giving way to a smile. âWell, sorry to disappoint there, pal. Iâm still here, healthy as a glue-factory-bound horse.â
He hated when she brought up the glue factory. âOkay. Uh, Iâm just going back downstairs to . . . play some video games with Audie. Yeah. So if you hear anything weird, thatâs . . . what weâre up to.â
She raised an eyebrow. âYouâre not doing drugs, are you?â
âWhat? No!â
âSorry. Iâm contractually bound to ask.â She picked up the TV remote as some screaming reality show contestants began to throw mud at each other. âHave fun. Tell Audie I said hi.â
Audie.
Max sprinted back down the hallway and headed for the front door. When he opened it, a piece of paper taped to the door fluttered in his face.
âSorry to refuse your most generous Xbox offer,â it said in Audieâs handwriting. âBut Mom made me go clothes shopping instead. Pray for my poor, doomed soul.â
He flipped up the doormatâthe key was still there.
Okay. So she was never here. Good.
He grabbed the key, then a fireplace poker on his way through the living room. Pausing at the top of the basement stairs, he took his cell phone out of his pocket.
âIâm calling 911!â he shouted down.
âNo, youâre not!â the man yelled back.
Instantly, the Beige Wonder went dead. Max stared at it, his eyes doubling in size. He ran back into the living room to click on the cordless but found only dead air, no dial tone.
He planted himself at the doorway again. âHow are you doing this?â
âStop yelling and get down here. Weâll have a nice, reasonable chat.â
Squeezing the poker, Max slowly made his way down the stairs. The man hadnât movedâhe was still on the couch, still playing
Madden
.
Somehow, with his eyes glued to the screen, he sensed Maxâs intent to harm. âGo ahead,â he scoffed. âDo your worst.â
Maxâs worst wasnât very terrible at all, but years of shoveling had at least given him some decent upper-body strength, despite a poor showing in other areas. And there were laws about self-defense and protecting oneâs own home, right? So he gave it a shot, hurling the poker straight at the manâs torso, where, amazingly, it hit its target.
It even stuck. The poker sank several inches into the manâs beer gut, and yet . . . he didnât flinch. He didnât
bleed.
A second later he took one hand off the controller to casually pull the rod out, but in doing so, he gave up a touchdown and lost the game.
âDamn it!â he shouted, hurling the controller to the floor. âSee what you made me do?â
Max watched, aghast, as the yawning stomach wound got smaller and smaller until it disappeared. âSorry . . . ?â Max stuttered, unsure whether apologizing to the man whoâd broken into his house was sound etiquette.
Unfazed, the man began licking the Cheetos dust off his fingers one at a time. âNo worries. I get that a lot.â
Now unarmed, Max settled into what he thought, based on countless movies and television shows, was a fighting stance. âListenââ
âRelax, kid, will ya? Iâm not going to hurt you.â He reached for the Cheetos bag, then, remembering that it was empty, frowned. âYou got anything else? Combos?â
âNo.â
âCheez-Its?â
âNo.â
âMeth?â
âWhat?â Max shouted, horrified. âNo!â
âUgh,â the man groaned. âNo one
ever
has meth.â
Max shook his head. Maybe
he
was on meth. Had Stavroula slipped some into his Hot Pocket?
The man was now picking his teeth with the fireplace poker. Max backed up against the wall, hoping to be camouflaged by the horrid wood paneling. âWho
are
you?â
âHmm?â The man paused in his dental work to shoot Max a disinterested