Memory Boy by Will Weaver Page B

back home. We should have never left,” Sarah said, casting an accusing look my way.
    I expected my mother to second that opinion, but she pursed her lips. “I was listening to the Minneapolis news last night. The Fresh Mart store in Wayzata was looted by a mob. The police shot and wounded two people.”
    â€œWayzata?” Sarah said incredulously.
    I thought of that “customer limits” sign.
    â€œPlus there were several house break-ins and assaults in the west suburbs. A family of three was shot to death on Greenbriar Lane,” she finished.
    â€œMy God!” Sarah said.
    Greenbriar was only two miles from our house.
    My father stepped forward. “It looks like there’s a pattern developing. If you live in the suburbs and have a big house, then people think you must have stuff stashed away.”
    â€œIt’s the more isolated homes that are being hit,” my mother said.
    â€œThat would be us,” I muttered. I always knew our big house was trouble. Castles eventually attracted people with cannons and ladders; even I had read enough history to know that.
    â€œWhat we’re saying is that we can’t go back,” my mother said to Sarah. “Your father and I won’t put you children in that kind of danger.”
    At that moment Danny came around the corner of the tent.
    â€œGood morning,” my father said. More and more I admired my father’s style with people. I had never seen that side of him.
    Danny grunted.
    â€œI’ve been thinking,” my father said, stepping toward Danny. “Maybe there’s another vacant cabin around here. Let’s say we find a place, then we trade with you. We move in here like we ought to, and you move in someplace nearby.”
    â€œAll well and good,” said Danny. “But there ain’t a vacant cabin for a hundred miles. I know: I’ve made the rounds on my bike. I’ve got friends in Milwaukee and Detroit who wanted to come. I told them to bring a tent if they do, and make it a mighty well insulated one, because you’re going to be sleeping outside this winter.”
    No one said anything.
    â€œListen,” Danny began, “I’m gonna put it to you straight: You folks are gonna have to move on. It’s a dog-eat-dog world nowadays. Basically the deal is you got somewhere to go to and we don’t.”
    My mother swallowed. “A family was killed last night just a few blocks from our home in Minneapolis.”
    Danny stared.
    â€œThat’s what you’re asking us to go back to.”
    Danny’s gaze remained steady. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a gun, teach you how to shoot it. That way you can defend yourselves. I’ll give each of you a gun. Hell, one thing I got plenty of is guns,” he said with a grin.
    â€œOur family doesn’t do guns,” my mother said quietly.
    Danny’s smile faded. He looked at my father, who only shrugged. Nobody asked me.
    â€œWell, don’t say I didn’t try to help you,” Danny said angrily. He turned on his big boot heels and stalked away. At the porch steps he stopped and looked back to us. “You can camp here one more night,” he yelled. “Then tomorrow I want you gone.” Then he disappeared into the cabin. Our cabin.
    Silence hung heavier than ever before.
    â€œWell, gang, as I was saying, any ideas for our next gig?” my father said.
    â€œYou mean like where to be homeless?” Sarah asked. Her eyes were round with anger and fear.
    My mind had already gone to the hard drive of my brain. To search mode. An idea—a crazy plan—hit me like a meteor exploding inside my skull. Built it all myself, one log at a time. Plenty of trees around. Didn’t cut them all from one spot, because the warden would spot me. Maybe from the river or else the air. He was always spying. Trying to find me. Trying to catch me. But I was too smart for him. Cut one tree here, one