Sam asks. He paces around my room, anxiously drumming his fingers on his substantial belly. Mom and Dad are still doing the dinner dishes while my friends and I are supposedly finishing our homework. As if. “Call the police?” Lucille sits on the edge of Dave’s bed, tying and retying her size twelve saddle shoes. To say Lucille’s feet are big is like saying water is wet. “What good would that do?” Sam counters. “They’ve been on the case for the last thirty-six hours and as far as I can tell they haven’t come up with a single lead. At least Charlie’s actually laid eyes on the thing.” “True,” I say quietly. “I hate to admit it, but we’ll just have to catch the creature ourselves and do our best not to get killed.” “That would be nice.” Lucille looks up. “I would really prefer to avoid death by homicidal maniac.” “So how exactly do you plan to do that, Charlie?”
