The Last Hunter - Collected Edition Read Online Free PDF

car in park and turns around with an arm up on the back of his seat. The smile on his face tells me that this detour is for me. His next words confirm it.
    “Merrill Clark lives here. His family is joining us.”
    Mom and Dad exit the car as a man steps out of the front door. I can’t see his face because Mom is already hugging him. Dad shakes his hand next. I’m in the front seat now, shaking with excitement and fear. For other New England kids, this would be like meeting Larry Bird or Wade Boggs. I’m going to be spending the next few weeks with my hero. And I’m desperate to make a good impression.
    Should I quote him? Should I tell him my theories on ancient Antarctican civilizations? Should I ask him to sign my copy of Antarktos ?
    I decide, push the car door open and step out. Before I know what’s happened, I fall forward, reach out and land on the paved driveway, which feels harder in the bitter chill. I land with a slap.
    The pain is sharp, rising from my hands, traveling up my arms and descending to my gut. The blow has sucked away my breath. But I hold back my tears. I don’t gasp for air. I don’t even look at my parents. If they’re laughing, I’ll cry for sure. So I focus on figuring out what happened. A quick look back answers that question. My shoelace is wedged in the car door. I yank at it, but instead of coming free, it snaps in half. I fall back, hitting my head.
    I feel a growl rising in my throat. I’ve never been more embarrassed. I want to go home.
    “You okay?”
    The voice doesn’t belong to either of my parents and certainly not to Dr. Clark. I turn my head toward the person standing above me. A girl. Her skin is a deep tan, but her hair, tied back in a tight bun, is as blond as mine. She smiles down at me and for a moment, I hold my breath. She’s stunning. She’s a girl. And she’s smiling at me. This is a first.
    She reaches down and takes my hand. I’m too flabbergasted to realize she’s pulling me to my feet, so she ends up doing most of the work. She’s strong. Stronger than me, that’s for sure.
    Once I’m standing again, some sense returns. I quickly look to my parents and Dr. Clark. They’re still talking, oblivious to what just happened.
    “Don’t worry,” the girl says, “no one saw you.”
    I turn back to the girl, seeing her for who she is. The dark skin. The blond hair. And her eyes. “Mirabelle Clark,” I say.
    “Solomon Vincent,” she says. “But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to say our own names, not each other’s.”
    When she starts shaking my hand, I realize she hadn’t let go. My hand begins to sweat so I break away from the handshake, feigning an itch on my head. I can tell by her smile that she sees through my ruse. To her credit, and my relief, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she heads toward our parents and motions me to follow.
    “C’mon,” she says. “Introduce me to your dad.”
    My dad ? I think. What’s so great about —? Then, I see the camera around her neck. My father is a photographer for National Geographic . Many of his photos from their Clark Station years are in Antarktos . If Mirabelle wants to be a photographer, then my dad is probably her hero as much as her father is mine.
    Knowing this is a great relief. For a moment I worried that I would be constantly paired with Mirabelle throughout the trip, unable to pursue my interests because our parents were trying to play Antarctican matchmakers. But as I watch her walk away, I feel my face flush. Not only is she pretty, but she spoke to me with a kindness I hadn’t yet experienced from a girl my age.
    In fact, she’s got me so distracted that when I’m introduced to Dr. Clark, I totally botch the quote, making myself look like a buffoon. As they pack the cars, I’m told there are chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter if I want one. I don’t, but I want to be out of sight so much that if they had said there were chocolate covered locusts in the kitchen, I