Synopsis

          Claire Worthington hugged the corner of the garage and held her breath.  The wooden clapboards were lumpy with layers of paint and the chipped green topcoat let bits of gray and brown sneak through from other times and other worlds.  The streetlights had just come on and the sky was still that bluest of blues before it turned to black. 

          The sound of scraping metal echoed down the alley off Westfield Street and Claire slowly inched her eyes past the chalky yellow trim and peered through the leafless spring branches of a dogwood bush.  Someone, hunched and cloaked, shuffled between garbage cans, lifting one dented lid after another, and dropping small packages into each container.  The figure turned slightly, just enough for Claire to see the hawk-nosed profile of the crazy lady.   Claire gasped.  Everybody said Mrs. Fisher was responsible for the disappearance of the Myrtle’s schnauzer and three cats in the neighborhood, but nobody could prove she’d done away with them.  Some kids said she strung her violin with the guts of the cats.  What happened to the dog was anybody’s guess.   

          Claire wiped her cold runny nose on the sleeve of her brother’s hooded sweatshirt.  The tickle of an oncoming sneeze crept up her nostril like a spider.  She clasped her hands over her face to squelch the explosion.  The result sounded like something that might fly out of a whoopee cushion.  Mrs. Fisher shot a glance in Claire’s direction and held it for what seemed like a very, very long time.  She squinted and sniffed the air.  Then, the crazy lady crumpled her paper bag, pulled open a chain link gate, and disappeared.

          Being outdoors after the streetlights were on was risky, but not as risky as being indoors when the house storms came, as Claire and her brother Jamie called them.  Of course, Claire was never alone, even though Jamie was away at school.  The Scurry Gang appeared whenever she wanted them or needed them, like tonight.  When they weren’t with her, they were sleeping in the pile of regular stuffed animals on her bed.  Except for the wombats Sniffy and Picky, that is, they were almost always in Claire's backpack. Technically, Claire was too old for stuffed animals who became imaginary friends.  She knew that.  But as long as no one else knew, it didn’t matter.

          There were other reasons it was risky to be out late, but not because Cedar City was unsafe. Hardly anything ever happened in this middle-of-nowhere Michigan town.  And it wasn’t because Claire was breaking her parents’ rarely enforced curfew, which was ridiculous for a seventh grader anyway.  It was risky because number one, on nights like tonight, she’d have to sneak back through her bedroom window while the house storm was most likely still raging, and number two, the relentless streetlight at the end of her driveway made it impossible to get there undetected.  That is, of course, if anyone was watching. 

          Claire looked up and down the alley, pondering the discarded bundles.  Bones, maybe.  She pushed a clump of sandy brown hair toward her ponytail.  Across the back of the gray sweatshirt was a crest with the words ‘Admiral Farragut Academy’.  She pulled a lemon yellow walkie-talkie out of the pocket and pressed the device to her cheek.

          “All right, you guys,” she whispered.  “You got me covered?     Over.”

          “10-4, Claire.”  Picky’s voice crackled through the speaker.    “You’re clear.  Over.” 

          “Hold your positions, I’m movin’ in.  Over and out.”