began wandering all over the neighborhood, even to Haynes Street and Kitteridge, getting into trouble any way he could, cutting garden hoses, throwing eggs at front doors. Sometimes he would walk over to Skip’s house on Gilmore Street to look for his father’s car, but never saw it again. In fact, Skip and his mother were gone and other people lived there now. Conner wasn’t sure if he was happy or sad about that. He wanted to see his father more than anything, but not really at Skip’s house.
        At school he became disruptive and was sent to the principal’s office several times. He was restless in class and couldn’t focus on his schoolwork. At recess he got into fights with other boys. He played kick-ball and sock-ball with reckless abandon, kicking or socking the ball with a rage and running the bases like a flash. He loved to yell Hey batter, hey batter at the opposing team, convinced that the more he chanted, the better his team would do.
        And he would often cry at the most inopportune times, then try to wipe his tears away before anyone noticed. At night as he lay in bed, he’d chant quietly to himself, imitating the playground chant, but instead of Hey batter, hey batter, substitute Come home, daddy, come home, daddy, hoping this would bring his father back.

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        One night, Conner was particularly melancholy and couldn’t stop thinking about his father. After dinner, he sat on the front porch until long after dark. At one point, Sharon cracked the front door open and said, “You’re supposed to be in the house. If you don’t come in, I’m going to tell Mom.”
        “I can be out as long as I want,” he insisted, then remembered his promise to his mother and reluctantly went back in.
        But that night, he couldn’t let it go. He lay awake for a long time, his thoughts dwelling on his father. After everyone was asleep, he snuck out of bed and returned to the porch. The neighborhood was dark and still. He looked up to the stars and the moon, then to Mrs. Snyder’s house across the driveway, so bleak and foreboding. He was certain that any minute his father’s car would pull into the driveway, the headlights shafting across her house, the radio blaring. He began whispering his chant: Come home, Daddy. Come home, Daddy.
        But the minutes passed with nothing but darkness. Once or twice, he saw headlights approach from down the street, filling him with hope, but each time the dark hulk would chug past and he’d slump back into his doldrums.
        After an hour, he decided he just wasn’t getting through, so he stood and let his voice elevate from a whisper to a normal speaking level. Come home, Daddy. Come home, Daddy.
        He chanted this