up to a weathered plank floor. He creaks and scrapes to the door, which opens for him.
He hesitates on the threshold, troubled by both the risk that he's taking and the crime he's intending to commit. His mother has raised him with strong values; but if he's to survive this night, he will have to steal.
Furthermore, he is reluctant to put these people-whoever they may be-at risk. If the killers track him to this place while he's still inside, they won't spare anyone. They have no mercy, and they dare not leave witnesses.
Yet if he doesn't seek help here, he'll have to visit the next farmhouse, or the one after the next. He is exhausted, afraid, still lost, and in need of a plan. He's got to stop running long enough to think.
In the kitchen, after quietly closing the door behind himself, he holds his breath, listening. The house is silent. Evidently, his small noises haven't awakened anyone.
Cupboard to cupboard, drawer to drawer, he searches until he discovers candles and matches, which he considers but discards. At last, a flashlight.
He needs several items, and a quick but cautious tour of the lower floor convinces him that he will have to go upstairs to find those necessities.
At the foot of the steps, he's paralyzed by dread. Perhaps the killers are already here. Upstairs. Waiting in the dark, waiting for him to find them. Surprise.
Ridiculous. They aren't the type to play games. They're vicious and efficient. If they were here now, he'd already be dead.
He feels small, weak, alone, doomed. He feels foolish, too, for continuing to hesitate even when reason tells him that he has nothing to fear other than getting caught by the people who live here.
Finally, he starts up toward the second floor. The stairs softly protest. As he ascends, he stays close to the wall, where the treads are less noisy.
At the top is a short hallway. Four doors.
The first door opens on a bathroom. The second lends to a bedroom; hooding the flashlight to dim and more tightly focus the beam, he enters.
A man and a woman lie in the bed, sleeping soundly. They snore in counterpoint: he an oboe with a split reed; she a whistling flute.
On a dresser, in a small decorative tray: coins and a man's wallet. In the wallet, the boy finds one ten-dollar bill, two fives, four ones.
These are not rich people, and he feels guilty about taking their money. One day, if he lives long enough, he will return to this house and repay his debt.
He wants the coins, too, but he doesn't touch them. In his nervousness, he's likely to jingle or drop them, rousing the farmer and his wife.
The man grumbles, turns on his side but doesn't wake.
Retreating quickly and silently from the bedroom, the boy sees movement in the hall, a pair of shining eyes, a flash of teeth in the hooded beam of light. He almost cries out in alarm.
A dog. Black and white. Shaggy.
He has a way with dogs, and this one is no exception. It nuzzles him and then, panting happily, leads him along the hallway to another door that stands ajar.
Perhaps the dog came from this room. Now it glances back at its new friend, grins, wags its tail, and slips across the threshold as flu-idly as a supernatural familiar ready to assist with some magical enterprise.
Affixed to the door is a stainless-steel plaque with laser-cut letters:
STARSHIP COMMAND CENTER, CAPTAIN CURTIS HAMMOND.
Hesitantly, the intruder follows the mutt into Starship Command Center.
This is a boy's room, papered with large monster-movie posters. Display shelves are cluttered with collections of science-fiction action figures and models of ornate but improbable spaceships. In one corner a life-size plastic model of a human skeleton hangs from a metal stand, grinning as if death is great fun.
Perhaps signifying the
He hesitates on the threshold, troubled by both the risk that he's taking and the crime he's intending to commit. His mother has raised him with strong values; but if he's to survive this night, he will have to steal.
Furthermore, he is reluctant to put these people-whoever they may be-at risk. If the killers track him to this place while he's still inside, they won't spare anyone. They have no mercy, and they dare not leave witnesses.
Yet if he doesn't seek help here, he'll have to visit the next farmhouse, or the one after the next. He is exhausted, afraid, still lost, and in need of a plan. He's got to stop running long enough to think.
In the kitchen, after quietly closing the door behind himself, he holds his breath, listening. The house is silent. Evidently, his small noises haven't awakened anyone.
Cupboard to cupboard, drawer to drawer, he searches until he discovers candles and matches, which he considers but discards. At last, a flashlight.
He needs several items, and a quick but cautious tour of the lower floor convinces him that he will have to go upstairs to find those necessities.
At the foot of the steps, he's paralyzed by dread. Perhaps the killers are already here. Upstairs. Waiting in the dark, waiting for him to find them. Surprise.
Ridiculous. They aren't the type to play games. They're vicious and efficient. If they were here now, he'd already be dead.
He feels small, weak, alone, doomed. He feels foolish, too, for continuing to hesitate even when reason tells him that he has nothing to fear other than getting caught by the people who live here.
Finally, he starts up toward the second floor. The stairs softly protest. As he ascends, he stays close to the wall, where the treads are less noisy.
At the top is a short hallway. Four doors.
The first door opens on a bathroom. The second lends to a bedroom; hooding the flashlight to dim and more tightly focus the beam, he enters.
A man and a woman lie in the bed, sleeping soundly. They snore in counterpoint: he an oboe with a split reed; she a whistling flute.
On a dresser, in a small decorative tray: coins and a man's wallet. In the wallet, the boy finds one ten-dollar bill, two fives, four ones.
These are not rich people, and he feels guilty about taking their money. One day, if he lives long enough, he will return to this house and repay his debt.
He wants the coins, too, but he doesn't touch them. In his nervousness, he's likely to jingle or drop them, rousing the farmer and his wife.
The man grumbles, turns on his side but doesn't wake.
Retreating quickly and silently from the bedroom, the boy sees movement in the hall, a pair of shining eyes, a flash of teeth in the hooded beam of light. He almost cries out in alarm.
A dog. Black and white. Shaggy.
He has a way with dogs, and this one is no exception. It nuzzles him and then, panting happily, leads him along the hallway to another door that stands ajar.
Perhaps the dog came from this room. Now it glances back at its new friend, grins, wags its tail, and slips across the threshold as flu-idly as a supernatural familiar ready to assist with some magical enterprise.
Affixed to the door is a stainless-steel plaque with laser-cut letters:
STARSHIP COMMAND CENTER, CAPTAIN CURTIS HAMMOND.
Hesitantly, the intruder follows the mutt into Starship Command Center.
This is a boy's room, papered with large monster-movie posters. Display shelves are cluttered with collections of science-fiction action figures and models of ornate but improbable spaceships. In one corner a life-size plastic model of a human skeleton hangs from a metal stand, grinning as if death is great fun.
Perhaps signifying the
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