The Apple Tart of Hope Read Online Free PDF

night.
    I’d been busy that evening because I’d had one of my hunches.
    â€œHave you been making apple tarts again?” she asked, frowning and smiling at the same time.
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. How did you know?”
    She pointed at my hair. I shook my head and the cloud of white flour that floated up made us both laugh.
    I tried to explain again about my apple-tart habit. Some people can tell from the way their bones feel that there will be bad weather coming. Some people can tell where water is buried under the ground. My ability was being able to smell things in the air, heavy things full of longing. Those smells were my sign that it was time to get baking.
    She said that whenever I told her about the apple-tart thing, I had a way of speaking that made it sound logical and ordinary even though it actually wasn’t.
    And right then, as I had expected to, I sensed it. I had to straighten up and lean farther out the window and get Meg to stop talking.
    â€œHang on a moment, Meg,” I’d said and she’d said,
    â€œWhat, Oscar, what is it?”
    I had to get quiet and I took the telescope and looked off beyond our houses toward the pier. I could hear something nobody else could hear, and I saw something nobody else could see.
    Meg was trying her best too, listening with me pretty intently while her white curtain flapped droopily around her, like a tired little ghost.
    A minute or so had gone by.
    â€œI think someone’s there,” I whispered.
    Meg’s eyes were wide and I could see from the way she was moving that she wanted to be in on the whole thing.
    â€œI smell it, Meg, it’s really strong now.”
    â€œI can’t smell anything,” she said.
    â€œYou probably can if you concentrate a bit more.”
    She did concentrate a bit more but it didn’t make any difference.
    â€œWhat does it smell of?” she asked me.
    â€œIt smells like someone in need; it’s full of despair. Worse than fear—much more destructive. Down on the pier. I’ve got to go.”
    I grabbed a blanket and stuffed it into my backpack. One of my apple tarts was at the ready in a white cardboard box and I had to hold it like a waiter carrying a tray. It’s a miracle how it stayed in one piece as I climbed out of the window and clambered down the tree. I’d been practicing my moves, and it had obviously started to pay off.
    â€œOuch,” I said a few times before landing on the ground. I had to hop around for a bit, rubbing my elbow and still balancing the tart while Meg asked me if I was okay. I told her I was totally fine.
    My bike was glinting at the gate.
    â€œA man is there, Meggy. He’s at the edge of the sea. Somebody’s got to save him before it’s too late.”
    â€œA man? On his own? By the edge of the sea, at midnight? How has that got anything to do with you?”
    I’m not really sure why, but I never worried whether something was my business or not.
    Meg said that it was really great being my best friend. But she also said it was exhausting.
    â€œAre you seriously going to go? Now? At this time of night?”
    â€œMeg, didn’t you hear me? Someone’s in need of help.”
    â€œHow do you know? Maybe he’s fine. Is it even slightly possible that whoever he is, he wants to be on his own?”
    â€œYeah. Possible. But my instincts tell me not.”
    â€œCan I come with you then?”
    â€œYou can if you like,” I said, “but keep in mind that time may be running out.”
    It turns out I was right. It was a man. Down at the end, gazing into the sparkly blackness right next to the rusty, barnacled ladder that scaled the deep side of the pier.
    He seemed very old. A scraggy little dog trotted nervously up and down, looking at the water, then looking back at the man, and then looking at the water again. Stashed by the wall there was a