Camphor, Florida, summer 1998. A cul-de-sac with five houses, a pond
nobody swims in, and a boy who tells stories, on a street that hasn't
decided whether to believe him yet. When the
porch lights come on early, the grown-ups pretend not to notice. And
something at the bottom of the street starts saying
Ben’s name in a voice that sounds a lot like his own.
Be there at dusk.
Letters from the porch, only when something’s worth telling.
the author
Harriet V. Bronson writes about a Florida street at dusk, the kids who
stay out one minute past the porch light, and the one thing on that
street that never gets called in.
