While You Were Gone by Amy K. Nichols

and press the tip closer into the corner where the leg meets the frame. Hold my breath and press the trigger again. This time it catches, sticking to the metal and melting the two pieces into one. I watch the orange glow through my visor and stitch the wand like Germ did, guiding it around the table leg. When I reach the end, I pull the welder away, flip up my visor and watch the weld cool from orange to black. It isn’t as pretty as Germ’s work, but hopefully it’s as good as Danny’s.

Wednesday before civics class, I take a break and sit outside under a eucalyptus tree on the lawn next to my dorm, McConnell Hall. The day looks colder than it actually is. From my bag I pull an apple and Warren’s super secret spy note. It’s become a welcome distraction from everything going on.
    The last one he gave me was way easier: a backward number 1, a square, and a backward 2.
Back to square one.
This puzzle, though, has me stumped.
    I take a bite of apple and read through it again.

    I look out across the lawn, watch a grackle hop by and read it again. Maybe if I let my eyes go unfocused, it’ll pop out at me? No. I take another bite of apple and think about
Confidante
instead.
    Ever since Dad mentioned putting it back together, my brain’s been noodling around with an idea. Even if I could glue it back together with resin or PVA, the pieces are damaged beyond restoration. But what if I do something different? Stitch them together, maybe, or wire them into place. It wouldn’t be anything I could submit to the jury, but it might be cool to have for my own collection.
    The bell rings and students stream out onto the sidewalks. Time to get to class. I take a last bite and look down at the note.
    Something clicks.
    The second letter-number combination is a word.
    Castle.
    The numbers are letters.
    Mystery. Castle.
    What’s a mystery castle? And why is Warren telling me about it in code?

    The silence of the library feels louder than the racket of the school hallways. Civics is happening in a lecture hall on the other side of the building, but I decided to come here instead. The note is now burning a hole in my pocket. I’ll worry about what I missed in class later. I walk down the carpeted steps into the cocoon of velvet and mahogany and move through the towering shelves of books toward the information desk. The librarian looks at me over her readers. “May I help you?”
    I keep my voice low. “This is a strange question, but have you ever heard of something called a mystery castle?”
    “Is it in Phoenix?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Have you searched online?”
    “No.” Too risky. But not if she does the searching for me.
    “Let me run a keyword search through our collections first.”
    “Thanks.”
    She types on her keyboard, hits ENTER and scans the screen. “Here we are.” In perfect script, she writes the location of the book on a slip of paper. “If this doesn’t turn out to be what you’re looking for, let me know.” She slides the paper across the desk.
    “Thank you.” I read the notation. Another code to decipher:
979.1 TIMESPA—Adult—Book.
    “The history section begins four stacks to your right. Toward the end.”
    I thank her again and walk through the shelves, reading titles and reference numbers as I go. Now and then I step over a student sitting on the floor, engrossed in reading. Finally, I see the 900 section. I trace the reference numbers on the spines, then crouch to the lowest shelf and find it.
A History of Architecture in Arizona.
I set my bag on the floor and sit down.
    The book is old. The pages are yellowed and have that stale smell of time and too many fingers turning them. The table of contents reveals nothing, so I go to the index and search through the
C
s.
Carnival. Cars. Castle.
    Castle, Mystery, 81.
    I flip to the page and read.
In the ’40s, a man moved to Phoenix because of health problems. He had a lung disease that would be helped by the salt air. He didn’t have