The Carnival of Lost Souls : A Handcuff Kid Novel by Laura Quimby Page A

person’s breathing made when he fell asleep, probably from sleeping in the group home, with kids all lined up, sleeping in metal bunk beds with skinny mattresses and noisy springs. His mind raced as he planned his escape. The faster he got out of there, the better.
    This wouldn’t be Jack’s first attempt at escape. The first time he ever ran away was when he was seven. After leaving the priest and his wife, he was sent to a new family. One day after lunch, he tied up a shirt and some clothes and stuffed his pockets full of sunflower seeds. It wasn’t that the family was so terrible; he couldn’t even remember them. The family just wasn’t right for him. And so he walked down to the railroad tracks and followed them out of town, leaving a trail of chewed-on sunflower seed shells behind him.
    It was just starting to get dark, the sun sinking into the dirty metal horizon of train cars, when a red light spun on top of a police car in the distance. Jack heard the dogs barking and knew they were coming for him. Two German shepherds, dragging a police officer behind them, sniffed him out. He was afraid, but not of the officers, or the dogs with their wet noses twitching in the air, sniffing him madly as they circled him. Jack was afraid that there was no place in the world where he could hide.
    Sitting in the back of the police truck, the dogs locked up in their cage, Jack pulled a package of bologna from his bundle and tore off a wobbly pink circle. He ripped it into strips and slid the meat through the metal bars of the cage as the dogs devoured the lunch meat in chomps, licking his fingers with their warm tongues.
    No bars could hold Houdini, no cell, no prison. Sometimes a cage was real metal, sometimes a cage was invisible. Mussini had him inside invisible bars, but it was still a prison.
    Sleeping shadows loomed inside the dark tent. His right foot hung over the edge of his hammock and rested on the ground. The earth was cool under his bare foot. Sporadic bursts of snores and breathing filled the tent. Boxer was the loudest, not surprisingly. He looked like a kid who had been punched in the face a lot. Jack waited and then rolled slowly, letting his right arm fall to the ground; he slid from the hammock and onto his stomach. His hammock rocked above him. Boxer let out a loud snort, stopping Jack instantly. His pulse quickened, but he held steady until Boxer rolled over. Inching his way under his hammock, Jack pushed his duffel bag under the bottom edge of the tent and eased his body under the heavy canvas. The coolness of the early morning made him shiver.
    He jumped to his feet and went quickly, not waiting to check that the rest of the troupe was still asleep.Hesitation was deadly. The dawn had broken and it would be light soon. He had to hurry.
    The smell of damp, burned-out campfire filled the air. Guilt swept over him. Except for Mussini and perhaps Jabber, they had been nice people. But this was not his place. Jack’s plan was simple—retrace his steps down the road from where he came. And for the first time, he hoped he would get lucky and hit a wall.
    He ran down the road till the air began to sting his lungs. The forest was a foreign landscape and could be filled with anything—lost souls like Mussini, wild animals, ghostly spirits and their keepers, the Death Wranglers. Jack tried to ignore Mussini’s story, but the man’s voice echoed in his head. This was not a good place to get lost. He rubbed the tattoo on his wrist and realized how helpful the mark of Mussini would be in getting out of the forest. He just didn’t know how to make the magical compass work. He squinted down at his wrist and willed it to come to life, but nothing happened. Jack snorted. Magic wasn’t as easy as it looked.
    Strange sounds surrounded him. He heard a noise behind him, rustling in the trees, snapping twigs underfoot. He was probably just paranoid. A chain rattled. Demon or wild boar? Yeah, that’s what it was, just an