Small as an Elephant by Jennifer Richard Jacobson Page A

the older man, squinting at Jack.
    “Are you from Massachusetts? I noticed a truck outside with Mass. plates. I’m from Jamaica Plain,” Jack said.
    “Melrose,” the woman said, leaning toward Jack.
    “North of Boston,” said the man. “About four and a half hours from —”
    “These for here?” the girl behind the counter interrupted.
    “Come again?” asked the woman.
    The girl repeated the question.
    This time the woman understood. “Oh. No. We’re going to take them back with us,” she said, preparing to leave.
    Take them back.
They were going home. Home to Massachusetts. He had to think fast. “Have a good trip!” he called, and hurried outside. Vehicles had begun to park directly in front of the lobster pound, but he knew exactly which truck belonged to the older couple. It was the gray Silverado parked on the side. He brushed by a family with young children and went directly to the truck, acting as if it belonged to him, as if he had decided to wait for his parents, or his grandparents, outside.
    The truck was fairly high off the ground and had one of those extended cabs with the little seats in the back. Could he hide back there?
    Think, Jack. Don’t be too quick this time.
They’d have lobsters. They’d put them behind their seats. They’d see him when they did. Besides, he could clearly see that the cab was locked.
    The bed. He glanced at the other parked vehicles to make sure no one was seated inside and watching him. All were empty. Then he stepped right up on the truck’s bumper and took a good look in the back. There were lots of wood chips and a crumpled tarp. Could he hide beneath the tarp? Would they see him then? And what if they did?
    What would he do?
    He’d run. Certainly, he could outrun this couple. He’d be gone and hiding before the police arrived.
    Before anyone else pulled into the lot, Jack jumped into the back of the truck, scurried under the tarp, and lay there facedown. He could flatten himself fairly well but realized his backpack must be bulging. He slowly and quietly pulled his backpack off and tucked it under him, hoping to compress it as best he could. He thought of pulling his sleeping bag out, but that would make running away, if he had to, harder.
    Jack’s heart was beating so loudly, he was thankful the couple was hard of hearing. Certainly, anyone else could hear the
bang, bang, bang
coming from his chest, or his breathing, which sounded as if he’d just run a marathon.
    Voices. There was some good-natured shouting and laughing; he was pretty sure it was the Massachusetts couple. He heard the cab open, the front seat snap as it lurched forward (presumably so they could put the lobsters in the back of the cab), and then the engine start up.
    He had done it. He hadn’t been seen. He didn’t know if the couple had glanced in the back of the truck, but he did know that he was undiscovered. He’d be back in his own state in four hours. Of course, he wouldn’t be in Jamaica Plain, but he would sure be a whole lot closer.
    His stomach rumbled, and he realized then that he’d left his bag of vegetables under the picnic table, but it didn’t matter. He’d be home, having a can of ravioli, before the night was over. He hadn’t found his mom, but this was the next-best thing.
    Jack knew that the truck would travel for some time on smaller, busy roads and that then eventually they’d be on the Maine Turnpike. Speeding along on the highway at sixty-five miles per hour would be cold. At that point, Jack told himself, he could take his sleeping bag out and wrap himself up in it. It wasn’t likely they’d hear him then.
    So he was surprised when the truck seemed to be driving on a very bumpy road.
Maybe it just feels bumpier when you’re in the back,
he thought. Or maybe they knew a shortcut, which would be cool.
    The truck came to a stop.
    Were they at a gas station? Were they picking up other supplies or souvenirs before heading back? He listened to both doors