There, her grandmother is milking their cows, and they give him a glass fresh from the udders.

While the cops start to sort everything out (its an apparent suicide), our narrator goes with a little girl back to her farmhouse, which is close by.

When they get to the car, they find the dead body of the opal miner in the back seat.

At that exact moment, the cops call to tell them their car has been reported abandoned at the end of the lane.

However, when he goes to retrieve the comic book from the car, they discover it's been stolen.

His dad always makes him burnt toast on Saturday mornings, which is forgiven because he also always brings him home the latest copy of his favorite comic book to read.

It's the beginning of spring break, which means he has three whole weeks without school.

The opal miner isn't so bad, as far as boarders go.

And that's why they have to lease out his bedroom, which he's pretty bummed out about-now he has to room with his sister.

He explains that the reason they have boarders is because his parents are no longer affluent for some reason.

I remembered that, and, remembering that, I remembered everything. Where did she go? America? No, Australia.

Had I pushed her into the duck pond, that strange girl who lived in the farm at the very bottom of the lane? I remembered her being in the water. I wondered if we had ever fallen in the water. what was I? It was after the bad birthday party. She was only a handful of years older than I was back then, for all her funny talk. She would be older than I am now, Lettie Hempstock.

Every now and again, I tossed a hazelnut into the middle of the pond, the pond that Lettie Hempstock had called. I sat on the bench, and stared at the reflection of the sky in the water, at the scum of duckweed at the edges, and the half-dozen lily pads. The peeling wooden slats had been painted green a few years ago. There was a little wooden shed on the far side, and, by the path, an ancient, heavy, wood-and-metal bench. I saw it and felt oddly proud of myself, as if that one act of memory had blown away some of the cobwebs of the day. I just have to go around this shed, and I'll see it.

Ocean at the end of the lane genre