You know what? Forget hungry. I’m moving straight on to starving.

We had half a granola bar each last night for dinner. Half! It barely took the edge off my hunger. I think my stomach growled all night.

That was an interesting experience, by the way. Have you ever tried sleeping on a nautical couch with two unwashed teenage boys? And Schroeder is no little gnome, let me tell you. He’s two years older than I am and much taller, and I’m pretty damn tall.

And he’s a roamer. After a big argument over the sleeping arrangements Schroeder and I agreed to curl up on opposite ends of the couch, with Simon lying in the middle. I woke up in the middle of the night with Schroeder hugging my knees. That was a chilling discovery for me.

Right now they’re both asleep. It’s just me and the sofa. Still got my eye on you, sofa. There’s a pretty sunrise coming up the horizon. The sky is bright red. The water is too. I’m so hungry I could puke.

Ugh. I should be writing about what happened at the farmhouse right now, but I can honestly only think about food at the moment. Every thought starts out normal and ends with a sandwich. Like, my brain goes, “I stared up at the woman in shock. She had her hand on Simon’s shoulder like she had taken him hostess cupcake. Ham sandwich!” Direct quote.

Sigh. Frown. Bleah. Okay, forcing myself to write now.

All right. The farmhouse.

I told you how my father invited Simon to join us on our trip to my grandparent’s farmhouse for the weekend. Normally I like going to the farm. I like how the sunlight shines over the green fields and into my bedroom window at sunset. I like the smell of the clean, crisp air, that scent of mingled earth and alfalfa. And I like the quiet, the peace of the place. I can stand in the asparagus patch and look around myself and see nothing but trees and rolling crop fields, and savour the blissful isolation. And eat asparagus.

But now Simon would be there as well, moping at my heels. So yeah. Super enthused about the trip.

When Saturday morning came I woke up and grumpily stared up at the ceiling for a while, listening to the rain drum against the roof. A whole weekend under the same roof as Simon. This was going to be awkward. Watching TV and picking strawberries and husking corn, or whatever it was that Dad had planned for the trip.

Eventually I got up and showered and threw some clothes into my backpack. I grabbed my cell phone off my nightstand and tromped downstairs for breakfast. Dad was hiding in his study again, so I ate some cereal and then laid face–down on the couch like a zombie. Dully, I wondered when Simon would show up. Hopefully never.

Rain streaked down the living room windows. I laid there and listened to it trickle and patter off the bushes in the garden. It occurred to me that I had forgotten to brush my teeth. Then I wondered if I had time to cook some bacon. Mmm. Bacon.

When I heard the hesitant knock I shot up and yelled, “He’s here!” and ran to the front door.

Sure enough, Simon was on the front step, carrying both an umbrella and a knapsack. He froze when I threw the door open, his hand raised.

We stood and gloomily regarded one another while rain fell the background. A tragic understanding passed between us as we silently acknowledged our unspoken angst over the weekend we were about to face.

“Well, you might as well come inside,” I said.

He did.

Dad started shouting the instant I shut the door.

“Is that Simon?” he yelled from the study. “Hello, Simon! Don’t bother taking your shoes off, I’ll be there in a minute. Will you go fetch my keys, Morgan? I think they’re next to the microwave. Have you seen my thermos? I need a coffee before we go. Give me a minute to save this file and I’ll be right out!”

“Ugh,” I said. I left Simon standing in the front hall with his dripping wet umbrella while I stomped off to the kitchen.

It took Dad at least forty minutes to get ready. He was still wearing his striped pyjamas and slippers. Sigh. He got dressed and made himself some coffee and put Simon and I to work carrying the groceries for the weekend down to the car while he puttered about the house shutting down his various computers. It was raining hard by the time we all scampered out to the car together. Dad ushered Simon into the front seat while I was left to squash in next to the knapsacks and groceries in the back. The windows fogged up as we huffed and puffed in the humid summer air, our clothing damp.

The old Mercedes started with a grumble. Its headlights blinked on and Dad let it glide backwards down the driveway and onto the street. Back and forth swished the windshield wipers. Dad honked the horn once at the house in farewell as he drove up the hill, because he is a nerd.

I twisted around in my seat and mournfully watched it shrink away behind us until the car turned around a corner. Good bye, new house. I haven’t known you for very long, but already I miss you and your satellite television and your privacy. I will be counting the days until I return.

…

…

Feeling a bit depressed now. Gonna take a break. Brb.

—

Schroeder just discovered the moustache. HAHAHA.

—

Okay, feeling better now. Onwards.

Where was I. Oh, right. Driving to the farmhouse.

The drive over was actually pretty okay. Dad blasted the radio the entire time. You would expect a mild mannered old dude like him to listen to stuff like Bach and Mozart, Bach and Mozart being the only two composers I can name off the top of my head. Instead we listened to like, Deep Purple. So that was awesome.

We drove out of town and into rolling farmland, where big round bales of hay sat upon the green and yellow fields. It was still raining and a layer of grey mist hung over everything. Kind of pretty.

Then Dad turned down a gravel side road and we flew through the woods instead. We hit so many potholes my teeth rattled, while big rocks clanged off the muffler. When we passed a field with a brook winding through it and a herd of muddy cows standing on the bank Dad said to Simon, “What did your parents say about you coming with us this weekend?”

Simon had been staring listlessly out his rain-speckled window. He jumped at the question.

“They didn’t mind,” he said. “Dad told me to take lots of pictures.”

“Really? What does your father do?”

“He’s an English teacher. He works at the high school.”

“How about your mother? What does she do?”

Simon hesitated.

“She’s the President of the Coching Historical Society,” he said.

“She’s in charge of those nuts?” I said.

Dad gave me a warning look in the rear view mirror.

“Coching is a very old town, Morgan,” he said. “The Society works to preserve it’s cultural and architectural history.”

“That’s great, Dad.”

“I’ve heard that Coching’s main street was once voted the third best preserved in Ontario,” said Dad. “Was your mother one of the people responsible for that?”

“I suppose so,” said Simon. “She’s been the President for nearly twenty years. She wasn’t too happy about ranking third, but it still brings a lot of tourism to the area.”

Dad sighed happily.

“That’s fantastic,” he said. “It’s a beautiful town. I would love to meet with the Society sometime. Do you think your mother would mind?”

All I could see of Simon was his reflection in the glass. It was enough for me to see the way his eyes grew wide. But he only said, “I don’t think so, sir. Coching is her favourite subject to talk about.”

I frowned and leaned my head against the window. I think that that was the most I’d ever heard Simon talk about his mother. Huh.

We drove out of the woods and back into the misty fields. The farmhouse stood at the top of a gentle knoll, its wide green lawn sprinkled with fluffy white dandelions. It was a stately looking house, with a white veranda and white shutters and big windows out front hung with sweeping curtains. There were lots of gardens full of bushy yellow flowers beneath them. A long driveway wound all the way to the back of the house, where it made a broad circle in front of an elderly barn. A rickety chicken coop was propped up against the side of it.

Maple trees flanked the driveway. I leaned forward to look up at them as Dad pulled up the drive. The branches were so big and the dark red leaves so thick that the rain stopped pattering onto the windshield when we drove beneath them.

Dad turned the car around the circle and parked it beside the back deck of the house.

“I’ll unlock the door,” he said. “You kids take your things into the house. I’ll let you fight over who gets to carry the food.”

He kicked open his door and took off through the rain. I watched him fumble with his keys at the back door before disappearing into the house. A moment later the kitchen window lit up.

There wasn’t much to carry out of the car – mostly just our backpacks. I ended up with the box of groceries while Simon carried my Dad’s duffel bag. We scurried onto the deck and into the house, and the screen door banged shut on our heels.

It was chilly inside. The back hall was full of rubber boots and paintings of plow horses. Shabby barn jackets hung from a row of pegs on the wall. Simon and I shucked off our wet shoes and tromped into the kitchen.

It was a big, airy room with a well-scrubbed pine table in the middle. Pine cupboards sat over the counter-tops, while a big white fridge loomed in the corner. Bags of bagels and bread were wrapped up on a cutting board near the microwave, and an actual mesh basket of eggs hung in the window beside the stove. The curtains were hilarious. Lacy pigs all over them.

Dad was already mooching around in the fridge. He shut it with his foot and said to me, “Just set that on the table, Morgan.”

I dropped the groceries onto it with relish. “Want us to put this stuff away?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it. Why don’t you go show Simon his room?”

Because no way would we be sharing a room for the weekend.

“Yeah, it’s great,” I said. “Wait until you see it. Full of old man junk.”

“Morgan! It is not full of junk! It’s just a little cluttered. Go on, take him up. Give him a chance to unpack his things.”

“This way,” I said to Simon.

As we trooped into the living room Dad hollered after me, “And smile a little, won’t you! You’re supposed to be having fun.”

Simon was smart enough not to breathe a word at that, even when my ears burned red.

A wooden staircase led up to the second floor. Every step creaked on the way up. The top of the landing was dark, and a drab sort of laundry smell lingered in the air. You could hear the rain drumming on the roof, muffled by the attic.

“Your dad seems happy to be here,” said Simon.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think he likes getting away from things now and then.”

“I don’t blame him.”

I gave Simon an odd look from the corner of my eye. “Here’s your room.”

We stood at the doorway of a narrow bedroom with tall windows that looked out over the back fields. The view was beautiful, but kind of eerie too; all of the fields and forests in the distance were wreathed in a sea of fog that only the tops of the tallest trees could penetrate. Rain streaked down the windows.

I gestured around the room.

“Hark, a bed,” I said, pointing to a small bed surrounded on both ends by cardboard boxes. A scratchy plaid blanket was stretched across the mattress, with a plain white pillow on it. “And lo, the junk.”

The junk was hard to miss. An ancient computer with an inkjet printer sat on a desk in the far corner of the room, along with a brass desk lamp and a couple of really unsteady looking stacks of farming magazines. Mouldy black portfolios stuffed with papery receipts and bills were stuck under the desk, while a leathery golf bag was propped against the office chair. A giant bookcase dominated one wall, the kind you picture in libraries. It was full of encyclopedias and hardback novels. A bunch of framed black and white photos sat along the top of the bookcase, along with half a dozen stuffed ducks.

“On behalf of the family I apologize for the junk,” I said. “You can put your clothes in that dresser over there if you want. Beware of wrinkly old grandpa underpants. If you need any more room you can just push the mess out of the way. Granddad will never notice.”

Simon turned around in place with his knapsack in his arms.

“Are you sure?” he said.

But I’d already wandered back out into the hall by then. I pretended I hadn’t heard him.

The door quietly clicked shut behind me. I stood alone the dark hall and sighed.

God, what a dull weekend this was going to be. What a way to spend the last few days before school. Thanks a bunch, Dad.

I tossed my own backpack into the little bedroom I slept in and headed back to the staircase. When I was halfway down it I heard a muffled voice coming through the door to Simon’s bedroom. I came to a halt, puzzled. It took me a moment to realise that he was talking on his cell phone.

I didn’t even know he had a cell phone.

So naturally I crept back up the stairs until I could hear his voice a little more clearly, held my breath, and listened.

“- not being sulky,” said Simon. “I’m just worried.”

Silence.

“Because I didn’t tell her.”

Silence.

“Can’t you do it?”

More silence.

“Because she doesn’t listen to me!”

An even longer period of silence this time. I grinned. It sounded like Simon was catching an earful. I heard him sigh.

“It’s not just – no. This isn’t the first time I’ve – no. No. I’m not being – it’s not that, Dad.”

Silence.

“Because she’s going to be looking for me, that’s why.”

There was a drawn out silence and then some mumbling. I scowled. Speak up, Simon.

But the rest of the conversation dipped too low to overhear. By then the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen was audible. Sounded like Dad was getting ready to make lunch.

I reluctantly headed back down the stairs. As I did I thought about what I had just heard and wondered: what had that been all about?

Well, okay, no, that’s kind of a lie. Mostly I wondered if Dad was going to make us soup and sandwiches. Mmmm. Soup.

Holy crap, I’m hungry.

—

Distracting myself from hunger pains by writing. Not working great, but better than nothing. We have no food!

Okay, okay, where was I. Calm down, Morgan.

The farmhouse. Yeah.

I spent the rest of that day inside the farmhouse with Simon and Dad. The stupid rain pelted down into the evening, trapping us indoors. It was as if someone had decided that since this was the last weekend before school started, it was going to go out of its way to make it as miserable as possible.

By eight o’clock I was parked on the living room couch with a half-eaten bag of ketchup chips on my stomach, staring listlessly at the television. Neither Simon or I had bothered turning on any lights, so we sat in the dark. The television screen had taken on this weirdly hypnotic glow against the stormy weather outside.

We had been like that for most of the afternoon. Dad tried to lure us into the kitchen with a card game at one point, but eventually gave up and retreated upstairs with his laptop.

I aimed the remote and flipped channels. Aside from a baseball game there was nothing on. Bits of my brain were shutting down out of boredom. Simon sat in an armchair and stared at the TV without blinking.

Things banged in the kitchen. I stirred and looked over. Dad’s silhouette moved around it. He shook out his jacket and his car keys jingled in the pocket.

“I’m just heading out to the game,” he said. “Are you kids okay to make dinner on your own?”

“Sure,” said Simon, while I slurped red ketchup powder off my thumb.

“Uh huh. Well, there’s soup and beans in the cupboard, so try not to eat chips all night. I should be back around twelve, so you’re fending for yourself until then.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Have fun,” said Simon half-heartedly

Dad gave a little wave. “Thanks, Simon. See you later, kids.”

We grunted. The kitchen lights switched off, plunging the whole ground floor into darkness. I listened to the sound of Dad thumping off down the hall. Chilly air gusted into the house when the back door creaked open, accompanied by the sound of heavy rain. Then the door banged shut.

I slid my gaze back to the television set. Baseball game was back on. Outside the Mercedes rumbled to life and drove down the driveway. I saw its tail lights flash red beneath the maple trees before they turned onto the road.

“So,” I said. “You really want to eat beans?”

Simon made a noise that wasn’t exactly a yes or a no.

The rain hammered on. Someone hit a line drive to second base and got tagged out. I emptied the last of the ketchup chips into my mouth, those powdery crumbs you always get at the very bottom of the bag. Sort of wanted a Coke.

Ten minutes into the next inning I saw a pair of headlights blaze across the front yard.

“Your father’s back,” said Simon.

I grunted. “Guess he forgot something.”

I watched the headlights bump up the drive. Just before they went past the window I realised the car was not the Mercedes.

“Uh oh,” I said. “Somebody’s here.”

Simon finally blinked. “Huh?”

Red crumbs went flying as I shoved aside the empty chip bag. Simon said, “Was your dad expecting company?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t recognise the car. Looked like a green one. Want to go hide in the bathroom with all the lights off and pretend nobody is home?”

Simon sat bolt upright.

“A green car?” he said. “Are you sure?”

“It’s night out, Simon! I dunno. It could have been dark blue.”

Simon leapt out of the armchair and ran to the front window. He tugged back the curtain.

“Missed it,” he said. “Could you turn off the TV for a second?”

Surprised, I did so. Instantly the living room went pitch dark.

I heard Simon breathing. Then, “I’ll be right back.”

He scurried off into the kitchen.

Bright headlights shone through the kitchen windows, strobing huge shadows against the living room wall. A car engine roared and then cut out. All I could hear after that was a clock ticking somewhere in the kitchen.

“Simon!” I hissed. “Who’s out there?”

No answer.

I struggled to my feet. Man, it was dark out. I couldn’t see a thing, save for the glowing digital clock on the DVD player.

I strained my ears. Deep in the basement a pump sprang to life with a gurgle of old plumbing.

Something bumped into my chest. I nearly shrieked.

“Shh!” said Simon. “Quick! Put these on!”

“What – my shoes?”

“Come on! She’s watching the back door, so we’ll have to slip out the front.”

“We have to do what?”

“Don’t worry about the laces! Just stick them on your feet and let’s go!”

“Hang-” I said, and dropped a shoe. “-On! Hang on! Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet, but we can’t stay here. I’m certain she knows we’re inside.”

“Who knows? You want us to go outside?”

“Yes.”

“Outside in the rain?”

“Yes! Please, we have to hurry!”

I groped for the shoe I had dropped. Simon grabbed my elbow and I nearly slapped him in the chops.

“Quit grabbing! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“We have to go right now!”

“Ow! Simon! That was a coffee table you just dragged me into!”

“Walk it off!”

We stumbled into the front hall. I think. I could see nothing but darkness and the shadowy outline of a tall coat rack.

Then Simon came to an abrupt halt and I pretty much ran straight into his back.

“Ow! Simon!”

“Ompf!”

“Watch it!”

“Sorry!”

I punched his back. “Why did you stop?”

He said in a strangled voice, “We can’t go this way.”

“What! But you just hauled me all the way over here!”

“I know that! We really can’t go out the front door right now!”

I exploded.

“You idiot!” I said. “First you mope around all day and now you want to run around in the rain all night like a nut. You drag me over here in the dark and then you’re like, dur, I changed my mind. I should have left your dumb ass back in that warehouse!”

The blow that came out of the darkness was so hard it hurled me right off my feet. No joke. My feet actually left the floor and I went flying backwards into a wall. Wham!

For a second I just lay on the floor, stunned. It felt like half of my teeth had been hammered out. My head rang like a bell. Through the ache in my face came a single furious thought:

Simon had hit me!

Hit! Me!

Harder than I had ever been hit before in my life!

How the hell had he managed that?

And believe me, I’ve taken some good knocks before over a childhood of soccer games and fights on the pavement with kids who wanted to take a shot at the biggest girl with the reddest hair. If Simon was lucky there was a front hall closet somewhere nearby. Because right then it was the only thing that would stop me from blackening both of his eyes. For maybe two minutes.

I gritted my teeth and lurched back to my feet. “Buddy, you’re dead meat now.”

Simon said in a shrill voice, “I didn’t do it!”

And all the hall lights sprang on.

I flung up a hand to shield my eyes and squinted painfully. Simon stood by the front door. He looked shocked. Through the dazzling light I saw the coat rack standing behind him. It had one hand on his shoulder.

So. Not a coat rack after all.

“Honestly,” it said as it lowered its fist. “Some people’s children.”

I stared. Standing behind Simon was the biggest woman I had ever seen in my life. She had sleek golden hair that curled up just above her shoulders and pale skin. Despite the fact that it was summertime she wore a black felt overcoat that went all the way down to her ankles, and black leather gloves. The black buttons down the front of her coat and the black tips of her leather boots winked in the hall lights.

A white silk scarf was wrapped around her neck. She was smoking a cigarette too, so her head was wreathed in a haze of smoke. Her eyes were hidden by a pair of round, perfectly black sunglasses. Beneath the hall chandelier the bright glass gleamed like a pair of lamps.

She shook out her fist.

“Head like a rock,” she said. “Try something like that again and I’ll crack it open. Nobody wallops my son but me. Speaking of which-”

She spat out the cigarette to the side and pulled Simon into a headlock.

“Simon, dear,” she said. “It’s been weeks since I last saw you. Haven’t you got a kiss for your poor old mum?”

Simon made gagging noises into her coat.

“What’s that, kiddo? Speak up!”

More gagging.

“For your sake I hope that was an apology, son! If I didn’t know better I’d swear you’ve been hiding from me. On top of everything else I have to deal with thanks to Schroeder and his pack of hooligans, do you think I want to drive up to your father’s house on a Friday evening and discover that you’ve skipped town?”

Bones creaked as her arm constricted. I think they might have been Simon’s, because his ears turned red.

“So this is what we’re going to do now! You are going to march straight to the car, and I will seal the doors and windows this time to prevent a repeat performance of your previous little red-light intersection acrobatics routine. And then we’ll drive home, where you will be escorted by your room to think about what you’ve done while Cyril and I finish our dinner and figure out the best way to pick teeth and bone fragments from the oil filter of a Triumph motorcycle.”

Simon choked. The woman laughed.

“That’s right, one of the brats themselves,” she said. “Got himself smashed up by the Triumph just outside of town. What a mess! I wish I could have been there to see it. Or, better yet, see the look on Schroeder’s face when he gets the news. Maybe I’ll send him my condolences. Or just a skull, slightly dented. He’ll get the message either way.”

She gave him a squeeze. “At any rate, I’m a busy woman. Get your dim-witted girlfriend to put on her shoes. She’ll be coming with us.”

Simon clutched her arm in both hands and struggled for air.

“What?” he gasped.

“You heard me. I’ve had just about enough of weekend visits. You’re going to live with mummy now, and there’s nothing the courts can do to prevent it. If this girl stays behind she’ll just be a witness, and I can’t have that. So off we all go, chop chop.”

Simon’s face went white. “We’re going back to the house?”

“That’s right!”

“In-”

“Exactly!”

“And my friend-”

Mrs Miller leered at me.

“We could use another Hand around the house, don’t you think?” she said.

Simon’s wide eyes reflected horror.

“That’s the spirit, chief! Glad to see we’re on the same page. So come along, girl, and don’t stare like that.”

Those shining glasses were fixed upon me now. I froze. Mrs Miller smiled.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Don’t tell her!” yelled Simon.

That earned him a slap across the head. “Indoor voice, Simon! I’ll get her name one way or another, so there’s no point in making a fuss. Well, Red?”

I snapped out of my daze and glared at her. My jaw ached like crazy, but ‘Red’ was like a jab in the eye.

“It’s Morgan,” I growled.

Simon groaned.

“What is your full name, pumpkin?” said Mrs Miller sweetly.

I said nothing. She shrugged.

“No matter,” she said. “I’ll have it once the newspapers report your disappearance. So saddle up, squirts, we fly through the night.”

Her black coat swayed about her ankles as she bore down on me. I felt my bravado dwindle as I stared up into that expression of smiling malice. Oh my god. I was going to be kidnapped. I was going to be kidnapped and spirited away to some horrible house where I would be enslaved as a servant. Also possibly murdered.

I backed into the wall. The woman reached for me with a gloved hand. The sunglasses flashed, and for an instant I thought I saw the heavy-lidded eyes behind the pitch black lenses-

Mrs Miller paused. She sniffed.

“What the hell is that smell?” she said.

And…

And…

Actually, I think you already know what happens next.