I couldn’t handle the lunch crowd—not while trying to suppress my panic about all the terrifying strangeness in my life. Plus I had forgotten to bring lunch. After my last class—World Literature, in which half the kids read the books in their original languages—I slunk out the side door and, instead of going straight home, wandered through the pretty little coastal village. I didn’t get back to the museum until after four. As I pushed through the gates, I caught a flash of motion among the maples. Behind an ancient tree, I found a patch of bare ground. There was a circle drawn in the dirt, cleaned of fallen leaves but scattered with acorns. No, not acorns. I leaned down and grabbed one. Marbles, little clay marbles. I didn’t even know marbles came in clay. Next to the circle was an old-fashioned slingshot, left behind by some kid. I gathered it, along with the marbles, figuring the museum had a lost and found. I got halfway to the door when I saw him. A little boy, maybe ten years old, lurking in the bushes, watching with sad eyes.
