Episode three

“They’re out cold,” one of the men says on a thick accent I don’t recognize. Then he says something in another language to the watch on his wrist. “Let’s move. We’ve got ten minutes max.”

The boots tromp back into the living room. I quietly dig through Dad’s pockets in hopes of discovering his phone. It’s not there. He must have left it on his dresser to charge.

The men begin opening drawers, rifling through them. Papers flutter through the air. Pillows are slashed and feathers scatter about like snow. Picture frames are torn into splinters and lamps are shattered across the ground. I lick my lips and focus on Rule #12 for sleuthing: “walk on the balls of your feet. Bare feet are best for silence and speed.”

I stealthily slip off my cleats and socks, easing them to the floor. Then, ever so slowly, I creep to the far side of the kitchen, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me. The linoleum bites cold against my feet. With my back pressed against the far wall, I rack my mind, trying to figure out where my parents’ phones would be. They got rid of the landline years ago to save money.

Should I go upstairs to find Dad’s phone? Mom would tell me to hide. Dad would say run to the neighbors’ house.

“Hey!” One of the men says. “The kid isn’t lying on the floor anymore.”

My heart dives as he steps into the kitchen. The counters are barren, sparkling clean. Not a weapon within my grasp. I slide towards the kitchens’ other exit into the hall, when my foot hits something smooth, my soccer ball. I pick it up and kick it as hard as I can at the mans’ face. My aim is true. It smashes the guys so hard, he slams back woo to the wall. With a wail, he slumps to the floor, holding his face.

I spring past him, through the living room and into the hall, springing for the front door. There at the other end of the hall, blocking the front door, stands Baseball Cap Guy.

“Having a bad dream, are you?” He says.

I backpedal, only to discover the other man now fills the doorway to the living I just exited.

“Easy now, little gir.” He hold up his hands as if to calm me, but my eyes are reveted to the glowing whatch on his wrist. “We don’t want to hurt you. If you’ll just tell me where your family keeps their special things, the everyywill be okay.”

I clench my fists. As if I’m telling him anything. I bound up the stairs and sprint down the hall, pumping my arms and focusing on the door at the end. My parents’ room. The walls press in too tight. The house suddenly feels too small. Quickly, I drag Mon’s desk chair over and Jam it under the foirknobs.

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