"Just promise me one thing," Frank requested of his brother as he stepped out of the Sheriff’s office and glanced up at the approaching helicopter.

Joe Hardy looked a little puzzled. "What?" 

Frank grinned. "Whatever you do, don’t hit your head climbing aboard. You can be a dangerous enemy- and I don’t want you trying to push me out of that chopper at two thousand feet!"

Joe managed a thin smile for the joke, then turned to watch the chopper settle gracefully to the ground in a nearby empty parking lot. Dust and sand whipped through the air as the two teens hurried toward the opening doors. Ducking to avoid being decapitated by the churning rotors, Joe climbed in, followed by Frank, who closed the door securely behind him. The pilot gave them both a brief nod and pointed to the earphone-headsets hanging from hooks before them. Joe quickly pulled a set on, adjusting it to keep the noise and pressure to a minimum, then fastened his safety harness. Frank, he noted, had done just the opposite, putting on his harness first and then reaching for the headset.

‘He doesn’t really think I’d try to...well, maybe he does," the seventeen-year-old told himself grimly, stealing a guilt-laden look at his older brother’s bruised face. Then again, maybe Frank was just being his usual cautious self.

"Ready?" an unfamiliar voice squawked in his ear. Joe started and looked at the pilot, who was looking at them from behind dark sunglasses. He nodded, glancing at Frank, who was nodding, too. "Orders say I’m to take you to Denver airport to catch a plane?" Joe nodded again. At Denver, they would find a flight to Bayport- hopefully within a couple hours. He didn’t relish the thought of staying a day or two in a Colorado hotel, waiting for a flight home. 

The chopper lurched briefly, then lifted smoothly into the air. Joe experienced a sudden surge of uneasiness in his gut as they lifted above the treetops. What if this guy wasn’t trustworthy? What if he had something planned- something like kidnapping, murder- ‘Knock it off,’ he told himself, gripping his legs with quivering hands and trying to make himself calm down. ‘Dad sent him- he’s not gonna do anything but what he was told to do.’ Still, he watched the pilot surreptitiously for a while, keeping an eye on the instruments and particularly on the compass. Both the Hardys were fairly familiar with the controls in aircraft- though more with some than others- and Joe’s unease faded as he saw they were headed in the right direction. 

After about half an hour of monotonous flight, Joe dismissed his concern as foolish. Just because a hit man had been after him and Rita Tabor for the last few days didn’t mean every stranger around him was somehow out to get him, he reminded himself firmly.

Rita...

Joe sighed and leaned back, gazing through the cockpit window, but not seeing the wide-open sky before him. Pretty green-eyed, red-haired Rita, who’d taken care of him while he was...sick; whose life- along with her father’s- had been in danger from the hit man. Whose father, Mark Tabor, alias ‘Uncle Delbert’, was now dead. Who was returning to the witness protection program.

Whom he’d never see again. 

My father was approached by some organized-crime types. They wanted him to go along with a construction scheme to defraud the government... to overprice the cost of supplies needed for some public building. Then they’d charge the government for the inflated costs and pocket the difference. It would’ve meant millions in illegal profits...Dad went along with it, after he notified the authorities. They asked him to help gather evidence. The mobsters were arrested, but figured they’d get off, since there was no hard evidence. But they didn’t know about my dad. He testified at the trial and the mobsters were convicted and sent to prison... 

Joe winced, remembering the bitterness in Rita’s voice when she’d told him how the mob’s hit men had kidnapped and murdered her mother to try and keep her father from testifying. The anger with which she’d spoken of the new trial, granted on a technicality. And the frightening bleakness with which she’d spoken of being on the run ever since.

He wished he could help, somehow. Maybe his responsibility had technically ended when Skell, the hit man, was caught, but he wanted to do more. Then Joe shook his head, his mouth twisting bitterly. He’d saved her from one hit man. But only barely- only because his brother wouldn’t give up. Joe himself had bungled the job so badly that they’d been seconds away from being shot. If Frank hadn’t created that diversion...

Frank. Joe sneaked another look at his brother and saw with surprise that the older Hardy had fallen asleep, slumped against the helicopter seat. A wave of guilt swept over him as he saw the bruises and cuts marring Frank’s face- bruises Joe had inflicted in his amnesia-driven fury. 

‘I didn’t know,’ he reminded himself, trying to choke off the misery inside him. ‘I didn’t know. I thought he was the killer. I was trying to protect her...hell, I didn’t even know my own name, much less his!’

‘You could’ve stopped to ask...’ a little voice inside him whispered.

‘Why would I have believed him? I knew someone was after us- someone who’d killed her father. And...I thought...’

"Here we are," the pilot’s voice crackled in Joe’s ear. Frank jerked upright and blinked around, rubbed his eyes and then made a face as he encountered several bruises in the process. Joe pulled his guilty gaze away from his brother and stared at the fast-approaching Denver airport. It looked like a toy, so far away, but it was a welcome sight. Soon they’d be headed home.

"We have to wait how long?" Joe asked, his voice tense with exasperation.

Frank Hardy looked at his brother’s frustrated face and wondered what the problem was. Then he shrugged mentally, reminding himself that impatience was one of the younger boy’s most enduring, if not endearing, qualities. "We’re on a waiting list, so it could be any time between twenty-four and forty-eight hours," he repeated patiently. "They’ll put us up in the hotel, though- no charge."

Joe shoved at his messy blond hair and glowered at the ticket counter. He muttered something under his breath; Frank didn’t feel inclined to inquire what it was. 

"What’s the problem, anyway?" he asked reasonably. "I know I could go for some down-time, and you look like you could use a good meal, a shower, and about twenty hours of sleep." He frowned a little at the look that flickered in Joe’s blue eyes at the remark. Guilt? "After all," he went on, and then gestured at the younger boy.

Joe looked down, his eyes widening a little as he took in his torn, dirty, sweat-and-blood stained clothes. Then he looked at Frank, also clad in the outfit he’d put on when he left Bayport, and smiled slightly, the frustration leaving his face. "Okay, I guess we should spare a thought for our fellow travelers, whoever they turn out to be. Let’s go get cleaned up."

"First, I think we’re going to need some new clothes," Frank pointed out, and led the way through the airport to the hotel bus-port. "No point taking a shower and then having nothing to put on afterwards."

A quick bus ride to the Hotel Marriot, a brief stop in the Hotel’s shopping mall, a hasty check-in, and a long, very hot shower later, Frank stood at the window of the hotel room and looked out over the city of Denver. The water was still running in the bathroom; Joe’s new jeans and shirt lay on one of the two beds. Frank’s own new clothes were slightly stiff, particularly the jeans, but that would wear off soon enough. His old ones he’d stuffed into the trash can; it hadn’t taken much more than a glance to determine that they were finished as clothes. If cleaned, they might make decent dust-rags, but he wasn’t going to go to the trouble.

The bruises on his face hardly hurt at all now, but they were certainly turning some ugly colors, the dark-haired youth mused, remembering the view of his reflection when he’d shaved off two days worth of stubble. The bruises on his body were still a little sore, as were some muscles that he’d strained, but all in all, he’d gotten through this one more or less intact. And he’d found his brother- thank goodness! Frank smiled slightly, remembering how frantically worried he’d been at Joe’s long silence. He’d known something was wrong- that Joe needed help- and he’d been correct. 

The bathroom door opened and Frank glanced over as his brother stepped out and crossed the room quickly. The wet towel landed on the bed as Joe pulled on his own new clothes. "Feel better?" he inquired.

"Oh yeah." Joe sat down on the bed and started rubbing the towel over his damp hair, not looking up. 

Frank frowned. Something was still wrong. It wasn’t like Joe to avert his gaze that way, nor to be so reticent. "Hungry?"

"Definitely." Again the brief, almost shy comment.

"Let’s go see what they’ve got in the way of food, then." Frank was a little tired, but he was hungry too, and it would give him a chance to observe Joe a little more closely, try to figure out what was bugging him. 

When the duo returned to their room after a solid, late lunch at the Marriot’s restaurant, Frank was still rather stymied. Joe had consistently avoided looking at him, and still had very little to say. Maybe he was upset about Rita, the pretty girl he’d had to leave behind. Or maybe he didn’t want to go into details about the case with so many people around. ‘Probably both,’ Frank told himself. He’d been jittery, too, on edge and wary of whoever got too close for his comfort. That was normal for both the Hardys after a tough case; it took a little time to get out of super-alert mode.

But what was it with that guilty look that hovered in Joe’s eyes every time he looked up? Was Joe blaming himself for not saving Mark Tabor, Rita’s father? It would be just like him to do so, never mind that he’d had amnesia from the hit man’s attack. Maybe that was the whole problem.

"So, what happened?" Frank asked quietly, stretching out on the bed he’d selected and giving his brother a curious look. And frowned again at the blush that rose into Joe’s face, at the averting of the usually-direct gaze. "It’s bugging you, isn’t it?"

"Yeah...I- I feel awful about the whole case."

"Tell me what happened?" Frank repeated coaxingly. Joe sighed and sat down on the other bed, hands pinched between his knees, blue eyes studying the carpet. Then he started to speak, the words coming slowly, hesitantly.

Getting off the plane in Denver. Driving through the mountains in the rental car their father had arranged for. Pausing at a tourist spot for a bathroom and snack break and impulsively sending a jackalope postcard to his brother. 

Night falling, and a near collision with a stalled car. A man with a flat tire and no jack. Checking the rental car’s trunk for a jack to lend- and a sudden crack over his head that sent him unconscious. 

Waking, locked in the trunk, and hearing someone moving outside. Calling for help, and getting none. The brake released, the car rolling, the frenzied panic of trying to get out before the gas tank blew him to smithereens. The trunk flying open, and the horrifying sight of the rock-strewn ravine... and a final, sudden impact that brought darkness, and then pain, and then more darkness.

"So you got hit twice on the head in the space of about twenty minutes," Frank murmured, looking worriedly at his brother’s bowed head. He could see the purplish bruise near Joe’s temple and recalled the bandage that he’d seen on his brother’s head several days before. From a distance, he’d thought it was a man wearing a turban. "No wonder you couldn’t remember. So Rita found you?"

"More like I found her. I don’t think I was completely conscious, but I was afraid the guy would come back and finish the job, so I followed the trail." 

Frank nodded, remembering. "I saw the car, they were hauling it out when I got into the area. I drove a little way further on, then hid the car and came back to look around. Found your trail. I wasn’t too far behind you- I was in the clearing when the cabin went up. Knocked me out for a bit."

Joe lifted his eyes for a moment, hesitated, then went on. 

Waking in the cabin from a long series of nightmares, finding to his shock that he’d inadvertently attacked Rita. Struggling to remember his name and mission, only remembering there was something he had to do. ‘Uncle Delbert’ returning with supplies. Delbert making him leave with Rita, and Rita returning to the cabin to try and convince her ‘uncle’ to go with them. Delbert’s refusal, his explanation that he was terminally ill. Leaving the cabin- and then- the explosion. 

"You pretty much know the rest, I guess," he added after a pause. "I had a few little flickers of memory come through, and ‘hit man’ was one of them. I was trying to get to the sheriff, thinking he’d actually help, not hinder, but you saw how well that worked out." Joe grimaced and shrugged. "I guess I can’t blame him. No ID, a very convenient memory loss, and a wild story about a hit man. Kinda out of his league."

"I wondered if you thought I was the hit man," Frank replied slowly. "Though I couldn’t tell why you’d think so, for a while. But when it became pretty clear that you didn’t know who I was..."

Joe flinched, looking away. "It was the truck," he sighed. "You rammed into the truck, and I thought it was on purpose."

Frank’s eyes widened a little. "I tried to stop, but I hit the brakes just a second too late. Didn’t even know you were around, Joe."

"We were hiding down the slope a ways," Joe explained. 

"Then you saw me looking-"

"For bodies."

"Well-" Frank sighed. "I suppose technically, yes, but I had in mind that I wanted to find survivors." He shrugged, dismissing the matter. "I can see where we crossed wires, anyway. And-"

"Iola..." Joe’s voice was just a whisper. "But not Rita."

Frank froze and gazed at his brother in concern. "Iola? What about Iola?" 

No reply. Was this what the guilt was about. "Joe?"

"Joe?"

Joe Hardy stood up from the bed and walked to the window. He couldn’t face his brother. He hadn’t meant Frank to hear. Drawing aside the curtain, he stared out at the city far below, shimmering in the late-afternoon heat. Sighing, he leaned his aching forehead against the cool glass. "You killed Iola. I wasn’t going to let you kill Rita, too." The words came without his will, almost without his awareness, and he shivered at the bitterness in them.

Stunned silence filled the room. He waited; Frank said nothing, but Joe could feel his brother’s brown eyes on him.

"It was almost all I could remember," he murmured at length, when Frank continued to say nothing. "I- all the time I was in the cabin, I kept getting- flashbacks, I guess. Al-Rousasa. Hammerlock. Others. But I didn’t know who they were. I even saw Mom and Dad, but they were just faces, people I didn’t know... But I kept seeing Iola, and the car blowing up. And me trying to- to get to her, and someone- you- stopping me. When I came to, the only one I recognized was Iola. Then I remembered ‘hit man’, and put the two together. The hit man had kept me from saving Iola, and was trying to kill Rita." 

He paused. Still no sound from Frank. Joe shifted position slightly and saw his brother’s wavery reflection in the glass. Frank had sat up, was turned toward him, but there wasn’t enough detail to make out his expression.

"I didn’t realize the hit man in my nightmares was the person in your rental car at first, but when you caught up with us... That’s why I didn’t stop to ask any questions, just- attacked. It’s a good thing Rita was with me."

"Why?" A tired-sounding murmur.

"I’ll finish you for good this time." The rock in his hand; Rita wresting it away from him. "What are you doing?! He could be your brother- he even looks like you!" The strange sense of relief...

"It was weird, I remembered the postcard. Rita said something about a jackalope and I remembered sending the jackalope postcard to my brother. But I couldn’t remember him. And it was weird, too, that she said- she looked at you and said you could be my brother. That- that was after she took the rock away from me."

"The rock?"

Joe swallowed. "People who make their livings murdering others- deserve to die."

"Would you have done it, if she hadn’t stopped you?" Frank sounded incredibly calm, considering.

"I...don’t know. I wanted to. But I wanted to kill Al-Rousasa, too, and I didn’t. I really don’t know."

Soft sounds- Joe looked into the glass and saw his brother get up from the bed, walk towards him.

"I didn’t realize you were still so angry at me for stopping you, there in the parking lot. I guess you’re never really going to forgive me for saving your life that afternoon."

The words were gentle, but they stung nonetheless. Joe suddenly felt ungrateful, guilty. Guiltier; Frank had risked his life to save Joe’s that day. Had risked it again the past day to save him from Skell. He ought to be grateful. For today, he was, but for then- for that day when Iola lost her life- how could he be grateful for that? "I could’ve saved her-"

"You could not," Frank said softly, flatly. "Joe, we were fifty feet away, at least, and we both had first-degree burns the next day. Twenty feet closer and your clothes would’ve been ablaze. Ten feet beyond that, and you would’ve collapsed from the heat and smoke inhalation, and you would’ve been dead before anyone could get you away." He was standing behind Joe now, and suddenly his hand touched Joe’s neck, drawing the chain up and out from his shirt. "Look at them for what they are, brother. Melted. Melted metal. It would’ve been like walking into a forge oven."

Joe stared at the melted, twisted keys in his brother’s hand and then closed his eyes. A fireball tore through his memory, swallowing up the face of the only girl he’d ever loved. His hands started to shake.

"If you want to keep hating me for it, I guess I can’t stop you. But I couldn’t stand there and let you kill yourself and do nothing to stop you." The sudden resignation in Frank’s voice was troubling. The keys fell from Frank’s hand, thudded softly against Joe’s chest as the older boy turned away.

Joe swallowed, looking down at the lump of metal, the words churning in his mind. "I should have saved her," he repeated in a whisper. "But I...couldn’t." Because Frank had stopped him. Because Frank had feared for his life. And maybe...maybe he’d been right to fear. Maybe there would have been two memorial services, not just one, if Frank hadn’t stopped him.

The bed creaked as his brother lay down on it. Joe turned, staring deliberately at Frank’s bruises, at his weary face. His brother would forgive him in a second, if he asked- had probably already forgiven him, not holding him responsible for what he did when he wasn’t in his right mind. But Joe would never quite forgive himself for hurting his brother. Attacking him. Punching him, beating him unconscious...hating the person who he thought had taken Iola from him.

Wasn’t hatred a kind of hurt? How could he continue to hold this grudge, this resentment, for someone who’d acted from love? Someone who always tried to protect him- someone who’d just come a thousand miles to find him and help him. And who’d continued to try to help him, saving Joe’s life despite Joe’s too-ready fists. "Frank..."

"Mmm?"

Joe moved to the side of the bed, sat down on it. "I’m- sorry I hurt you."

"You didn’t know," his brother sighed. "I told you-"

"And-"

Silence.

"And I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you before, about this."

Frank turned his head and met Joe’s eyes. The query was plain in his expression. Joe put his hand to his neck, touched the chain. "We- I should’ve talked to you about it a long time ago. Maybe then, this-" he gestured defeatedly at his brother’s bruises- "wouldn’t’ve happened."

Frank’s eyebrows arched as he considered that. "Maybe. Maybe not. If I’d had the sense to say something different when I caught up to you, things might have gone a lot more smoothly."

I was afraid you’d gotten away from me- that I wasn’t going to catch you.

"Well...yeah, maybe," Joe agreed hesitantly. "It was a sort of ambiguous remark." The boys shared a brief, rather rueful smile. "Frank, I haven’t been hating you. I have... resented what you did, but I haven’t hated you for it. I knew you were trying to help me. I just- I didn’t-"

"You didn’t want to be helped," Frank concluded wryly. 

"I wanted help to save her, not me. I didn’t want to die," he added quickly. "But I wasn’t worried about me dying. I was terrified of Iola dying."

His brother nodded slowly, raising one hand to brush back his dark hair. "That’s you all over, when people are in danger," he agreed gravely. "You completely stop thinking about yourself, and think of them instead." He sat up, grasped Joe’s shoulder. "That’s why it’s my job to think about what you’re getting yourself into, and that’s why I have to hold you back. Because sometimes, the best you can do isn’t going to be enough. Those are the times when I can’t let you try, because you won’t quit till either you succeed, or you’re dead." The eighteen-year-old paused, taking a deep breath. "And I don’t want to lose you," he finished simply.

Joe stared at him, caught between perplexity, affection, and a touch of irritation. "So I should just- just-"

"Just keep trying to do your best to help people," Frank told him slowly, making each word count. "But when your best isn’t enough, don’t tell yourself that you’re a complete failure. Grieve, yes. Feel regret, even guilt, yes. But don’t let it become the central fact of your life. If you’re punishing yourself with the past, your likelihood of success in the present and future is gonna drop pretty badly. Guilt’s great for undermining confidence and determination."

Joe stared down at the mangled keys, seeing the jail cell close in around him, the hit man’s sneer, the gun pointed at him. "And objectivity," he agreed, shaking the vision off.

"Well, objectivity-" Frank paused and gave him a rueful look.

"Exactly. I can’t afford to lose what little I’ve got."

A smile crossed the older boy’s face. "You said it, not me," he responded slyly, tossing an arm around Joe’s shoulders. Joe rolled his eyes, then leaned forward and hugged his brother, being a bit cautious as he did so. He didn’t want to add any more bruises to Frank’s collection.

"Thanks for coming after me, brother." Such an inadequate remark; how did you thank someone for loving you? Wasn’t it sort of an insult, to suggest that loyalty and caring could be rewarded with mere words? "When I realized it was you- I was so glad to see you. And I feel awful..." Joe gave up and sighed. He never had been very good at turning his feelings into words.

"It’s okay- you’d’ve come after me, right, partner?"

"In a second."

"I couldn’t sit still any longer at home, worrying what you’d gotten into. I knew something was very wrong- though you wouldn’t believe the arguing I had to do to get Dad to let me come out here."

"I might believe it," Joe mused, diverted. "Dad can get pretty stubborn sometimes. Though I’m not really one to talk, I guess."

"No, you’re not." Frank sat up again and grinned at him. "But I outstubborned him in the end, so I guess I’m not, either." He tousled Joe’s hair. "And don’t feel bad. At least try not to. I admit, I was pretty startled and not too happy to be pounded on, but all the same, I was glad you were alive and obviously healthy."

"Healthy," Joe muttered as he tried to straighten out his hair. "I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Ow," he added, flinching as his fingers brushed against the bruise on his head. "I’m lucky Rita knew something about treating head wounds. I was a major mess by the time I ran into her by the river. She told me they were considering taking me to the hospital, if I didn’t wake up fairly soon." He shivered a little, remembering the horrible panic that had consumed him when Rita asked his name and he couldn’t answer. "Don’t ever get amnesia, bro, it’s scary."

"I believe it," Frank answered gravely. "Speaking of which, we should probably get you to a doctor and get you checked out." At Joe’s mildly exasperated look, Frank added, "Better than waiting till you get home, getting checked out, and getting yelled at for not having it looked at sooner, right?"

"Well..." Joe sighed, envisioning his mother and aunt and their reactions to his amnesia. "I suppose you’re right. And there should be a doctor in the hotel, anyway... Okay. Might as well get it over with. But I hope," he added sourly, standing up, "that they don’t call to tell us our seats are available while we’re out. It’d be just our luck!"

"Well, you never know," Frank pointed out as Joe opened the door. "If we miss the plane, we might run headlong into a mystery..."

"Mom and Dad would kill us. Speaking of which, you did call them to let them know everything’s okay, didn’t you?"

"I did," Frank agreed, closing the door behind him. "They were both very relieved, and then they both ordered us to get home as soon as possible."

"If we call and tell ‘em we’re on standby, maybe Dad’ll send Jack Wayne to pick us up," Joe suggested.

"Maybe so. But what’s with this mad urge to get home?"

Joe’s footsteps slowed as he considered the question, and he finally gave Frank a slightly sheepish grin. "Paranoia," he explained. "You know- the inability to relax, feeling that something else is going to happen? Besides, now that I remember home, I just really want to see my stuff- and Mom and Dad- and the town- everything I’d forgotten."

"Ah." Frank touched his shoulder, then jabbed the elevator call-button. "Well, then, maybe after we see the doc, we can do a little scouting and find a faster way home."

"That’s a great idea," Joe deadpanned. "I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself."

Laughing, the two boys stepped onto the elevator and the doors slid closed behind them.

"Joe! Oh, thank goodness." Laura Hardy wrapped her younger son in a hug as soon as he stepped off the six-seater plane. "I was so worried..." She pushed him gently back and gazed anxiously at the bruise decorating his temple. "Oh, my dear, what happened to you?" 

"It was a close encounter with a big stone," Joe explained ruefully. Fenton Hardy stepped closer and gave his son a brief embrace as Laura turned to give Frank a hug, too. "Thanks for sending Jack," he added to his father, turning to wave farewell to their old friend. The pilot waved back, then disappeared into the hanger as the Hardy family proceeded to the parking lot. It was midday; the boys had been obliged to spend the night in the Denver hotel, but Jack Wayne had arrived early that morning to bring them home. 

"I’m glad Sam’s case got wrapped up more quickly than he expected, or you’d probably still be waiting," the detective remarked. Jack Wayne had been transporting Mr. Hardy’s operative on another, unrelated but highly secretive mission. "So what happened? Frank told us that one of the witnesses was murdered..."

Joe nodded as his father trailed off, and briefly recapped the case. Frank noticed that the version his brother was giving differed in details from the account he’d gotten the day before. This was typical among the Hardys, and he wouldn’t’ve dreamed of tattling, but it still made him feel a little uneasy.

"So the daughter’s going back to the witness protection and the mob people have one more count against them," the blond boy concluded.

"My gracious." Laura opened the car door and shot a rather reproachful look at her husband. "If I’d known it was so dangerous... And what about that bruise? Did you get that looked at?" she asked, suddenly stern.

"Yes, I did." 

Joe glanced at Frank, who gave him a wink and mouthed, ‘I told you so.’ 

‘Shut up,’ he mouthed back. "Frank made me, even though I felt fine," he concluded, getting into the back seat.

"I’m glad to hear it," Laura replied. "Amnesia is nothing to mess with, Joe, and you wouldn’t want it recurring."

Joe’s expression turned serious. "No, that’s true. It was really unpleasant...unnerving." There was a brief silence as Fenton started the car and drove out of the parking lot. "Anything interesting happen while I was gone?"

"Nothing in particular. Things have gotten pretty quiet lately, I don’t have anything for you guys to work on," their father replied, amusement in his voice. "You’ll just have to find your own distractions until things pick up again."

Frank and Joe traded a glance and a grin. "I’m sure we can find something to occupy ourselves," Joe started.

"Specially now that the trouble-magnet is home again."

"You’re just as much a trouble-magnet as I am, Frank!"

"Nowhere near it, little brother!"

"Oh yeah? 

"Yeah!"

"I bet the next trouble we land in will be all your doing."

"I’ll take that bet! How much?"

"Well, I guess we can say the peace and quiet is over for the time being, dear," Laura joked to her husband as Joe tried to think of an appropriate amount to risk.

"You’d think they were still in Elementary school," Fenton replied, his eyes twinkling. "Shall we send them to their rooms, or make them go without dessert?"

"Both?"

"Hey, that’s cruel and unusual punishment!" Joe protested, laughing. 

"Yeah, we’re supposed to fight and argue. You know you’d start wondering what was wrong if we didn’t," Frank added slyly. 

The banter continued as the car wound smoothly over the roads to the suburbs of the small city. At last it turned down a street lined with elm trees and pulled smoothly into the corner driveway. Joe Hardy was the first out of the car, and stood gazing at the big stone house for several moments.

"Okay, son?" Fenton asked, coming to his side.

"Sure thing," Joe replied cheerfully. "It’s just good to be home." His eye caught Frank’s, and the boys smiled at each other. "Very good to be home."