Small as an Elephant by Jennifer Richard Jacobson Page B

opening and shutting. Then he heard the slamming of a screen door — twice. He made himself stay still for a moment or two more. When he was certain the couple was out of sight, Jack slowly lifted his head and peeked out from under the tarp.
    All he could see were trees.
    He sat up farther.
    Ahead of him was a cottage — clearly a summer home. Because the little house was shaded, and because sunset was not far off, lights snapped on. Jack could see the couple moving around in the kitchen, preparing to eat their lobsters.
    No!
    It couldn’t be.
    He crawled out of the truck and looked around. There was nothing. No streetlights, no shops, no major roads — hardly any neighbors.
    “We’ll take them back” had not meant “We’ll take them back to Massachusetts.” It had meant “We’ll take them back to our summer place, our place in the boondocks here in Maine.”
    Jack felt like he might throw up. He crouched to keep his stomach from revolting. He was certainly way off track now. He figured they’d been driving for twenty minutes — that would take at least three hours to walk! He had no idea where he was, no idea how to get back. He doubted there was a library or an Internet connection for miles. He supposed he could just start walking, but he was tired and hungry — and he’d left the vegetables behind!
    He sat down and ripped open a cereal bar, trying to think of what to do next. Tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn’t help it. He was trying so hard to be smart, to figure things out. He remembered something his mom had said on their way up to Maine: “I can’t do everything for you, Jack. I know you didn’t get the mother of your dreams. So what? That’s why you have to be smarter than most boys. More independent.”
    They’d been arguing. She had gotten increasingly agitated. Jack couldn’t think about it now. He got up and took a look around. He’d make something up if the couple saw him — how he’d come to borrow a cup of sugar or something.
    There were no outbuildings near this cottage. No barn or garage or shack. If he slept here, he’d have to sleep under the stars — just him and his sleeping bag. The ground would be cold. He wished it were the old days and he could just knock on the door and ask if they had a bed he could sleep in.
    A bed. That was it. He’d sleep in the truck bed tonight. He’d have to wake early and hide, though. Maybe hide back under the tarp and hope the couple drove back to Trenton, or Ellsworth, or some other town on Jack’s route.
    A back door to the cottage opened, and Jack froze. He was standing under a tall pine, hoping he was well hidden in the evening shadows.
    There was the unmistakable sound of a tin trash-can lid being lifted and then slamming. The remains of the couple’s lobster dinner were no doubt in that can. Jack wondered if they’d left any parts in the shell. Imagining the taste of sweet lobster meat got the best of his judgment. As soon as the back door banged shut, Jack made his way to the trash can.
    Lifting the lid off without making noise was a slow but rewarding process. He didn’t think about how gross it was to be eating someone else’s food — food from a trash bin. He flicked a piece of lettuce off half a buttered roll and stuffed it into his mouth. He used his dirty fingernails to break away the stubborn, remaining shell of a lobster claw and popped the leftover meat in his mouth, too.
Slow down,
he told himself.
This is lobster. Taste it.
Then he broke off one of the spindly legs from a lobster’s discarded body and sucked the juice from it.
    The blaring of a TV inside reminded Jack that the couple could not hear well. Heck, he could probably let himself in and fix himself a meal in the kitchen, and they wouldn’t even know it. He stood for a moment at the back door, listening to a news report about a robbery at a grocery store in Bangor — and then to another report. A story about a missing boy. A boy who might be on Mount