When a troubled children’s book author moves to their farm, two kids with troubles of their own hatch a scheme to swipe the ending of the final book in a bestselling series to get a reward from the book’s publisher in this gorgeously written novel in the tradition of Wonder and Out of My Mind . Twelve-year-old Sara and her brother Hawk are told that they are not to bother the man—The Mister—who just moved into the silo apartment on their farm. It doesn’t matter that they know nothing about him and they think they ought to know something. It doesn’t matter that he’s always riding that unicycle around. Mama told them no way, no how are they to bother The Mister unless they want to be in a mess of trouble. Trouble is the last thing Sara and her brother need. Sara’s got a condition, you see. Marfan syndrome. And that Marfan syndrome is causing her heart to have problems, the kind of problems that require surgery. But the family already has problems: The drought has dried up their crops and their funds, which means they can’t afford any more problems, let alone a surgery to fix those problems. Sara can feel the weight of her family’s worry, and the weight of her time running out, but what can a pair of kids do? Well, it all starts with…bothering The Mister. *"[For] readers who love good storytelling and spirited heroines.... As refreshing as rainfall on a dry field." -- Booklist, starred review "Could accompany other novels...such as R.J. Palacio's Wonder." -- School Library Connection "[A] gentle, lovely tale of a deeply bonded family, replete with a clever mystery." -- Kirkus Reviews National Book Award finalist Beth Kephart is the critically acclaimed author of nearly two dozen books for both adults and young readers. Her recent, Wild Blues , was named an ALA Youth Editor’s Choice. Her other novels—including Undercover , Small Damages , and One Thing Stolen —have been also featured on numerous best book lists. She is an award-winning lecturer at the University of Pennsylvania where she teaches creative nonfiction and fiction. She lives in Devon, Pennsylvania. Full of Shine Full of Shine Moon’s in bloom,” Hawk says. “Just hanging there. No strings.” “Big and fat?” I ask. Through the wall that divides us. “Biggest. Fattest. I’m heading out.” I hear the springs of Hawk’s mattress creak. I hear him creep across the floor. I hear the screen in his window go up and his one foot crump and his other foot crump down onto the roof that we call our pier. “Show’s on,” he says. I push up to my elbows. See Hawk through my window, his pale face and his big eyes. He presses his face up against the screen, and then he turns and puts his arms out for balance. The moon pours its bucket of yellow down. “Coming?” he says, his voice on the edge, in the dark. I creak up. Put my feet on the floor. Crouch so my hair won’t snag on the low rafters, so my head won’t scrape. I cross the planked floor and push the screen up and away from the sill. Catch my breath. Swing my daddy long legs and my daddy long arms out into the night, sit down, butt-scoot forward, reach the edge, and throw my legs out into the air beside Hawk’s. Catch more breath. Fix my vision. Hawk kicks his bare feet. I kick mine. The air freckles up with fireflies. The trees wave their hands in the breeze. The baled hay we haven’t barned up yet looks like waves rushing in. “Lighthouse is full of shine,” Hawk says. I look where he’s looking—toward the old silo where The Mister lives. It’s round and it’s tall and it’s silver. It’s got a red front door and a band of windows around its top that blinks on and off. “You think he’s in there?” I ask Hawk, feeling my heart flop around between the bones in my chest. “Where else would he be?” Hawk whispers, as if The Mister could hear us from all the way here, where we are, which he can’t. “Mom says—” “I know—” Hawk pulls a stick of dried hay from his hair. He bends it between his fingers. “Shhhh,” he says, for no good reason, because I’m already shhhh-ing. The farm noises up. There are cows in the cow barn, goats in the goat barn, cats in their cuddle, and the old horse Moe, who snorts like a warthog. Also there’s Mom and Dad in the kitchen with their decaf, talking low, thinking we can’t hear them. Thinking that I haven’t heard the latest news, but I’ve heard it, I’ve heard it plenty. Sky is zero clouds and star stuff. It’s August 3 and has not rained for twenty-two days. Morning, noon, night, Dad drives his old Ford to the top of the forest hill to check the water in the cistern. The water that feeds the pipes in the house, the cows in the field, the pigs in the sunflower stalks, the goats and their milk, the seeds in the earth. The water that vanishes inch by inch. When it rains, we pull the pots and pans and buckets to the roof and watch the water in them rise. When it rains, Mom hangs the laundry on the old rope to wash. When it rains, Dad checks the cistern so many times