Runaway Read Online Free PDF Page A

use when I want to be left alone. I’ve been planning all along to use it as soon as I got here. Only this time it’s true. I really do have a headache.
    “Well,” Hank says, ducking to go through the doorway, “lucky for you, there’s a doctor in the house.”
    He starts to call his mom, but I stop him. “Please don’t, Hank. I just need to lie down. I don’t want to make trouble, okay? I just need to rest for a little while. Will you tell them I want to take a nap?”
    I can see him thinking it over. Then he says, “Okay. Your call.” He pulls the door shut as he leaves.
    I hear low voices next door. Then footsteps sound on the stairs, and I know I’m alone. I sit on the bed and feel panic seeping in through the pores in my skin.
    I try to lie down, but my whole body is twitching. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep. After a minute, I give up and climb out of bed. I find my backpack in the closet, drag it onto the bed, then fish out my list-book.
    I have to make a list. I need to make a list.
    I flip through pages until I come to an empty one. Then I slide to the floor, lean against the bed frame, and write:
    Top 10 Reasons Why Dakota Brown Doesn’t Belong on a Nice Farm

Five
    Top 10 Reasons Why Dakota Brown Doesn’t Belong on a Nice Farm
    1. Nice farm is too far from Nice.
    2. Nice is too far from Chicago or any other city.
    3. Barking dog(s).
    4. Shy, shedding cat.
    5. Who knows what’s in the barn!
    6. No air-conditioning.
    7. Popeye and Annie are too over-the-top lovey-dovey.
    8. Computer is in the kitchen.
    9. People do chores here. Some of them outside.
    10. People on Nice farm are too nice. I’d never fit in.
    It takes me a half hour to come up with my list, and that worries me. I’ve made the same kind of list in the last four foster homes, and each time I performed the task in under 10 minutes. I must be slipping.
    There’s a tap at my door, so soft I’m not sure I really heard it. Then it comes again.
    “Come in!” I tuck my notebook into my backpack.
    “You’re awake!” Kat sounds way too happy. “Dad cooked fried chicken.”
    “Seriously?” I like fried chicken. No doubt that’s what the folks ate in that Little House on the Prairie , too. Only no way the man of the house would have been the cook.
    “And mashed potatoes and gravy,” Kat adds.
    I can smell it now that the door’s open. Suddenly I’m starving. “Okay.”
    Downstairs, the others are already sitting at the table. Hank and Wes are next to each other, talking. The Coolidges sit at the head and foot of the table, so Kat and I take the two empty seats closest to the kitchen. Hank officially introduces Wes to me.
    I can tell they’re waiting for one of us to say something, so I say, “I like your dog, Wes.”
    Wes’s face transforms from street punk to choirboy. “Rex is the best.” He smiles at the dog, who’s lying patiently beside his chair. “He won’t beg for food at the table, even when we have hamburgers.”
    “Yeah?” I lean so I can see the dog better. His head is between his paws, and his tail is wagging.
    “Wes is a natural dog whisperer,” Hank says. “He’s the one who trained Rex.”
    I’m glad to have the dog to talk about. Otherwise, I’d have no idea what to say. “So, did you have a German shepherd before you came here?”
    “Nah,” he answers. “Unless you count the police dogs I used to run from.”
    Nobody laughs. I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not.
    The food’s sitting on the table: chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli, biscuits, applesauce. Plus Siamese cat salt and pepper shakers.
    “Lord, what a fine meal this is!” Mr. Coolidge exclaims.
    I start to say something to agree with him when I notice that the others have their heads bowed. Then I get it. He’s praying. I bow my head, but my eyes are wide open.
    “You are so good to us, Father. Thank You for this food and for loving us so much.”
    Mrs. Coolidge chimes in. “And thank You for my wonderful husband, who