The Second Life of Abigail Walker by Frances O'Roark Dowell Page B

straight at her, he didn’t seem to see her.
    â€œThey’re pretty big, it’s true.” Abby took a few steps back. “But I like them. In theory, I like them a lot.”
    â€œBut they scare you, don’t they?” Matt pressed. He sounded like a lawyer on a TV show.
    â€œDad.” Anders stepped between Matt and Abby. “Dad.”
    Matt shook his head, as though he were waking up from a nap. “What?”
    â€œDad,” Anders repeated. “Leave Abby alone.”
    Matt’s eyes and mouth suddenly sagged. “Oh, yeah. Man. Abigail, I’m sorry.”
    Abby stood very still. She thought she might cry, but she held it in. She shoved her hands into her pockets so no one would see them shake.
    â€œWe better go back now,” Anders said. “Abby probably has to go home.”
    They started walking, Matt lagging a little behind, Anders urging him to keep up. Abby looked at the trees and bushes on either side of the path, looked up at the darkening sky. She wished Matt would move faster. She didn’t want to have to walk back down through the woods to the creek in the dark.
    She thought about George Shannon lost on the prairie and wondered what it was like for him at night, with the million stars above and coyotes howling in the distance. Scary, probably. And lonely. Did he know how to make a fire by rubbing two sticks together? Did he lean back against a rock and sing, trying to make it sound like there were a bunch of people there, not just one seventeen-year-old boy?
    Abby slowed her pace to let Matt catch up. Reminded herself that George Shannon had found his way back. He didn’t stay lost forever.

the fox’s hackles unexpectedly shot up, and she felt them even before she saw them—the girls. The scrawny raccoon girls were back. She watched them from her field as they slunk around Abby’s house, peering in the first-floor windows.
    â€œI bet she’s inside, but she’s pretending like she’s not home,” she heard one of the girls say from the front porch. “She was on the bus.”
    â€œI still don’t get what we’re supposed to say,” the other girl complained. “I bet Abby’s made up a bunch of lies about us to tell hermom. They probably won’t even invite us in.”
    â€œFirst we’ll say we’re coming by to tell them that we saw a fox in the neighborhood and my mom called animal control, but they haven’t found it yet. And then we’ll figure out some way to make Abby’s mom ask us in.”
    The girls disappeared into the backyard, and the fox could hear their footsteps crunching through the woods. She knew that Abby wasn’t inside the house. She’d come to the field after school and sat in her chair for a while, drawing pictures in a book. And then she’d set off for the creek. The fox had followed her for a while, but then she’d smelled purple berries—a fat, juicy smell that pulled her back into the field.
    Really, being a vegetarian wasn’t so bad, not when the berries were still sweet.
    The fox nipped at a branch and caught a berry between her teeth. Animal control, eh? Did anyone think animal control had a chance against her? All she had to do was make a set of tracks going to the left, and another going off to the right, and the poor fools would be so confused, they wouldn’t know which direction to head in. They’dwalk around in circles for days, months, years.
    No, animal control wasn’t a problem, only a nuisance. But these girls. These raccoons in training. Or perhaps weasels? Because raccoons were clowns, but weasels were mean. Low-down. The fox never trafficked with them if she could help it.
    The weasel girls were after Abby.
    The fox began pacing in circles. Maybe there was something she could do. Something more than just watch.
    The fox had always watched. She was known for standing to the side and letting the action unfold.