Following Jeremy Broadstreet's funeral, Jordan's mother sauntered through life as though nothing had happened. She set her eyes on her son and became more demanding.

"From now on, you are the man in the family," she instructed upon his arrival from school.

Jordan stared at her with his hand in the Garfield cookie jar. His fingers released the snickerdoodle. Lightly, it clunked against the other treats and settled. Jordan's stomach clenched. At age eight, he did not feel like a man.

Replacing the lid on the cookie jar, Jordan wandered into the living room. Perching on the couch, he lowered his head into his hands. Tears clung to his lashes. He missed his father. His home held an expectant feeling like something was about to happen.

Busily, his mother prepared dinner in the kitchen. The scent of a roasting chicken filled the air. He heard the slick rasp and click of the potato peeler. Then, the sound of running water filling the pan. He wondered if his mother missed his father.

Sam skipped downstairs and into the kitchen. The screen door opened and slammed. Glancing out the window, Jordan watched his little brother pedal his bike along the sidewalk. In front of the house, Sam rode back and forth. His head bent over the handlebars, and he raced his shadow.

Rising, Jordon exited through the side door. He took his bike out of the garage and joined Sam. Together, they rode up the street and around the corner. Two blocks away stood an empty lot. During the previous week, three mounds of yellow sand appeared on that lot. The sign on the sidewalk showed the design for a new house called The Grenville.

Leaning determinedly forward, Jordan pedaled his bike up the steep sand mound. At the top, he waved at Sam. Then, whooping loudly, he plummeted down the other side. His little brother followed him.

Alf Hammersmith and Mark Clemment joined them. Both boys attended school in the same grade as Jordan. They weren't particularly friends—Jordan had no real companions his age. However, they hung around occasionally.

Up and down the sandhills, they raced. Behind them, the sun began its decline. No one noticed. When Sam's legs wore out, he dropped his bike and dug in the sand. Jordan ignored him. He delighted in his playtime.

Jordan rarely went out to play. Mother kept him busy in the house. Wearily, he completed the multitude of chores assigned to him. Then, he focused on his homework. On the other hand, Sam spent most of his time entertaining himself. The older brother felt envious of the younger child.

When he could escape, Jordan enjoyed himself. He longed to forge a friendship with Alf and Mark. Perhaps they would invite him to their homes after school. He knew other kids who played at friends' houses once class let out.

As Jordan prepared his final plunge down the steep hill, the orange sun hovered on the horizon. His butt hovered over the seat and his foot above the pedal. Leaning forward, he gripped the handlebars. The front wheel rotated, and he felt his body propel headlong down the bank. Then, abruptly his bike disappeared from beneath him.

"Jordan Alexander Broadstreet!" his mother yelled, grasping his arm. Roughly, she spun him around.

Jordan's eyes flew open wide. Terror etched his expression. At the bottom of the sandhill, Alf and Mark gaped at him. Dragging him and his bicycle, Mathilda Broadstreet strode to the sidewalk. She called Sam to follow them and marched her son home.

"What did I instruct you about leaving the property?" Jordan's mother briskly demanded.

The boy sat on the couch. Angrily, his parent loomed above him. Tears flooded his eyes.

"I told you not to leave without permission," she continued menacingly. "I didn't know where Sam was."

'Sam,' Jordan thought. It was always about Sam—mother's little darling when it came right down to it.

"I...I," the child stuttered. His mind grappled for an excuse. Instead, behind his eyes, he saw Alf and Mark gaping at him. After watching his mother dress him down, they would not want him as a friend.

"What did I tell you about being the man around here?" she continued her tirade. "Now your father's gone, you have to take responsibility. Sam depends on you."

'Sam never depended upon anybody,' Jordan decided to himself. Sam drifted through life without a care in the world.

Rising, Jordan slumped toward the stairway. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he ascended to the second floor. Plopping onto his bed, he stared at the wall. The black cat clock mocked him. Its tail swung in rhythm with its creepy eyes. Inadvertently, he focused all his frustrations upon the evil timepiece. It kept him from hating his mother.