Hunter Moran Hangs Out by Patricia Reilly Giff

says. “That reminds me of something. But what?”
    We peer down into a black hole. All we can see are shadows. One of the shadows is waving his arms at us. “I can’t get out!” Steadman wails. He sounds far away. He also sounds desperate.
    We’re desperate, too.

Chapter 21
    We crouch against the damp window, talking to Steadman, trying to make him feel better.
    â€œI’ll be here forever,” he moans.
    Yulefski leans her head against the small opening. “No, just for a couple of hours.”
    Steadman screams louder than the train that’s pulling in on the other side of the tracks. “Hours? That’s forever.”
    Zack gives Yulefski an angry
zip the lip
with his finger.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I tell Steadman, “we’ll bring you food, anything you like. We’ll just hand it down through the window.”
    Zack glares at me as if I’m almost as bad as Yulefski.
    â€œIt’s dark in here!” Steadman screams.
    There’s no help for it. Somehow we have to get in there and rescue him.
    Zack puts his mouth up close to the window. “Just count to a thousand . . .”
    â€œSlowly,” Yulefski puts in.
    â€œI can’t even count to a hundred!” Steadman yells.
    From the corner of my eye, I see a guy coming around the corner, swinging a pail and a mop. He clunks down the pail, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a bunch of keys.
    In the background, I hear Steadman: “Fourteen, fifteen, seventeen . . .”
    â€œSixteen,” Yulefski says.
    I take a breath and head for the door. “Hey, mister!” I yell.
    â€œTwenty-eight . . .”
    The man turns.
    â€œI left some stuff in there,” I say.
    He raises his shoulders in the air. “Sure.”
    It’s as easy as that. I follow him inside and head for the cellar door as he whistles his way down the hall and disappears around a corner.
    â€œHang on, Steadman,” I whisper to myself. “You’re saved.”
    Almost.
    The cellar door is locked.
    What to do? I go back down the hall. How can I ask the guy for a key?
    But there’s a miracle: a set of keys on Gussie’s desk, just waiting to be scooped up . . .
    . . . which I do in a hurry.
    In my mind I can almost hear Steadman counting.
    I go downstairs; it gets darker with every step. “I’m here,” I call, and fall over boxes and nets trying to reach him.
    He trips over metal bats and tennis rackets. We reach out to each other in the dark.
    â€œI thought I’d never see you again,” he tells me.
    â€œI’d always come and get you.”
    â€œI keep whispering that same thing to Fred,” he says. “Sometimes he can read my mind.”
    I hear the mop-and-pail guy; a door slams.
    What now?
    The cellar door. I forgot to close it.
    I grab Steadman’s hand. Together we go up the stairs. I give the door a push, but it doesn’t budge. Not only has the whistler closed it, he’s locked it, too. We’re probably in here until the morning. At least. And the only light is a thin wedge coming from under the door.
    Steadman still doesn’t realize what’s going on. “Wait a minute,” I tell him. “I want to investigate the rest of the basement.”
    â€œI heard something crawling around in the corner before,” Steadman says. “Probably a rat.”
    â€œProbably a cricket,” I tell him. “You love crickets.”
    Down we go, back into the dark, into the rats’ domain . . . or worse. Except I can’t think of anything worse.
    I look up at the window; I see Zack’s back and Yulefski’s. “Hey!” I yell.
    â€œThat must be Hunter at the door,” Zack says. “Let’s go.”
    â€œDon’t go!” I yell.
    Too late.
    They’re gone, around to the front.
    Steadman’s beginning to realize that we’re still