If Only by Becky Citra

the words P-47D THUNDERBOLT in bold letters.
    â€œIt’s a model my grandma gave me for Christmas,” Hugh says gloomily. “Mom says I have to make it before she comes. I hate models.”
    When Danny was eight, Dad gave him a model of a car for his birthday. Pam got into it and broke some of the pieces, so he didn’t finish it. For some reason Dad blamed him, and Danny never got another model. But Danny still remembers his excitement when he had figured out how all the pieces fit together.
    He lifts the lid off the box and peers inside. It is full of olive-green plastic pieces. Some of the bigger pieces he recognizes right away, like the wings and the main body of the plane. But there are lots of tiny pieces too, still attached by little tabs to a plastic framework.
    â€œIs it okay if I look at this?” Danny says.
    Hugh shrugs. He picks up a comic book. “Go ahead.”
    Danny takes out all the pieces and lays them on Hugh’s desk. He finds a miniature pilot, not much bigger than his thumbnail, and the propeller and something that looks like an engine. There is a folded instruction sheet at the bottom of the box, and a paper with decals. Danny studies the decals for a moment. There are stripes and stars and a thing that looks like a checkerboard. Danny looks back at the picture of the plane on the box. The stars are on the wings, and the checkerboard is around the nose of the plane.
    â€œThe instructions are impossible,” Hugh mumbles from behind his comic book.
    â€œNot really,” Danny says, scanning the sheet of paper. He can already see how some of the main pieces fit together. He picks up the two sides of the plane’s body and pinches them together with his fingers. Then he fiddles with one of the wings, trying to see how it fits. That part is easy; it will be all those tiny pieces that are challenging.
    â€œYou’re supposed to paint the pieces first,” Hugh says. “Grandma sent the paints too.” He climbs off his bed and produces a paper bag from the clutter on top of his dresser. “The paints are all in here, and a paintbrush and the cement.”
    Danny takes out all the little bottles of paint and lines them up in a row on the desk. Brown, black, silver, yellow, gray, white. He imagines dipping the brush into each color and carefully painting the tiny pieces. He would do it slowly, being careful not to make mistakes. He knows he would do a way better job than Hugh.
    â€œI could help you,” Danny says.
    Hugh puts down his comic book. “Even better idea. You can do it for me.”
    â€œYou want me to?” Danny says. “I will, if you don’t care.”
    â€œI told you, I hate models,” Hugh says.
    Danny glances at the window. It is already getting dark. He checks his watch; seven forty-five, and he still has to walk all the way home.
    â€œI gotta go. Can I take it to my house to work on?” Danny doesn’t think he can work here with Hugh chattering in his ear, making him lose his concentration. He is already picturing how he will read each step carefully, checking and double-checking, so he won’t make any mistakes.
    â€œSure.” Hugh grins. “Just bring it back before Grandma gets here.”
    â€œDeal,” Danny says.
    There are long stretches of darkness between the streetlights as Danny walks home. Now that he isn’t using the railroad trail, it takes a lot longer. He isn’t sure he will ever use the trail again. He doesn’t really mind; he likes walking.
    His footsteps sound loud on the hard ground. Danny glances over his shoulder a few times and then takes a few deep breaths. It is stupid to feel afraid; nothing is going to happen here, and anyway, he can bang on someone’s door if he has to. Lights—sometimes the flickering blue lights of a TV —peek out from behind curtains, and on one block Danny passes a couple walking a dog. It isn’t like being on the trail,