There can only be one reason for riding a Greyhound bus through the middle of nowhere trying to keep tabs on someone as terrifying as Joel, my six-year-old brother.

Stupidity.

"Ricky Kidd," my mother had begun in a grave tone two days earlier as we sat at the kitchen table.

Hearing it, I knew I was in trouble. She had spoken with the tone grown-ups use whenever they want to convince you to do something you ordinarily regard as crazy. Because if it's good for you, they don't beat around the bush.

"You're twelve years old now," she continued, then put her hands across the table on top of mine to look at me earnestly. Major league trouble looms when they do that. "And it's time you made responsible decisions all by your self."

"Great," I said. "Does that mean I can borrow the car tonight?"

"I'm being serious," she warned, taking her hands back.

"So was&emdash;"

"It's about your brother. With Mike and Ralphy already at the ranch, he'll be all alone here as soon as you leave."

Exactly.

That was half the reason I was so excited about the upcoming trip.

As a brother, I'll admit Joel's okay. He even wears white hightop sneakers, blue jeans, and T-shirts because he wants to copy me. But Joel's worse than a tiny ghost. Ralphy and Mike, who were waiting for me on Mike's uncle's ranch, are twelve too, and we still know better than to relax when he's around.

It's like this. Give Joel a choice between eating hot dogs or spying on us and the dilemma would put him into agony. So he'll find a way to do both. Locked doors and closed windows never seem to stop him. Worse, you need radar to know when he's following you.

Joel never says much when you do manage to spot him. He just stares and watches. He disappears as soon as you turn your head, and appears again when you least expect it. Which is usually when you're doing something you shouldn't.

"Poor little guy," my mom had continued in the kitchen, pouring me more milk and pushing chocolate chip cookies across the table. As if I can't recognize bribery. "He admires you so much. A month alone here will seem like a lifetime to him."

How could I explain that a month with him usually seems like a lifetime to me?

"I really think you should ask him to come along," she said sweetly. "You and your friends will be having so much fun, it wouldn't be any trouble to include him."

I opened my mouth to utter the only objection that might work, but she was quicker.

"And Mike's aunt and uncle don't see it as a problem. In fact, they said they'd love to have extra company."

Shot down before leaving the ground. Why did I have the feeling this was a well-planned campaign

"But of course, Ricky," she smiled, "this decision is entirely up to you. You're mature enough to know what's right."

I hesitated.

"Aren't you." She made it sound like a statement.

I was ready to wear diapers to prove maturity had nothing to do with the issue. Unfortunately, at that moment I happened to glance out the kitchen window.

Joel was sitting against the big oak tree in our backyard. His teddy bear, a battered brown with gray-white paws and white button for the left eye and black button for the right eye, was beside him. The teddy bear had a handkerchief tied around its neck, as if it were a miniature cowboy.

That teddy bear is Joel's only weakness. When I'm mad at Joel, I remind him that teddy bear stuffing is hard to replace. It gets his attention. But I could never hurt the bear because I remember Joel's face the day Old Man Jacobsen's dog snuck away with it. Joel began digging in all the dog's favorite hiding spots with his plastic toy garden shovel. He wouldn't let me help. Even the dog was smart enough to stay out of sight. Joel's face was muddy with tears and dirt by the time he found the teddy bear. Then he gave it to me to wash, and we were both happy.

Thinking of that day made me sentimental. A bigger mistake.

Joel had his knees tucked against his chest, and his arms around his knees. He gently rocked back and forth, staring into the distance.

A quick lump hit my throat. The poor guy would be alone for a month. Endless hours with nothing to do except wonder about the fun he was missing. How could I think of being mean?

"Sure Mom," I said across the kitchen table. "I'll take him."

I looked outside at the tree again. Joel had disappeared.

* * * * * * * *

The bus rumbled below me as it rolled, its vibrations gently rocking me between daydreams and sleep.

West on Interstate 90 was our direction. We'd already been traveling most of the day, cutting through South Dakota and now Wyoming. Lots of land, hardly any people.

Hours and hours ahead, in Montana, was a city called Butte, which rhymes with "hoot." There we would transfer to another Greyhound bus going south on Interstate 15. Mike's uncle's ranch was in the mountains north of the Idaho border. Our arrival time would be sometime late at night.

I had already finished one book. Instead of reading more, I had propped my folded jacket against the window and used it as a pillow. Whenever I woke and opened my eyes, I could stare at the land that stretched forever to a faraway horizon. Something about it gave me a good kind of restlessness, as if being out there under all that blue sky would fill my lungs with freedom.

Horses, I thought. Cowboys and horses and wide open&emdash;

I had another thought. This one terrible. Where was that reassuring pressure against my leg, the heavy warmth that meant Joel was right beside me, napping with his teddy bear?

Nuts. No warmth. No Joel.

I stood so quickly I banged my head against the luggage rack.

"Joeeel," I whispered as my eyes watered. "Where arrrre yooouuuu?"

Nothing.

I stayed calm. He had to be on the bus. Where else could he be, right? Unless&emdash;the thought chilled me instantly&emdash; I had slept through one of the scheduled stops.

No way, I told myself, he wouldn't wander away and watch the bus depart without him. But then again, it was Joel.

I tripped across a fat lady's leg. She scowled. I smiled an apology and backed away, only to elbow an old man on the other side of the aisle.

I smiled nervously at him and slowly worked my way up the aisle, swaying to the roll of the bus. Who would think a Greyhound could be so long?

Two bikers with long greasy hair, muscle shirts, and tattoos. A half dozen white-haired ladies. Three mothers with babies. The old man I had elbowed, the fat lady who was using two seats, a bunch more grown-ups sleeping with their faces buried, one sleeping with his head back and a fine line of drool down his chin, and the bus driver. But no Joel.

Wonderful.

I got on my knees to look under the seats and crawled down the aisle on the way back to my seat. People stared at me, but finding Joel was more important than me looking normal. All I saw were shoes, boots, and a few legs with varicose veins. No Joel.

We had been sitting close to the back of the bus. There were only two rows behind my seat. Both were empty.

That left the washroom. I tried the door. Locked.

"Joel, are you OK?" Nothing.

I banged lightly. "Are you in there?"

I banged harder. "Joel! Answer me!" I rained a steady barrage against the door. Finally the doorknob turned. With a surge of relief, I grabbed it and yanked the door. And stopped with my mouth open.

"Don't they teach city slickers no manners? Even puppy dogs learn to wait their turn."

I stared face level at a guy my age. Boots, tight faded jeans, blue jean jacket with collar up to his face, and a pushed-low cowboy hat.

"I, uh, thought it was someone else," I stammered.

"Really? So you can see through doors? That's a neat trick."

"No, I meant . . ." I stopped. "Look, why didn't you say something when I was banging on the door?"

"'Cause whoever was making that racket could wait."

My face burned hot red. "I'm sorry. Really. Very sorry."

He shook his head in disgust and walked past me to sit right behind my seat. He slouched back and dropped his cowboy hat on his face and ignored the bus and the world.

Which left me not only feeling stupid, but without Joel.