Summer and Nate caught up to Trevor and Pigeon, who were waiting behind other kids. Mr. Stott was handing a red-white-and-blue Popsicle to a young black girl. He looked to be in his late sixties or seventies. His silver beard hung halfway down his chest and had a pair of dark streaks that ran from his chin almost to the end of his whiskers. His bushy eyebrows dipped and bobbed expressively, and he wore his silver hair smoothed back close to his scalp. Notwithstanding his age, Mr. Stott was robust, with a gruff, grandfatherly voice.

“Any of you guys have money?” Trevor begged. “I’ll pay you back.”

“My mom gave me a ten this morning,” Pigeon said reluctantly. “I’m supposed to buy white fudge on the way home.”

“Spot me?” Trevor persisted. “What I want is only fifty cents.”

Pigeon had reached the front of the line. Only the four of them remained beside the truck.

“Here are some familiar faces,” Mr. Stott chuckled. “Trevor, Pigeon, Summer . . . and I’m not sure I’ve met you.”

“Nate,” Summer said.

“Hi,” Nate said with a little wave.

“Good to meet you,” Mr. Stott boomed. “Sebastian Stott, at your service.”

“Where have you been, Mr. Stott?” Trevor asked.

“Here and there,” Mr. Stott said. “At my age, an extended vacation now and again helps keep the motor running. Why, were you looking for me down at the cemetery?”

“No,” Trevor and Pigeon said together.

“I hope not. I anticipate several more encores before the curtain falls. What can I get you?”

“Whatever Trevor wants and a frozen banana,” Pigeon said.

“You’re putting up the cash today, huh?” Mr. Stott said, pulling a chocolate-dipped banana out of the freezer. “Hope that means he’ll be paying tomorrow.”

“I’ll pay him back,” Trevor promised. “I’ll have a Lightning Rod.”

“Good choices,” Mr. Stott said, taking a striped frozen fruit bar from the freezer. “I dip the bananas and make the Lightning Rods myself, you know.”

“They’re the best,” Pigeon said.

“I was correct to assume you’re still going by ‘Pigeon’?” Mr. Stott asked.

“Yep,” Pigeon said, unwrapping his treat.

“You might outgrow that moniker soon. You’re going to have to upgrade to a bigger bird. Let’s see . . . how about Condor?”

“Maybe,” Pigeon said noncommittally. He looked over his shoulder. “You guys want anything?”

“What about your mom?” Summer said.

“Honestly, as long as I come home with fudge, I don’t think she’ll be counting the change,” Pigeon said.

“You wouldn’t be referring to fudge from that new Sweet Tooth place?” Mr. Stott interjected. “That shop is going to run me out of business.”

“No way,” Trevor said. “She doesn’t drive around.”

Mr. Stott scrunched his eyebrows. “I don’t know . . . have you kids tried that white fudge of hers?”

They all shook their heads.

Mr. Stott scratched his beard just below the corner of his mouth. “Might be safer to keep it that way. I don’t know what she puts in that stuff, but after the first bite, it is hard to resist. I’m not sure she needs to drive through neighborhoods in order to ruin me.”

“I’ll have a Tooty Fruity,” Summer said.

“Sure you have enough to cover all this?” Mr. Stott asked Pigeon in a confidential tone.

Pigeon proudly flashed the ten-dollar bill.

“And Mrs. Bowen won’t mind?” Mr. Stott pursued.

“I’m feeling good about my chances,” Pigeon said.

“One Tooty Fruity coming up,” Mr. Stott announced in a more boisterous voice. “How about you, Nate?”

“You have candy too?” Nate asked.

“It’s the Candy Wagon,” Mr. Stott said, slapping the poster beneath the window that listed a broad array of treats and snacks. He handed Summer her Tooty Fruity.

“I’ll just have a piece of red licorice,” Nate said.

“Just a piece of licorice? Licorice is part of a proud candy tradition. I’ll even spice it up for you, if you want, make it a Powder Keg.”

“A Powder Keg?” Nate repeated.

“Easiest thing in the world,” Mr. Stott said. “An old favorite with some extra kick.” His hands began doing the work he was describing. “Tear off the end of a piece of red licorice. Dump in the contents of a Pixie Stick. And voila! Instant Powder Keg!”

“Thanks,” Nate said, accepting the candy.

Mr. Stott winked. “You stay in this business as long as I have, you learn a trick or two. That will be a dollar seventy.”

“Your prices are so low,” Nate remarked.

“Easier to say when you’re not paying, right, Pigeon?” Mr. Stott took the ten and handed Pigeon his change. “But yes, I take pride in the fact that I have not raised my prices for almost twenty years.”

“If Mrs. White is putting on the pressure with her candy shop,” Trevor said, “we’d be glad to pay a little more.”

“Very kind,” Mr. Stott said, “but somehow I think I’ll survive. You can’t take those long vacations unless you’ve put aside a healthy nest egg.” He winked. “You youngsters keep out of trouble.”

“You bet,” Pigeon said, trying to pocket his change with one hand while holding the frozen banana in the other. He was having trouble stuffing in the cash because his jeans fit too tight.

They turned down a road called Winding Way and descended into the little valley that housed much of Colson. Many shade trees grew along Winding Way, and the modest houses along it had tidy yards.

Summer noticed Nate eyeing her Tooty Fruity. “Want the last of it?” she offered.

“I’m okay,” Nate said. “That Powder Keg was pretty good.”

“I’m not sick or anything,” Summer said. “Tastes like peaches and cream, with a hint of strawberry.”

“Okay, you sold me,” Nate said, accepting the Tooty Fruity and finishing it off.

“What do you think Mrs. White will want us to do this time?” Pigeon asked. “Rob a bank?”

“If she does,” Nate said, “I think Condor is the man for the job.”

Summer and Trevor giggled.