minute or two he banged his fist on the timber window frame and looked back to the car, squinting, his face bright white.
âCanât we get in?â Mum called, her door open the slightest crack.
âIâm thinking,â Dad said quietly, then he disappeared around the side of the cabin.
âDad?â
For a moment Ben could hear his fatherâs footsteps snapping twigs and leaves and then there was nothing. Ben went to the corner of the cabin and looked down the side. The ground sloped steeply toward the sound of rushing water. The back of the cabin looked like it was up on stilts.
âDad?â he called into the darkness. Something moved on the cabin wall near his face. A spider, hairy, running up one of the logs. He jerked away, a strangled gargh escaping his throat.
âDad?â Ben called, louder this time.
Nothing.
Ben took a few tentative steps down the side of the building. The ground fell away quickly, and he slipped, falling on his backside. He jumped to his feet and climbed back up to the corner of the cabin.
âBoo!â Dad said. Ben screamed. Dad laughed. He had circled the cabin and returned to the front door.
âIâm gonna have to kick it in,â Dad said. He looked at the door like he was about to fight it, then rammed his shoulder into it, but it didnât budge.
He turned sideways, took two steps back. He lifted his right leg and gave the door an almighty kick, right next to the handle. There was a fierce wood-splitting crack and the door exploded open. Dad fell inside, coming down on his knees. The bush fell silent. Something scurried across the cabin roof.
âWe bring a flashlight?â he called to Mum, shielding his eyes from the headlights.
âNo,â came the reply.
âI asked you to get a flashlight at that gas station,â he said.
âNo, you didnât.â
âWell, I thought about it,â he said to himself.
Ben stood at the door and looked into the cabin. The headlights cut through the cracks between tall upright logs, lighting the room in long, thin slits.
âCominâ in?â Dad asked.
Ben could taste acid in the back of his throat. The cabin had a sickening stench of mold and dead things. He pulled the neck of his school shirt up over his nose. He wanted to be back in his bedroom with the comforting smell of his own dirty clothes and discarded cereal bowls. But Ben knew that when he was a police officer he might be called to places like this every night of the week. He needed to practice. He needed to âman up,â like Dad always said. He took a step forward. The cabin was a single room about twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep. Something scuttled into a large, open cupboard at the back.
âWeâre not sleeping in here, are we?â Ben asked, furiously kneading his sweaty hands.
âWhere else are we going to sleep?â Dad said, turning to Ben with a smile, a thin beam of light slicing his face in two.
Ben began to wonder if he really had what it took to be a cop. Could he do this kind of thing for a living? Maybe he was destined to be a paper pusher back at the station, eating doughnuts, drinking coffee. (Ben thought dreamily about the half-finished jam doughnut on the plate in his bedroom.) Or maybe he could ditch the whole becoming-a-detective idea and make stop-motion movies or design games or work for Lego instead. Ben stopped wringing his hands.
âAre you two okay?â Mum called.
They looked at one another through the gloom, Dad inside the cabin, Ben in the doorway. He squeezed his lip so hard that he almost drew blood.
âSorry. Iâm sleeping in the car,â Ben said. He turned, walked away, and ripped open the car door.
âBig baby!â Dad called.
Ben threw himself into the backseat and pulled the door shut behind him. It was warm and happy in there, and it smelled caramelly, like Olive when she slept. He was never going into that cabin
âCanât we get in?â Mum called, her door open the slightest crack.
âIâm thinking,â Dad said quietly, then he disappeared around the side of the cabin.
âDad?â
For a moment Ben could hear his fatherâs footsteps snapping twigs and leaves and then there was nothing. Ben went to the corner of the cabin and looked down the side. The ground sloped steeply toward the sound of rushing water. The back of the cabin looked like it was up on stilts.
âDad?â he called into the darkness. Something moved on the cabin wall near his face. A spider, hairy, running up one of the logs. He jerked away, a strangled gargh escaping his throat.
âDad?â Ben called, louder this time.
Nothing.
Ben took a few tentative steps down the side of the building. The ground fell away quickly, and he slipped, falling on his backside. He jumped to his feet and climbed back up to the corner of the cabin.
âBoo!â Dad said. Ben screamed. Dad laughed. He had circled the cabin and returned to the front door.
âIâm gonna have to kick it in,â Dad said. He looked at the door like he was about to fight it, then rammed his shoulder into it, but it didnât budge.
He turned sideways, took two steps back. He lifted his right leg and gave the door an almighty kick, right next to the handle. There was a fierce wood-splitting crack and the door exploded open. Dad fell inside, coming down on his knees. The bush fell silent. Something scurried across the cabin roof.
âWe bring a flashlight?â he called to Mum, shielding his eyes from the headlights.
âNo,â came the reply.
âI asked you to get a flashlight at that gas station,â he said.
âNo, you didnât.â
âWell, I thought about it,â he said to himself.
Ben stood at the door and looked into the cabin. The headlights cut through the cracks between tall upright logs, lighting the room in long, thin slits.
âCominâ in?â Dad asked.
Ben could taste acid in the back of his throat. The cabin had a sickening stench of mold and dead things. He pulled the neck of his school shirt up over his nose. He wanted to be back in his bedroom with the comforting smell of his own dirty clothes and discarded cereal bowls. But Ben knew that when he was a police officer he might be called to places like this every night of the week. He needed to practice. He needed to âman up,â like Dad always said. He took a step forward. The cabin was a single room about twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep. Something scuttled into a large, open cupboard at the back.
âWeâre not sleeping in here, are we?â Ben asked, furiously kneading his sweaty hands.
âWhere else are we going to sleep?â Dad said, turning to Ben with a smile, a thin beam of light slicing his face in two.
Ben began to wonder if he really had what it took to be a cop. Could he do this kind of thing for a living? Maybe he was destined to be a paper pusher back at the station, eating doughnuts, drinking coffee. (Ben thought dreamily about the half-finished jam doughnut on the plate in his bedroom.) Or maybe he could ditch the whole becoming-a-detective idea and make stop-motion movies or design games or work for Lego instead. Ben stopped wringing his hands.
âAre you two okay?â Mum called.
They looked at one another through the gloom, Dad inside the cabin, Ben in the doorway. He squeezed his lip so hard that he almost drew blood.
âSorry. Iâm sleeping in the car,â Ben said. He turned, walked away, and ripped open the car door.
âBig baby!â Dad called.
Ben threw himself into the backseat and pulled the door shut behind him. It was warm and happy in there, and it smelled caramelly, like Olive when she slept. He was never going into that cabin