If he ever took over his father's company one day, Jack mused as the long-awaited clang of the school bell filled his ears, the first thing he would do would be to change the dress code. Ties, he thought, were like dog collars, grabbing you by the throat and strangling you with the knowledge that this morning, you had woken up and decided to let someone else tell you what to do. After all, given the choice, who would ever want to wear a tie?

Certainly not Jack — which was why, as soon as he heard the bell, his hands went straight to his neck to undo the full Windsor knot that his father always insisted on tightening before Jack could set foot outside the house. His new school — sleek, private, and allegedly nonsectarian, though Jack had learned that was far from the case in practice — might have had him on a tight leash between the hours of eight o'clock and two fifty-nine, but at three on the dot, that leash came off. And his suit jacket came next.

He scrambled to the bike rack, as fast as he could go without being accused of running. He'd learned the hard way that if he sprinted, he'd only be held back after school to be reprimanded and punished, which would end up delaying him much longer. As he reached the schoolyard, he could hear excited voices planning where they'd ride their bikes today: to the cinema to sneak into an R-rated movie, to the candy store to spend their pocket money on huge bags of jelly beans, to the park for epic games of capture the flag and red rover. But Jack wouldn't be able to join them, not immediately and maybe not at all. He had to stop at home first.

Ever since Graem had gotten old enough to go to school, Jack had wondered how his brother could go from the classroom right to one of the local kids' hangouts, and then finally arrive at the house a few minutes before dinner time. Didn't he worry about his mother, alone at home, maybe having one of her flare-ups where she could barely even get out of bed? Jack had asked Graem about it, once, but Graem hadn't seemed to understand the question. "That's what everyone does," he'd said, shrugging carelessly, as though he'd just been asked why he wrote with his right hand.

But Jack couldn't stand the idea of his mother, hunched and pale like she would get when she was feeling particularly ill, forcing herself up and down the stairs to do chores while he sped around the city without a care in the world. He knew that, for his mother, there were no days off; every day, no matter what, someone had to make dinner, do the dishes, take out the trash; and the idea of that someone being her, on one of her bad days, made Jack feel sick himself.

So, every day after school, he weaved his bike through the now-familiar roads leading to their house — their new house, which, combined with the new school, proved that Jack's father wasn't kidding when he boasted about how well his company was expanding. Jack guessed he and Graem could be considered rich kids now, though the description still sounded foreign, just like the stiff school uniform that still felt like it belonged to someone else. What puzzled him, though, was that Graem, instead of switching schools, had been left in the same public school he'd attended before the move. His parents had said it was so that Graem didn't have to leave his friends, but Jack sensed, somehow, that he wasn't being told the whole truth.

But as he pedaled through the crowded streets, his thoughts weren't on Graem, but on what he would find back home.

There really was no way to know. Some days, he would find his mother reading a book in her favorite armchair, feeling just fine — and he could always tell when she was really fine, not just pretending for his sake. Those were the best days — the ones where he would change out of his school uniform, then run back outside to his bike and see what the other kids were up to.

Other times, he would walk through the door and practically feel the air get heavier, sensing that there was something wrong. His mother might still be in her armchair, but there would be something in her posture that would tip him off, and when she spoke he would hear in her voice what she wouldn't tell him with her words. He would help her into bed, bring her a hot water bottle and a bag of peas from the freezer, draw up a warm bath. He'd call her doctor's office, hurrying the receptionists when they put him on hold, and run to the drugstore for any medicines he didn't have on hand. Then he'd do the dishes from breakfast, make something simple for dinner (pasta or tuna salad or grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup), and, if he was feeling extra industrious, iron that damned school uniform that he'd crumpled in his latest fight at recess. He never really questioned why he, the youngest child, was the one doing these things — whether it was the guilt of being the volevoy rebenok (strong-willed child), as his daycare teachers had called him, who caused most of his mother's stress; or whether it was just because no one else cared enough to pitch in. His mother needed someone, and he was there, and that was all there was to it.

Then there were the worst times: the ones when he came home and found a note on the fridge in shaky, barely-legible cursive, or worse, in handwriting he didn't recognize. He knew what the note would say even before he began to decipher it — things had gotten particularly bad, and his mother was in the hospital.

Then he'd feel himself being torn in two. Should he make the trip to visit her — across the railroad tracks and through those two dangerous intersections she'd told him to stay away from? Or should he get away from it all? Race bikes with the neighbor kids, or climb the tallest tree he could find and try to hang off it by his knees, or go to the beach all by himself and swim to the furthest buoys until his lips were blue from the cold?

With every hospital visit, it became more and more difficult to force himself to endure another. There were the ridiculous rules dictating who could visit whom and when, which most of the time he had to find ways to break because children weren't supposed to visit without a supervising adult. The pallor of his mother's face as she clutched her hospital gown around her and told him that he should go play outside, that he shouldn't be spending his childhood in a place like this. And most of all, the overwhelming helplessness — sitting there by her bed, listening to the beeping of the wall-mounted vital signs monitor that was so far above his head he couldn't see the readings. It reminded him that he was just a kid, just a little piece of flotsam tossed by waves fueled by forces far greater than he, while his mother was drowning, close enough to be within reach. The knowledge unsettled him; he'd start pacing or jumping or trying to do a handstand against the wall, to fool his body and brain into thinking he was doing something when it was so obvious there was nothing he could do. Then one of the nurses would come in, grab him by the wrist and scream at him that this wasn't a playground, and that if he couldn't behave himself, he wouldn't be allowed in to visit a patient ever again. And he'd see the mortified look on his mother's wan face and think to himself that he was only making things worse, and he'd say his goodbyes, run back downstairs to his bike, and speed away before anyone could see him cry.

The doctors drove him crazy, too. He tried to talk to them, ask them what was going on and what he could have done at home to prevent this, but he could never get a straight answer. They coated every word with more sugar than those Cinnabon rolls he always smelled when he was waiting for his dad's plane to get in at LAX. The doctors would tell him that everything was fine, that he should just leave the professionals to their work. It was hard to resist being sarcastic and snapping at them that, yes, he could see what great work the "professionals" were doing. His faith in them grew weaker every time his mother was admitted.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Jack could see the white colonial that he still struggled to think of as partly his; he had arrived. He bounded up the stairs; the sound of his keys turning in the door was almost deafening as it broke through the quiet stillness inside the house. "Mom, I'm home," he called cautiously, but he heard only the ticking of the living room clock and the soft whir of the air conditioning in response.

His stomach twisted into a knot as he ran to check the fridge — no note. The knot tightened; she always left a note when she wasn't home. What had happened? Was she unconscious, like that time last year when she'd fainted and Jack had had to call an ambulance to pick her up?

Jack's feet, almost in autopilot, carried him through every room in the house, scouring every nook and cranny, even the broom closet at the foot of the stairs. Nothing.

Suddenly he felt unsteady on his feet, like in those dreams he sometimes had where he was being chased by a monster, but when he tried to run, it was like wading through molasses. His head felt heavy and sluggish, as though his skull had been filled with lead. Through the panic that was starting to claw at him, he remembered there was one place he hadn't yet checked — and if she wasn't there, then, well, he didn't quite know what to do.

Using his whole body weight to make the motion faster, he slid open the door to the veranda behind the house, the soles of his oxfords pounding against the wood — and then he sank into one of the rickety patio chairs, the weight lifting as suddenly as it had crashed down on him. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, registering a slight burn in his lungs as his pounding heart slowly returned to a more normal pace.

"Jack!" His mother turned around, and for an instant he thought he saw a flash of surprise and guilt pass over her face — brow furrowing, eyes widening, the corners of her mouth turning down slightly — closely resembling the way Graem would look when Jack spotted one of his own toys in Graem's room. The expression returned when she glanced down at her watch, then looked back up at him with a forced cheer that made him think she was hiding something. "Wow, is it past three already?"

Jack nodded. "Hi, mom." His voice wobbled slightly as leftover adrenaline ran through his veins, the earlier rush still not having fully worn off. It felt silly, now, that he'd gotten himself so worked up — there were so many explanations for why his mother had left home without a note that didn't involve her being in danger. But somehow his mind had jumped to assuming the worst.

"Are you all right, honey?"

Jack could hear the worry creeping into his mom's face, and his response was automatic. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

That was when he noticed the pieces of metal strewn all across the lawn. His mother was holding a screwdriver in her hand, attaching them together in a precise order. Understanding now what was going on, he felt a grin pull at the muscles of his face.

"Well," Nancy Bauer sighed, lowering the screwdriver to the grass, "I guess the surprise is ruined."

Ever since the Bauers had moved here, and Jack had seen the backyard (a real backyard, not a little strip of concrete like they'd had back at their old house), what he'd wanted more than anything was a set of monkey bars that would fit perfectly in the back corner of the yard. He'd asked for one for Christmas, but had been denied — part of his punishment for breaking the window of his father's study during a game of backyard baseball. Now, with two days left until his seventh birthday, he could see that he was getting his wish. He sprang out of the patio chair, all worry forgotten, and sprinted across the yard, throwing his arms around his mother in a warm hug.

But as soon as he touched her, he felt it — the rigid, stiff pattern of movement that meant she wasn't feeling very well. Her arms wrapped around him at an awkward angle, and he could feel that her hands were puffier than usual, more inflamed. He pulled back and looked up at her with concern. "Mom, didn't the doctor say sunlight was bad for you?"

"Hey, who's the parent here?" She ruffled his hair gently. "Don't worry. I'm wearing lots of sunscreen, and this hat will help protect me, too."

Jack eyed the wide-brimmed straw hat skeptically. "Thank you for this, Mom," he said genuinely, gesturing at the disheveled pieces of metal that would soon make up the play equipment for which he had so hoped. "I really appreciate it. But I don't think you should be out here putting it together."

Nancy sighed. "Your father was going to do it, but he called me this morning — he has to take an important trip for work. He'll be gone all weekend."

Somehow, the idea of his father missing his birthday bothered Jack less than the sight of his sick mother doing the work his father had left undone. "Why don't I do it?" he offered, bending down to pick up the screwdriver. "You go inside and rest…"

"No, Jack, it's sweet of you to offer, but this is really a job for an adult."

Jack tried not to take offense; he knew the comment was meant lovingly. But he still resented all the things in this world that adults got to do that kids didn't. "Okay," he conceded, "but at least let me help you."

Nancy pulled him back into the hug, nestling his head against her chest. "Deal," she whispered. "You're a good kid, Jack, you know that?"

Jack didn't know how to respond, so he just picked up the instruction manual from the ground and studied it intently. "What step are you on?"

Until his family moved yet again, Jack would spend a good portion of every week on those monkey bars. But looking back, the best memory he had of them, by far, was assembling those parts in the yard with his mother, the two of them working together to figure out which piece went where.

He'd always been good at breaking things. But standing there, admiring the finished product, even after his mom had gone in for a nap — he realized that maybe he could be good at putting things together, too.