill reached out to touch the glass, but Dash stopped him.

"It's alarmed, for obvious reasons. If you so much as breathe on that glass, this place will be crawling with cops in five minutes."

"Won't that be a problem when this place opens to the public?" I asked.

"They're putting a velvet rope around it. Should be up first thing tomorrow morning. Here, have a souvenir program." Dash handed each of us a booklet with a picture of the mill and the title THE LEGEND OF GRUNGY BILL. I opened it and started reading.

"When it comes to bank robbing, some were successful, like Bonnie and Clyde. Some, however, were unsuccessful. But no one in the history of bank robbing failed so often and so spectacularly as William Robert Carver, better known as Grungy Bill, the only man to attempt to rob the Bank of Eerie thirteen times-and fail every single time.

"But he never let that stop him. Like the coyote in the cartoons, who fell off a cliff and was up and chasing the road runner again in the next scene, Grungy Bill never let failure stop him from trying again. He was determined to rob that bank, and though he ultimately did not succeed, we remember his tenacity, his courage, and his determination to do what he set out to do, no matter what." I started to close the pamphlet, but then something in the first paragraph caught my attention. "Your last name's Carver?" I asked Bill.

"That's right. Why?"

"Was your father's name Jeremiah?"

"Now how'd you know that?"

"You mentioned he was a preacher. Jeremiah Carver was the pastor of the First Church of Normal, Illinois, in the early eighteen-hundreds."

"This adds a new wrinkle to the story," said Dash, and he snatched the booklets back. "I'll have to rewrite these."

"No, leave it," I said. "You can always print up a second edition with the new information added."

"Yeah, and that'll make the first edition more valuable," Simon added.

Bill was looking around in amazement. "You . . . you did all this . . . fer me?"

"Yeah, sure," said Dash. "You're a hero! You're the Man That Never Gave Up. People will know your name for another hundred and fifty years. Maybe even longer. You ready to move on now?"

"I guess. I just . . . I don't know what's waitin' fer me, in the Great Beyond."

"Don't be afraid," I said. "Whatever happens, you'll face it with courage, and tenacity, and determination. No matter what."

"Yer right! I kin do this! Well? What do I have to do?"

"We'll need this." Dash brought out the remains of the toaster. "And that piece you have. I'll need that."

"Oh, sure." He pulled the little piece of metal out of his pocket and handed it over. The second it left his hand, Bill went ghostly again.

"You do the honors," Dash said to me. "You're good at this."

"All right." I looked down at the toaster, and a thought struck me. "What am I going to smash it with?"

"Way ahead of you." Dash brought out a big sledgehammer and handed it over. "This should do the job. Just be careful of the floors. I've fixed enough holes in this place for one lifetime."

"Right." The words first. I'd done this many times before, but this felt . . . different. This was special. It was like a circle closing; after twenty-five years, here we all were again. It was time to send Grungy Bill off for good.

"William Robert Carver," I intoned, "I hereby release you from this plane-"

"Ain't a plane, it's a toaster," he said.

"Don't interrupt," said Simon.

"From this plane of existence into whatever afterlife you have earned for yourself. May your memory live on whenever someone stands against impossible odds and in the face of countless failures. Let them see that there is nothing that can't be done. Farewell, and may you find happiness wherever it lies." I took a deep breath and swung the sledgehammer up, and brought it down.

There was a crunching sound, and a screech of twisted metal, but Bill was still here.

"Hit it harder!" Simon advised.

"I can barely lift this thing!" This wasn't going well. But I reminded myself that it had to be done, and it would be done. I lifted it up again and swung it a bit harder this time.

This did the trick. Plastic and metal flew apart in a near-explosion of destruction. That toaster was good and smashed, all right.

And suddenly there was a white light, which came down like a spotlight and surrounded Bill with a glow and the sound of trumpets and a choir.

"I'll be darned! I made it inta Heaven after all! Daddy, I made it!" He held his arms up and was drawn into the light. It was amazing to watch. When he was gone, the light faded, along with the music, and we were left there alone with the pieces of the broken toaster.

There was a fluttering sound, and I looked up to see Bill's Town Days suit floating down to the ground. Guess he didn't need it anymore.

"I'll get a broom," I offered. "We should clean this up."

"Too bad we didn't film that," said Dash. "Woulda made a great ending to our movie."

"Guess we're gonna have to buy a new toaster after all," Simon said.

A few days later, we were at my parents' house, waiting for the buyer to show up and take the keys.

"I never thought I'd like this house," I said. "I just wanted to go back to New Jersey. Now I feel . . . like I'm losing part of my childhood."

"The new owners are a young couple," my mom told me. "I'm sure they'll make a lot of happy memories here."

"And Golden Acres isn't that far away," Dad pointed out. "You can come visit us anytime you want. We even have a guest room for when the kids stay over."

"I know. I'm glad you got that place." I looked down at my watch. "Where's Dash? He said he'd meet us here."

"Here he comes now!" Simon pointed. Sure enough, there was Dash's truck coming up the street. He parked in front of the house so we all could get out when we needed to.

"Hey, guys." He was smiling that up-to-something smile.

A moment later, I saw another car, small and brown, pulling up behind the truck. I was only mildly surprised to see Dana getting out. She walked up and stood on the porch next to Dash, who put his arm around her.

"Well, here you go." Dad took the house keys out of his pocket and handed them over to Dash. "Good luck."

"Wait a minute!" I looked from one to the other and back again. "You bought the house?"

"Yeah, I did. Got a good deal on it, too."

"Why?"

Dash looked up at his new house and said, "I can't remember the house I grew up in. I don't know where it is or what it looks like. Ever since I can remember . . . this place has always been home to me."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked my parents.

"And ruin the surprise?" Mom was smiling. "Besides, Dash has done so much work on this house that it's practically his anyway. We were happy to keep it in the family."

"But a home is nothing without someone to share it with." Dash looked at Dana, and then he dropped to one knee. "I want this to be our home, where we'll raise a family of our own. I know you'll love this place as much as I do, Dana. Will you . . . will you marry me?"

Without a single moment's hesitation, Dana said, "Yes! Yes, I will. Of course I will."

And that's how the kid with no name and no past found a home and a family, and a happily ever after.

As for Simon, he found a new roommate almost right away. Of course, the guy wasn't at all what he seemed . . . nothing in Eerie ever is.

But that's another story.