Seven Houses Down (Ages 8–12)

Chapter 1: The Business of Fur, Feathers, and Scales

The sign was Oliver's idea, but the name was all Zoe.

"Critter Crew Pet-Sitting," she announced, holding up the poster board she'd painted in her garage. The letters were bright green and slightly crooked, surrounded by paw prints, tiny fish, and what was either a parrot or a very colorful potato.

Oliver Harwood squinted at it. "Is that supposed to be a bird?"

"It's a macaw."

"It looks like it got hit by a bus."

Zoe tucked the sign into the pouch on the back of her wheelchair. "Nobody hires a pet-sitter because of the artwork, Oliver. They hire you because you're responsible and trustworthy."

Oliver considered this. He was eleven, a full year older than Zoe, but she was the one who always had the plans. He was the one who carried the heavy things and reached the high shelves. It was a good system.

They'd spent the first two weeks of summer vacation going door-to-door on Marigold Lane, handing out flyers to every house on the block. Zoe had printed them on her mom's computer, complete with a list of references (her mom, Oliver's dad, and their neighbor Mr. Fong, who said Zoe was "the most determined young person he'd ever met," which Zoe figured was close enough to a professional endorsement).

The business had started because of a dog.

Specifically, because of the absence of a dog.

Zoe had wanted one for as long as she could remember. A big, floppy golden retriever, or maybe a goofy mutt from the shelter — she wasn't picky. But every time she brought it up, her parents exchanged one of those looks. The look that said, "Honey, that's a lot of responsibility," which really meant, "We're not sure you can handle it."

They never said it outright. They didn't have to. Zoe had been reading that look since she was six years old, when she'd first started using her wheelchair full-time. People thought she didn't notice — the way teachers hovered, the way other parents spoke a little too slowly, the way coaches at the rec center suggested she "just watch" instead of participate. But Zoe noticed everything. That was kind of her superpower.

"If we run a pet-sitting business all summer and nothing goes wrong," she'd told Oliver back in May, "my parents will have to admit I'm responsible enough for a dog."

"What if something does go wrong?" Oliver had asked.

"Then we fix it. That's what responsible people do."

And for three glorious weeks, nothing went wrong. They fed Mr. Fong's goldfish while he visited his sister in Portland. They walked the Delgado family's ancient basset hound, Meatball, who moved so slowly that Zoe could keep pace in her chair without breaking a sweat. They even house-sat for the Trumbull twins' hamsters, which involved nothing more than refilling water bottles and trying not to laugh at their names (Sir Squeaks-a-Lot and Princess Fluffernutter).

Business was booming. The Critter Crew had a reputation.

And then Mrs. Pauline Gruber knocked on Zoe's front door.

Mrs. Gruber was seventy-two years old, wore enormous purple glasses, and had won three ribbons at the Cloverdale County Reptile Expo. She lived seven houses down from Zoe, in a yellow bungalow with a garden full of ceramic frogs. And she had a problem.

"I'm going to visit my daughter in San Diego," Mrs. Gruber said, standing on Zoe's porch with her hands clasped together. "Five days. And I need someone to look after Captain Crunch."

"Captain Crunch?" Oliver whispered.

"My bearded dragon," Mrs. Gruber said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "He's a Central Australian variety. Three-time ribbon winner. Very particular about his greens."

Zoe sat up straighter in her chair. A bearded dragon. This was the biggest job they'd ever been offered. This was the kind of job that proved you were serious.

"We'd be honored, Mrs. Gruber," Zoe said.

Mrs. Gruber peered at her over those purple glasses. "You're sure? He's not a hamster. He needs his heat lamp checked twice a day, his tank kept at exactly the right temperature, and his salad chopped fine — no big pieces, or he gets huffy."

"We can handle it," Zoe said firmly.

Mrs. Gruber looked at Oliver. Oliver nodded so hard his glasses slipped down his nose.

"All right then," Mrs. Gruber said. She reached into her enormous purse and pulled out a three-page instruction sheet, typed and laminated. "Here's the care guide. I expect daily photo updates."

She left for San Diego the next morning.

And for exactly one day, everything was perfect.