The Man with the Red Bag by Eve Bunting

asked in the world’s most dodo-brained voice.
    Stavros didn’t answer. Instead he pointed to a bench and sat down. When he nodded to the space next to him I sat, too.
    â€œI think I know exactly how it happened,” he said. For the first time I noticed that his eyebrows were almost as thick as his mustache. From underneath them his eyes watched me carefully.
    He knew all right. He knew. This was so not good.
    I was suddenly petrified. Here I was, sitting with a possible terrorist who knew I suspected him.
    â€œI’ve read your note,” he said.
    My insides curled up small. Worse and more worse.
    â€œI decided I would just answer you in English. No need to play the translating game.” He stroked his bag with his bandaged hand and I saw that the bandage was still dry. He’d used the other hand to grabGeneva. That was why he’d had to leave the bag behind. I was noticing these details but my mind was fussing about, not wanting to absorb what he’d said. He’d read the note. He was going to answer me.
    I turned the dictionary round and round in my hands, examining it as if it were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. A sideways glance told me that he was looking at a line of ducks dappling along the lake.
    â€œYou asked a question,” he said at last. “And then I guess you decided not to wait for an answer. You needed to find out for yourself.”
    â€œI suppose.” I took a quavery breath.
    â€œInside this bag,” he said, “is something private and precious. It is not something I want to share.” He faced me but I kept examining my dictionary, leafing through its tissue-paper pages, then partway opening and closing the zipper of my bag, which sat like an accusation between us.
    â€œDon’t you have some things that are private and precious to you, Kevin? Things you don’t want to share?”
    â€œNot really.” An ant was chasing another ant across my knee and I moved my attention to them.
    â€œThe bottom line is,” Charles Stavros said softly, “the bottom line is, it’s none of your business what I’ve got in my bag.”
    â€œOkay.” I dared to look up at him. “Of course, if you told me, I wouldn’t tell anyone else.” How nutty! Like if it was a bomb he was going to tell me .
    He stood up. “I’m not about to tell you. Just don’t try to steal my bag again.”
    I was insulted. “I wasn’t stealing it.”
    â€œJust don’t try it again.”
    And he was gone, holding the bag firmly against him, striding across the grass.
    I felt as if I’d had a narrow escape. After all, he could have forced me up on a cliff and pushed me over. Just knowing I suspected him could have been enough to set him off. At the very least he might tell Grandma what I’d done. Terrorists are ruthless.
    If he was a terrorist!

CHAPTER 10
    T he next morning, in the bus on the way to Yellowstone National Park, I told Geneva, “He seemed okay, close up and talking like that. He sounded cool. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve made a mistake. If he isn’t a terrorist at all.”
    â€œAre you kidding?” Geneva opened her navy blue eyes so wide, I was afraid they might pop out. “Give me a break! You’re forgetting September eleventh. You’re forgetting the way he looks. The way he guards whatever is in that bag with his life, almost.”
    â€œIt’s private and precious,” I said. “That doesn’tsound like a bomb. And look, my paper scrap was still in his door this morning. He didn’t go out all night. And we’ve watched his every move. Of course, we’re not in Big C territory yet.”
    Geneva exhaled a long exhale. “I have a question for you. Why would anyone bring something super-private and precious on a bus tour? Wouldn’t you keep it in a safe or somewhere? At home? And who locks a carry-on? I tell you,