Tin.Can.Goat

I stood at the gas pump and watched my wife through the car’s tinted windows. She was turned around in the front seat, yelling at the kids in the back. The car rocked, and made it difficult to fit my key into the lock on the gas cap. I rapped on the window. “Hey, knock it off.”

My wife flipped me the bird, and the baby followed suit. “No you don’t,” she said, her voice muffled by the glass and metal. The baby turned and smiled at me, and I waved. In the background my wife mouthed “ass”, and I winked at her. A passerby would have no problem noticing the tension. It always got rough after three days of vacation with the kids, and this year was the baby’s first trip; it made this year’s coastal trip a bit more hectic.

I spun the cap from the tank, and looked over at the big red F-150 that pulled up at the pump behind me. A stringy guy in cowboy boots, and shorts that showed a little too much of his butt cheeks for my comfort, leapt from the truck and landed with a clop against the concrete. He looked at me, and with a smile, adjusted the frayed, red- strap of his wife-beater t-shirt back onto his shoulder.

I nodded, and he ran his tongue across his upper teeth while grabbing his groin. I did a double-take, and turned to the pump and inserted my card. My wife yelled again, and the car rocked as she turned and shook a finger at the kids. The baby flipped her the bird, and I turned so neither of them would catch me laughing.

I choose the grade of fuel, and inserted the nozzle into the tank.

“Oh yeah,” red-pickup dude said. I turned, and he smiled. He stepped back, and stroked the hose inserted into his fuel tank.

“Hi,” I said, and I tapped on the fuel pump, hoping my tapping would increase the speed.

“You like that?” he said.

“Like that?”

He tilted his head, and looked at me as he stroked his chin. “Well, do ya?” he said.

“I’m sorry?” I said, and I moved the nozzle around in the fuel tank. I checked the automatic latch, and saw it was on the full setting.

“Oh, you do like that.”

I stopped moving the nozzle. “I’m just trying to hurry is all.”

“What’s the hurry? You got a date?”

I looked at my wife through the window. She rested her head on her palms as she leaned forward to stare out at me with a smile. I sneered back.

“I’m married,” I said.

“So, it ain’t a date then,” he said. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

“She’s in the car.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry my man. I thought you were alone.” He replaced the hose at the pump, and grabbed his receipt.

“Well…,” I said. I looked down at my wife staring at me through the window with a huge smile on her face. She mouthed “You’re and ass,” and I shook my head. “Never mind. No, I’m not alone.”

He climbed in his truck, and started it. I finished pumping, and grabbed the receipt. He pulled up along the other side of the pump.

“Ya know,” he said, leaning out the window. “That’s too bad—”

I turned, and looked at what had interrupted him. The baby smiled out the window as she flipped him the bird.

I turned, and said sorry, but he had rolled up the window, and started driving away.

I sat in the car, my wife laughed next to me.

“Just shut up,” I said, and started the car. “Shut up, or I’ll follow him and take him up on the offer.”

[631]

Sheldon hated to fish, and when he told his dad, his dad called him a bitch.

“I just don’t like it,” Sheldon said. He sat cross-legged in the grass, picking at worms as they popped up from the wet ground. “The fish are slimy.”

His dad leaned against the large elm in the front yard, and watched Sheldon work. “Don’t be a bitch,” he said, and coughed as Sheldon started to throw a tiny worm in the white, Styrofoam cup.

Sheldon tossed the worm over his shoulder into the flower bed. “I’m not a bitch. Picking up these worms is a bitch.”

“You’re bitching. That makes you a bitch.”

“Mom doesn’t like it when you call me a bitch.” Sheldon cringed and dropped an unusually large night crawler into the cup. He flicked his hand, trying to dislodge the silvery slime from his fingertips, but resigned to wiping it on his pants instead. “You know what’s a bitch?”

“You?” his dad said. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from under his trucker hat, and packed it against his palm.

“This slimy stuff is a bitch. Sticks to your hands like a bitch in heat.” Sheldon smelled his finger tips. “And why does it smell like a bitch?”

“Literally?” His dad asked, and flicked his lighter. He lit his cigarette, and after a couple of breaths, blew a smoke ring in the air and broke it with his finger.

“Maybe the girls you date, but I meant bitch figuratively, as in bad.” Sheldon smelled his fingers again, and held them up towards his dad. “Guess what I did last night.”

“You’re thirty-three, and a virgin bitch. You live at home rent free, and you work part-time at a KFC.” His dad flicked ashes at Sheldon’s face, and Sheldon waved his hand to scatter them in the air. “Is the answer ‘nothing’?”

“Funny, but no, and I’m only thirty-two. Warrior rolls a twenty—saving throw!”

“Good Lord, you’re the king of bitches.” His dad exhaled a breath of smoke, and flicked the butt into the worm cup; it burned a hole through the Styrofoam, and dirt spilled out.

“Seriously pop, mom told you not to call me a bitch anymore. She said it’s not nice.”

“I’m not in the business of being a bitch sympathizer.”

“I’d say it’s more of respect, than sympathy.”

“From the king of bitches, to the Plato of bitch philosophers. Why don’t you use your super-bitch powers and get your own apartment?”

“The economy’s a bitch right now,” Sheldon said.

“Your bitch-ass is just lazy,” his dad said.

“I’m motivated. Someday I may just surprise you.”

“I’m surprised every day I wake up and realize you’re still under my roof.”

“Try and hurt me, you won’t get me mad.”

His dad laughed. “I don’t think bitches get mad, they just mope around in self-pity.”

“You know what a bitch does when he’s mad?” Sheldon said. He stood up and walked to his dad.

“I thought I said ‘mope’, but let’s try—” his dad smiled. “—I don’t know…whines?” He rolled out the word in nasally voice.

Nope,” Sheldon said, and threw the cup of worms in his dad’s face.

Sheldon thought his dad screamed ‘You bitch!’, but Sheldon was so nervous at what he did, he was nearly half a block away before he heard his dad giving chase behind him. Sheldon’s legs felt like butter, but the screams of his dad behind him, gave him little reason to tarry.

[583]

[Bitch total: 24]

I don’t like pretentious people. Nope, not at all. Pretentious people think they’re better than me, but they’re not. There ain’t no topping this classy guy. No way, no how.

Take for example what happened today.

Wait, no, it started Sunday, but I couldn’t finish it then because the place was closed. See, Sunday I am downtown Boise with my baby daughter, waiting near the county building for a table to open up at my favorite breakfast bistro. We’re playing in the water at the fountain, and I look across the street and see the name of an author I like blazoned on the reader board of the movie theatre over there.

First I grab my daughter and race across the street. I had my doubts that anyone would be at the theatre, but I took my chances and walked up to the booth.

“Are you selling tickets to Michael Chawbon?” I said, and the ticket girl looked at me funny. “Chaybon? Sheybon? Am I missing it here?”

She looked at the manager behind her, and the manager looked at me and then back at her, then shrugged. “They’re selling the tickets at the Log Cabin,” the ticket girl said.

“Right up the road?” I said, and she shrugged. “Never mind, I’ll find it.”

I carried my daughter back across the street and let her down onto the ground. She ran for the water fountain, and I took out my phone and called my wife.

“Hey,” I said when she picked answered.

“What?” she said.

“Just real quick, can you look up a number for me?”

“I have crap on my hands.”

“Literally?”

“Yeah, literally, because I play in my own shit like a monkey. What do you want?”

I heard her wash her hands in the background, and my son singing above it. I explained what I was looking for and she looked the number up on the computer. I thanked her, and dialed the number. I get a recording; they aren’t open, but the recording tells me to leave a message. I hang up, grab my daughter from the fountain, and dry her hands on my shirt.

Monday came, and I made plans to go to the center and purchase me a ticket to Michael Chaw-bon.

I open the door and walk into a dark, empty room. My footsteps echo around the emptiness.

“Hello?” A woman said from the back room. The tapping of high-heeled little feet grew louder as she approached from the dim hallway. She entered the room like a whale breeching the ocean surface.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m here to buy ticket for Michael…Chaw-bon?”

She looked over the rim of her glasses. “Chay-bon,” she said.

“Chay-bon?”

She sniffed. “SHAY-bon.”

“Ah, thanks. I wasn’t sure because I’ve never heard it spoken.”

“This way,” she said, and turned on her heels. She walked into the room without waiting on me.

I entered the room, and walked to the side of the desk she stood by. “Just one,” I said.

“One?” she said.

She looked shocked, so I elaborated. “Yeah, none of my friends know who he is.”

She did a double-take. “If no one knows him, why do I only have thirty tickets left?”

“Because none of those people are my friends. Check?” I held my checkbook up, and she nodded. “Twenty-two bucks?”

She looked at the paper on the desk. “Yes, twenty-two.”

I wrote the check, and handed it to her. “No ticket for the missus?”

“Nope, she could care less, to tell the truth.”

“Hmmph.”

“O…kay,” I said, and took the ticket. I walked to the door, and turned to the woman. “Thanks for the help. I can’t wait to meet Mr. Shaw-bon.”

She exhaled through her pursed lips. “SHAY-bon,” she said, and closed the office door.

I smiled and patted my wallet that held my ticket. Next week was going to be fun.

[650]

WinCo is a new name for the grocery chain, but back when I was a kid, the store was named Waremart. I’m not exactly sure how, or why, the name change came about, and I really don’t care enough to go research it.

Back in the early days, WinCo—hereafter referred to as the store—didn’t use the awesomeness that is UPC bar-code scanning. Back then, at the registers, the prices on canned and dry goods were written on the items by customers with store-supplied, wax pencils.

The following is a typical example of how it worked for one particular customer:

Customer walks into store. Customer grabs cart, and pushes it into the store.

Customer returns to cart corral, and leaves cart with gimp wheel. Customer chooses new cart, and pushes it into the store.

Customer yells at her children, but children continue to jump up and down on the automatic-door trigger mats. Customer threatens children that their father shall be notified of their bad actions, but children ignore customer. Customer walks to children and twists ears. Children cry and sulk after customer.

Customer walks back to cart, but cart is missing. Customer curses the thief—hereafter referred to as jackass—and walks back out of store.

Customer returns to cart corral. Customer realizes that the only cart remaining inside, is the gimped-wheel cart. Customer swears under breath, and curses jackass once more. Customer turns to tell children to go outside and get cart, but children are missing. Customer smiles, and pushes gimped cart into store.

Customer grabs wax pencil—used to mark prices on cans and dry goods—from plastic cup near door, and pushes cart further into store. Customer finds canned vegetable aisle, and selects cheapest can of green beans—typically dented, or black around seal for that extra discount.

Customer walks leaves cart and walks back to front of store for new, working wax pencil. Customer grabs an extra three wax pencils for, “shits and giggles.”

Customer realizes she left purse in shopping cart. Customer arrives at shopping cart sweating and out of breath, but happy that purse is untouched.

Children are at candy dispensers, happy that customer left purse unguarded. Children chew gum and blow bubbles, then high-five, and skip to comic book spinners.

Customer continues to dry goods aisle. Customer finds three-quarter full bag of all-purpose white flour, but is elated because hole is plugged with a small piece of grey duct tape. Customer marks original price on white flour wrapper, and circles the extra fifteen percent marked there. Customer is thinking of getting hair done with money saved.

Customer enters dry cereal aisle. Customer thinks children will enjoy the cereal she purchases for them. Customer marks generic Cheerios bag, and tosses bag in cart. Customer looks in cart and wonders when the craftiest of the four children had time to slip two Spider-Man comic books into cart. Customer smiles and places comic books onto nearby shelf.

Crafty child watches customer, and waits for customer to exit aisle. Crafty child takes comic books and shadows customer three more aisles. Crafty child watches customer enter ladies room to, “freshen up.” Crafty child hides comic books between boxes of powdered milk and Idaho Au Gratin potatoes. Crafty child darts from cart area after hearing ladies room door open.

Customer feels her shoulder and reassures herself that purse is on shoulder and not on cart that crafty child just darted from. Customer lifts the discounted bread bags, but does not see any comic books.

Customer transfers groceries onto black conveyor belt, and finds comic books between boxed dry goods. Customer sighs and puts comic books onto impulse items rack, next to Woman’s World. Customer picks up latest issue of Woman’s World, and places on belt. Crafty child watches exchange and begs customer for comic books.

Clerk interrupts and tells customer that customer missed marking price on dented can of white hominy.

Customer mutters swear words, and tells crafty child to go get price. Crafty child negotiates task for comic books, but the offer is rejected. Customer sends crafty child out with wax pen and threats of father knowing crafty child has been a “brat.” Crafty child pouts and slowly walks away from customer and the line of four other customers; all frowning, and leaning on their carts.

Customer feels bad, and places Spider-Man comic books on belt. Clerk says, “These as well?” Customer smiles, and shrugs, then says, “Yes.”

Crafty child is at disgusting hominy canned vegetable area. Crafty child notices price is fifty-eight cents, but marks the can eighty-eight. Crafty child smiles at his retribution, and skips back to the front of the store.

Crafty child smiles at the eight customers in line at the conveyor belt, and drops the hominy can on its side at the very end of the belt.

Clerk sighs and waves hand between infrared conveyor belt eyes. The hominy can spins at the far end of the belt, but does not advance.

Customer grabs crafty child’s arm and pulls him out of the way. Customer rights hominy can, and gives to clerk.

Clerk notices price, and looks at crafty child who is staring back. Clerk shakes head, and enters price. Crafty child takes hominy can and pushes it deep down in bread bag to ensure it is secure.

Customer writes check, and her children follow her out of the store.

Customer transfers paper bagged groceries into back of green, four-door, pickup truck. Crafty child laughs at sister—Raymond Barf Pickle—who sinks down in seat so boys will not notice her.

Customer tells crafty child to return cart to corral and she will give him treat. Crafty child is dubious of customer’s honesty, but complies.

Customer starts pickup truck, and black smoke billows from tailpipe. Crafty child wipes black soot from face and climbs into front seat.

Customer presents crafty child Spider-Man comic books, and crafty child is happy and thanks customer.

Customer looks around and wonders where her children got gum. Children smile and blow bubbles.

Customer and children drive toward the purple twilight and home.

[1009]

Travis stopped when he heard the voices.

He glanced at the cars around him, but none were occupied and it looked to him as if everyone were inside the store.

He knelt down next to a van. The van’s side was painted to mimic Joe Jusko; a fantasy scene of a grey-bearded wizard fighting a flaming dragon beside an overly-muscled warrior in loincloth and leather bandolier.

Travis looked under the van and the surrounding cars, but he didn’t see anyone. He stood up, and shook his head as he looked at the painting once more. It was definitely something his work-friend Lee would find fancy, if he didn’t own something similar already. Lee was eccentric like that, and Travis knew if they were together now, Lee would stand for hours looking at the painting, rubbing his bald head in wonderment at the intricacies of it all.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Travis turned around and said, “Excuse me?” No one answered. “Hello?” he said, and walked around the back of the van, but no one was on that side either.

“You think about it in the wrong way,” said a deep voice, and Travis jumped because it came from directly behind him. He turned, but saw no one.

“Ok, who’s messing with me?” he said, and clenched his fists ready to strike should someone jump out at him.

“What’s his problem?” said a second voice, and sounded like a gravel scrapped from the bed of a pickup truck.

“No idea,” said the first.

“Knock it off,” Travis said. “I know karate.”

The voices laughed in unison.

“What are you going to do? Knife strike us off the metal?” said the first.

“Oh, oh! I think he’ll try and roundhouse us,” said the second, and they laughed. “Over here stupid.” Travis looked around. “No, stupid, down here, on the door.”

Travis looked at the double, backdoors of the van. Nothing looked conspicuous, or out of the ordinary. He noted the typical chrome door handles with push-buttons, seated directly beneath the two decorative window scene covered windows. Below that, the fantasy painting continued, showing the naked feet of the helpless woman wrapped from the side of the van. “I’m losing my mind,” he said.

“No you’re not,” said the first voice. “Like cat mentioned, you’re just stupid.” The laughs came again, and Travis indeed felt stupid, but only for losing his mind.

Movement caught his attention and he looked back at the van. There, below the door handles, were two Jesus fishes. One read ‘Dog’, and the other ‘Cat’. Both were fish, but the dog had ears, legs, a tail and a long floppy tongue. The cat was the same, but with pointier ears, whiskers, and a longer, skinnier tail. “Are you talking to me?” Travis said, and pointed at his chest.

The fish laughed.

“Hey, hey, stupid thinks he’s Travis Bickle,” the cat said, and the two fish laughed. “You talkin’ to me? Then who the hell else you talkin too? You talkin—” the cat laughed. “No, no, I just can’t do it. This is one funny cat we got here.”

“Yeah he is,” said the dog with a snort. “I’m thinking you need to move on bub. We’re in the middle of a discussion here, and you’re eaves-dropping.”

Travis stood with his mouth open.

“Catching mice?” said the cat, and Travis closed his mouth.

“No, uh, no, no. I, I am just thinking I might have gone mad. Are you talking fish?”

“Well,” said the dog. “We are. Ya see, I myself, am a dogfish. Cat there is a—drum roll please—a catfish! You get it? You do, right? Please say yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Travis said. “I get that joke here. It’s not really that funny, and you both clash with the painting.”

“That’s what I was saying to cat!” said the dog, and the cat raspberried.

“Sufferin’ succotash! You’re both a couple of stupids,” said the cat. “We do not clash with the painting. I am positive there were dog and catfish around back—Whoa! We gotta go.”

“Wait! Go? Go where?” Travis said, and leaned in close to the cat. “Finish what you were saying. Hey—” he tapped the cat with his knuckles. “—I know you’re in there. Come out. I’m curious.”

“So am I,” said a voice behind Travis, and he turned to look at the speaker. He was a tall man, thin, receding hairline, but still looked too young, to be too old. “Curious as to why you are touching my van, man.”

Travis stepped back from the van. “Sorry, the, the painting is marvelous—” He lied. “—I have a friend at work who’d love if I got some pictures.”

“Sorry man, you should have done it when you had the chance. Now back away, before I run you over.” He pushed past Travis and unlocked one of the back doors. He tossed a bag inside and closed the door. “Shoo man, you’re bothering me.”

Travis stepped away, but stopped and waited for the man to back out of the parking space. As the van’s reverse lights blinked out and the van pulled away, he waved to the two fish, but then shook his head in disbelief that he had just done that. He didn’t think he was crazy, but his actions were starting to prove him wrong.

He turned and started towards the store.

“See ya stupid!” the cat called out.

“Yeah, have a stupid day,” the dog called out.

Travis didn’t turn to look; he was too busy sprinting for the entrance to the grocery store.

[933]

“Life’s a bitter pill,” Charlie said, and ran the dull edge of the knife blade up his arm.

“That’s pretty cliché,” Janice said. She reached out to take the knife from him, but he swatted her hand away. “At least stop playing with it like that.”

Charlie shrugged, and poked his forearm with the tip of the knife. The blade pressed a dimple into the skin, but didn’t break the surface. He dragged the tip, and it traced a white line in its path. He watched Janice flinch, and he smiled at her.

“I know you think you’re funny, but you’re not,” she said, and crossed her arms.

He laughed.

“At least you think you’re funny. It’s not a total waste that way.”

He smirked, and traced the line back up his arm. The blade nicked the skin, and he jerked back from the pain. A pin-prick of blood peeked from the skin, and then pulled itself free and ran down his arm. He flicked the bubble, and smiled as it splattered across his pale skin. “Didn’t expect that,” he said.

Janice reached behind and grabbed a wet wash cloth from the kitchen sink and tossed it to Charlie. Charlie stabbed the cloth with the knife, and then flipped it back over his shoulder. It landed on the stove with a slap. “Don’t need it,” he said.

“Thought maybe you’d want to—” she said.

“Don’t want it either,” Charlie interrupted. “If I want something, I’ll ask for it. Or just take it.”

“I don’t get what’s going on here,” Janice said.

“That’s the problem.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“No, it’s not. It’s so damn perfect that I want to cut my eyes out.”

Janice pounded her fist against the countertop, and Charlie giggled. “I’m not amused. Not at all,” she said.

Charlie flicked the knife in the air and caught it blade first. It sliced the tip of his thumb and he dropped it to the floor with a cry.

Janice shook her head. “See,” she said, and moved towards him and kicked the knife under the stove. “You weren’t so brave then. It was funny till you did that, but now that you’ve felt just a small bit of pain, it’s serious.”

Charlie clutched his side and dropped to the floor. Blood colored his shirt, and a red smear blotted the front of the stove, marking his path as he slid down it.

“Charlie?” she said, and dropped to her knees beside him. “Charlie? What happened?” She felt her hands down his back, and her fingers slipped across his blood-slicked skin. She started when she felt the hole, and the blood pumping out of it.

She felt her hands along the countertop above her, searching for the cell phone, and she dialed emergency once she found it.

“Operator, 9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the woman’s voice was calm, comforting.

“My boyfriend, he’s cut himself,” Janice said.

“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down and repeat what you said,” the woman said.

“My…my boyfriend, Charlie, somehow he cut himself, but he did it after I kicked the knife under the stove.”

The operator read and address.

“Yes, that’s us, please hurry,” Janice said.

“Emergency services are on their way ma’am. Is your boyfriend breathing?” the operator said.

“Yes.”

“Has the bleeding stopped?”

“I don’t know. I’m holding a wet cloth against it, but I’m afraid to move it and look.”

“Don’t move it ma’am, keep pressure on the wound. Before you covered it, did you see if it was a puncture or a cut?”

“My fingers felt a hole.”

“Did you see what caused it?”

“No. Please hurry,” Janice said.

“Emergency is on the way. Five minutes out. Please be calm.”

Janice looked around for what might have cut him. She felt under the stove with her hand, but she couldn’t feel the knife. She looked at the stain on the stove and followed it up. Blood dripped from a potato peeler, sticking just off the top of the stove.

She reached up and grabbed the peeler from the stove. It stuck and she pulled harder, but the peeler wouldn’t move.

She heard sirens approaching, and she prayed.

A knock on the door brought her to her feet, and after she stood, she notice the peeler jammed in the burner coil. She cried when she realized Charlie must have backed into the blade on accident after the steak knife cut his thumb.

She rushed to the door and the paramedics pushed past her. They dropped their bags, and knelt beside Charlie. They took his blood pressure and dressed the wound.

“We’re going to take him in,” a paramedic said, and Janice nodded. “Are you riding with us?” Janice nodded, and the paramedic stood. “Ok,” he said. “You stand outside by the door while we get the gurney and get him out of here.”

Janice nodded, and wiped her eyes. “Is he going to be ok?”

The paramedic smiled. “It’s going to be fine. Just fine.”

[838]

Hubbard looked at the old man crouched in the grass before her. He had his back to her as he looked out across the pond at the creature he called a “Blood Crab” and every so often, he’d exhale a soft whistle as the Blood Crab looked their way.

“So, pops” she said, and the old man turned, his eyes wide and worried. “Why are you afraid of that Blood Crab when it’s clear across the pond from us? It doesn’t look that mean to me. I mean, it doesn’t even have pinchers, just a shell and eight legs. In fact, if it didn’t have that shell, it would resemble a spider more than a crab. What’s it going to do, come over and lick us to dea—”

“That’s right, keep talking,” he said, his voice was low, difficult to hear. “While you do that, I am going to belly crawl over to that tree and climb out of the Blood Crab’s reach.” He turned and moved towards the elm across the path.

“Wait,” she whispered, but he didn’t stop. She picked up a stone and tossed it at him; it bounced off his head and he turned and mouthed something at her. She motioned for him to return and whispered, “Come back. I’ll shut up.”

He cupped his ear and tilted his head. Hubbard sighed and waved more frantic. He turned and crawled back. “What?” he said, his voice a whisper. “I really don’t want to die because of you.”

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” she said, also in a whisper.

He patted her shoulder. “Thanks. Now, this is the issue. Those things are nasty, but they only stay that size for a few minutes; five at most.”

“Then what?”

“Then what? Then they shrink, and we step on them. That’s what.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh’,” he said aloud, and came up on his knees.

Hubbard propped herself up on her elbows. “Shh! What are you doing?”

“It’s happening.” He pointed across the pond, and Hubbard looked.

The Blood Crab was indeed shrinking; first its legs lowered it close the ground until they were too small to support the creature and it rested on its belly; its legs flailing in the air. She stood up and watched as its shell shrank first, and then as the belly shrunk and the shell lowered closer to the ground. Hubbard figured that if she continued to watch, the creature would soon be indiscernible by her eyes. She wanted to be close enough to see it, and study it, before the old man crushed it into nothingness.

The old man stood and turned to Hubbard. “C’mon. We’ve got to crush it before it smells the water and starts making its way into the water.” He jogged away from her.

“What happens if it makes it to the water?” Hubbard called out after him. She picked herself up and ran after him.

“Well, if it makes it to the water,” he said over his shoulder, “Then we turn around and run back this way. Climbing the highest tree will be in our favor.”

“But what happens if it makes it to the water?” Hubbard caught up to him, and he turned his head to look at her.

“Well, if it makes it back to the water, it will grow again. Then we’ll be in trouble. C’mon, pick up the pace. My foot’s itching to stomp something.”

He sprinted ahead, and Hubbard smiled and ran after him.

[580]