by Steven Bohls
Copyright © 2016 by Steven Bohls
Cover illustration © 2016 by Allen Douglas
Cover design by Maria Elias
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023-6387.
ISBN 978-1-4847-3039-3
Visit www.DisneyBooks.com
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Brandon Sanderson: for your stories of experience, your devotion to craft, and for teaching me how to be a writer.
Jed eyed the pile of batteries on the far side of the table, calculating if they were worth the challenge.
Probably not.
But for once, the entire crew was smiling at him—cheering for him. It felt good.
On the edge nearest him sat a plum-sized gollug slug. Jed poked it. The slug squished under his finger.
“Bite! Bite! Bite! Bite!” the crew chanted.
Shay pushed her way through the group. “Eww! Jed, don’t.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Besides, you could get twice that many batteries, silly mouse.” She stepped back and cringed at the slug. “That’s disgusting.”
Pobble stepped in front of her and slapped Jed’s back. “Ah, don’t listen to her. It probably tastes like blueberries or something. And just look at all them batteries.”
The others nodded.
“Hurry,” Sprocket said, “before Captain catches me away from my post.”
Jed reached for the slug just as Captain Murdock Bog, a boulder of a man, plowed his way through the crowd. “What’s all this?” he shouted, his voice deep and gravelly.
The crew fell silent.
“Well? Answer me.”
Sprocket shuffled away, staring at the deck as though suddenly interested in the luster of the copper planks.
Pobble snorted.
Captain Bog glared.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” Pobble muttered. “We didn’t mean to be lazing around, but Jed was about to eat a bite of a live gollug slug. Found it stuck under the helm.”
Captain Bog pointed to the batteries. “And those?”
Pobble nodded. “Only if he swallows a whole bite.”
Captain Bog shook his head. “You sorry lot ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” More of the crew studied the deck. Shay folded her arms and nodded. “Haven’t you learned anything since that boy jumped aboard? I expected better from you dimwits.”
He turned to Jed. “I’m not letting him walk away with that many batteries for nibbling the backside of a slug.” He reached into his pocket, then tossed two batteries onto the pile. “You eat the whole thing, or you get nothing.”
Shay’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.
Cheers erupted.
Jed gripped the slug and pried it from the table. It slurped in its own ooze. His stomach tightened. He met Captain Bog’s eyes and wedged the slug into his mouth.
• • •
Jed picked rubbery remains from his teeth with the end of an uncoiled spring. Gollug slugs weren’t as slimy as he’d thought—sort of sandy actually. Definitely not worth eighteen batteries, but added to the rest of his stash, it was probably enough to buy a new spatula, a wire whisk, and maybe a bottle of cinnamon.
The slug left an oily taste on his tongue, and he wished he had cinnamon right then. His parents had plenty in their old kitchen—and not just cinnamon. He could almost smell the raw stalks of vanilla, the bitter turmeric, the sweet nigella seed, and saffron…saffron. Jed inhaled as if he were holding a bottle of it. But the taste of slug pushed the memory away.
Four weeks ago, Jed hadn’t known what a gollug slug was. He had never met a scritch, walked through the streets of a floating city, or been caught in a junkstorm. Four weeks ago, Jed had been like any other eleven-year-old. Sort of. If other eleven-year-olds had mothers who drove them (blindfolded) to the middle of Yellowstone National Park and left them with four dollars and a can of orange soda, then, yes, Jed had been exactly like other eleven-year-olds.
He could still feel the way his mother’s lipstick-slathered kiss had squished onto his forehead.
“Don’t get into trouble now,” she’d said. “Be safe. And watch out for grizzlies. They’ll eat you in two bites.”
“I know, Mom.”
She clawed the air with a hand and winked. “Rawr!”
Jed rolled his eyes. “Rawr…”
“I’m baking lemon cake for your birthday tomorrow,” she said. “If you’re not home, your father’s going to eat the middle and leave you the crust pieces.”
“I hate it when he does that! The middle pieces are my favorite!”
“What am I to do?”
“Um…don’t let him eat it, maybe?”
She sighed and stared dreamily into the treetops. “If only it were that simple. He’ll give me one of his irresistible panda-bear pouty faces, and I’ll be helpless. Helpless!”
Jed tried to pout.
His mom patted his face. “Not you too! How can I say no to that face? Once again…powerless against the wiles of the men in my life.” But the surrender in her eyes disappeared, replaced with determined eyebrows and a raised finger. “That’s why I’m going to drive away as quickly as I can.”
She spun on her glossy red high heels and hopped in the car.
“This is reckless abandonment!” Jed called.
Her window rolled down an inch. “Oh, stop being pouty. You’ll do great. Remember SPLAGHETTI, and I’ll see you at home.” Her fingers poked out from the open crack and fluttered good-bye as her tires kicked up rocks and pine needles. When the dust around him settled, he was alone. Left in some deserted location with nothing. Again.
“SPLAGHETTI,” he mumbled to himself. It seemed like their answer for everything. According to Mom and Dad, SPLAGHETTI was the only survival tool one ever needed: Self-reliance. Perspicacity. Lemons. Artistry. Gregariousness. Heroism. Empathy. Tenacity. Tuxedos. Insanity. He didn’t even know what perspicacity meant and seriously doubted that lemons or tuxedos would solve his present predicament.
Or any predicament.
For anyone.
Ever.
He wiped at the lipstick on his forehead. Waxy red streaked over the back of his hand. Dad never missed a chance to snarf down the middle of a birthday cake. That much Jed could be sure of. And he wasn’t about to let him get away with that sort of blatant thievery.
So, with fresh-baked lemon cake in peril, Jed did what any SPLAGHETTI survivalist would do: he started with self-reliance.
Even if that meant setting a forest fire.
Eleven hours and forty-two minutes later, Jed was standing at hi
s front door.
The knob turned almost as soon as he knocked. “I told you!” his father bellowed behind the closed door. “Less than twelve hours! I was right. Wasn’t I right? Go on, tell me I was right!”
“Barely,” Mom replied.
“A deal’s a deal!” Dad said, the door still closed. “You owe me a thirty-minute foot rub and one of those grilled tomato paninis! You know the one—fresh Gouda and basil, yes?”
Mom sighed. “I know the one…”
This wasn’t the first time they’d placed bets on him: how fast he could climb a sequoia, how close he could swim by the alligators, that sort of thing.
Dad always believed in Jed more than anyone.
And Dad usually won.
The door finally opened. Dad knelt and stretched his arms wide. “Well done, my boy!”
Jed grinned and hugged his dad. Even when he was on his knees, his father’s head came nearly to Jed’s.
“So?” Dad lifted his eyebrows in a Tell me the details way.
“I set a tree on fire.”
Dad clapped his hands once. “You didn’t!”
“Traded the orange soda mom left me to a hiker for the matches.”
“And then?”
“Once the smoke was high enough, the park ranger showed, and I hitched a ride, then hid in the closet of an RV. I hitchhiked from Rock Springs to Boulder, then found that bicycle in a Dumpster.”
Dad peeked over Jed’s shoulder at a pink bicycle with sparkling tassels on the handlebars.
“Once I fixed the chain, it worked just fine.”
Dad nodded. “Stylish.”
“Totally. Especially after I popped off the training wheels.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Mom called from the kitchen. “Caramelized duck.”
The smell of honey-crusted duck warmed Jed’s nose.
“And cake, too?” he asked.
“Not until midnight. You’re still eleven for two and a half hours. Cake at midnight. Presents in the morning. You know the drill.”
Eleven somehow seemed so much smaller than twelve—as if midnight would come and he’d somehow feel grown-up.
“Lemon, right?” he asked.
Mom winked. “Of course, dear.”
Everything about his last night as an eleven-year-old was rich and bright. Like a page from a magazine: colorful food, openmouthed smiles, and late-night crustless slices of cake.
Late-night turned into later-night.
They ate cake on his parents’ bed, telling ghost stories and not caring about getting crumbs on the comforter. It was happiness that made the thought of going to bed seem heartbreaking.
But when later-night and even-later-night were behind them, Jed shuffled to his room and fell asleep to the sounds of his parents washing dishes together…splashing each other…hushing each other with “Be quiet! You’ll wake him!”
Jed’s perfect world swirled into perfect dreams.
Those had been some of the best hours of his life.
Jed awoke to a silent house.
Excitement buzzed in the air as he opened his bedroom door. It wasn’t unusual for Dad to hide behind the sofa, ready to jump up and shout, “Happy birthday!”
Jed tiptoed into the living room and peeked behind the sofa.
No parents.
He crept into the kitchen.
No parents.
He looked in his father’s study, the hall closet, the bathrooms, the attic, even under the dining room table.
Not even one parent.
He checked their bedroom. Crumbs still speckled the comforter from last night.
Is this another test?
Jed clenched his jaw.
Birthdays are off-limits!
No chores, no homework, and no life-skills tests. It had always been that way. He searched every room of the house. When he came to the last unopened door—the hall closet—he bit his lip and flung it open.
Empty.
Hope leaked from his heart like air from an underdone sponge cake.
As he slumped against the wall, the doorbell rang.
Jed scrambled to his feet and yanked open the door. A UPS delivery man in tan shorts two sizes too small stood on the porch.
“Well, hi there,” he said, handing Jed a box. Beads of sweat dripped from his face into his mustache. “Hot day, ain’t it?” He wiped an open palm across his forehead. With the same hand, he pulled a signature tablet from his front shirt pocket.
“Yeah,” Jed said.
“Sign right there.” The man squashed a finger against the display, leaving a dot of sweat on the screen.
Jed scrawled his name.
“You look happy,” the man said.
“It’s my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday!”
Jed returned the tablet and took the package. “Thanks.” He shut the door and sat in the entryway. His fingers clawed through layers of packing tape until he managed to pry open the lid.
Heart thumping, he reached inside and pulled out a navy dress trimmed in yellow lace. A gift, but not for him. The box slid from Jed’s fingers and hit the floor. He wanted to open the front door and throw the dress on the lawn. He glared at the scattered scraps of tape around his knees.
A sting of worry made his throat feel dry. He called his neighbor to ask if he knew anything.
No answer.
He checked across the street, but no one had seen either Mr. or Mrs. Jenkins.
“They’ll be here,” he heard himself whisper. “Just make some lunch for everyone, and by the time you’re done, they’ll be home.”
He stood and walked to the kitchen.
Lemon-braised halibut, lemon-ricotta fritters, and lemon soufflé. Mom’s favorite meal. She’ll love it.
He could imagine Dad’s voice, Smells outstanding, son! Doesn’t that smell outstanding, Mary?
Mom would smile. Outstanding.
Soon the tang of citrus diffused through the kitchen in a soothing cloud, blending with the smells of sizzling butter and bubbling sauce.
He set the table and filled tall glasses with tart lemonade.
And then he waited.
And waited.
Jed waited until the air no longer smelled of citrus and oven heat and instead smelled of cold fish and abandonment. He poked his halibut with a fork. He slid the lemon wedge back and forth over the fish. When Jed’s legs were too stiff to stay in the wooden chair, he paced the house once more.
Scenes flickered through his mind. His parents were special government agents on a secret mission to save the world. No…they were evil scientists, and this was some twisted experiment where they tested his reactions and filmed the whole thing. Kidnapped by the mob. Chasing a mugger through the city. Alien abduction. Maybe they had never existed at all and had been completely imaginary all this time.
Or maybe—
Jed’s heart froze. It felt cold. Tangibly, physically cold.
Maybe, all this time, they’d actually been trying to get rid of him. Life-skills tests? What sort of eleven-year-old needed to know how to cross high-rise construction scaffolding? Or scale mountains? Or hide from panthers? Or escape quicksand?
Before he could stop himself, the words sprang from his mouth. “They were trying to get rid of me.” The cold spread through his chest. Through his arms. To his fingers. “They just wanted me gone. And I kept coming back. So they left.”
Fantasies of spies, mobsters, and aliens were replaced with luggage, a taxi ride to the airport, and clinked champagne flutes as a child-free couple flew away forever.
Luggage…
They’d need luggage!
On any trip whatsoever, they always took the same matching suitcases. Brown, brass-cornered boxes that looked a hundred years old.
He flung open their closet doors, and there, next to the family in-case-of-emergency trunk, were two empty spaces where matching luggage had once been.
Gone.
Jed’s stomach churned with loneliness, rejection, and
hunger. He kicked the in-case-of-emergency trunk, then shuffled to the kitchen and stared at the plates of fish. The empty chairs. The vase of yellow orchids. The—
His gaze paused on the vase—and on the iron key propped against it. The key was as long as a spoon and thick as his finger. Nicks and dents covered the simple, two-pronged device. He picked it up and glanced back toward the bedroom he’d just left. They’d probably waited all day for him to find it. He turned it over in his hand, and warmth rushed back through his heart.
Jed ran back to the in-case-of-emergency trunk. In his twelve years he’d never seen his parents open it. When he’d asked what was inside, Dad had said, Everything you need in case of an emergency, of course! Why else would I write it there on the top?
The trunk was caked with dust. Jed held his breath and slid the key into place.
It fit perfectly.
He turned it and felt a satisfying click. The lid squeaked open. Inside, Jed found a folded yellow note and a copper wristwatch.
Our Dearest Jed,
If you’re reading this letter, your father and I are in the junkyard. We have likely been kidnapped, imprisoned, or killed.
If this happens, we’ve made arrangements for you to stay with your grandfather. You left the junkyard as a baby. It was too dangerous to return until we could make sure you were prepared.
Since you are probably not equipped to survive the junkyard, it is imperative that you never tell anyone your last name, that you push every red button you find, and that you keep this key in your shoe at all times.
In this chest is a watch. Put it on and never take it off. Ever. Not when you sleep, not when you bathe. This is our greatest gift to you. I’m sure you have many questions. Grandpa Jenkins will answer them.
Our home has a tunnel to the junkyard through the back of the dishwasher. Use the key to open it. Captain Holiday will meet you at the exit, at twelve noon the day after you read this note, and escort you to Grandpa’s steamboat. Take the black emergency pack from our closet. Inside is everything you will need.
Good luck, Son. We love you.
Mom and Dad
A photograph was taped to the paper. A man with a big nose and white mustache.
