“Woof!” he called. “Woof, come!”
Woof whimpered. Duncan had heard him whimper only once before, when he got a rabies shot at the vet.
“Woof?”
“I’ve got your dog, Duncan.”
Woof whined again. What was she doing to him? He couldn’t see.
“Please, Mrs. Teller. Josh and Mom are going to save us.”
Mrs. Teller coughed. “I know they are. Come over to me and your doggie. We’ll all wait for them together.”
Duncan wanted to believe her. He wanted so bad to believe her. Mrs. Teller never lied to him before.
But then she never tried to shoot him before, either.
“Come over here, Duncan. Your little doggie wants you.”
Another cry from Woof.
“Give me the gun.” Duncan’s voice was tiny, almost a whisper.
“Come here, Duncan. Hurry.”
“First you have to give me the gun,” he said, louder.
“I’ve been watching you for years, Duncan. I’m telling you the truth. I want what’s best for you. For all of us. I’m your babysitter. And I’m an adult. You need to listen to adults, Duncan. Isn’t that what your mother told you?”
Mom did tell him that, all the time. And Duncan ached to hold his dog. He began to crawl toward Mrs. Tel- ler’s voice. But the pain in his leg reminded him that he shouldn’t believe her.
“Let Woof go, and give me the gun, and I’ll come over.”
“Duncan—”
“Let Woof go!” Duncan was almost yelling now. He’d never yelled at an adult before. It felt strange, wrong, but he needed her to know how serious he was. “And let me have the gun, Mrs. Teller!”
“You little brat!”
His dog snarled, and Mrs. Teller cried out. Then—so fast it startled him—hot breath bathed Duncan’s face. He recoiled, surprised, and Woof licked his cheeks and nuzzled his neck. Duncan hugged the beagle to his chest, wiping his runny nose in Woof’s fur. The beagle looked fine—he wasn’t hurt at all.
“Duncan …”
Mrs. Teller’s voice made Duncan tremble. He crawled backward, behind the fallen box.
“Duncan … your dog bit me … I need your help …”
Duncan stayed put. The smoke hung low in the air, thick as storm clouds, and it was getting hard to breathe without coughing.
“I’m bleeding pretty bad, Duncan … I need … the first-aid kit …”
Woof growled at Mrs. Teller. Duncan wrapped a hand in his collar, holding him back. He wanted to shrink and disappear. Why wasn’t Mom here yet?
“I wouldn’t hurt you, Duncan … I need your help … please, boy … the first-aid kit …”
Duncan remembered all the times Mrs. Teller watched him. The cookies they baked together. The twenty dollars she gave him every year for his birthday. She was a nice old lady. She shouldn’t die.
But what if she was lying? She was talking slow, but she might be faking. What if she just wanted him to come close so she could shoot him and Woof?
“The … first aid … it’s near the box of canned peas …”
Duncan found himself looking around for it, even though he didn’t want to, even though it might be a bad idea. It wasn’t on the shelf behind him, and that was the only shelf he could see.
“Help me … Duncan … be a good boy …”
Could he trust her? Should he trust her?
“Duncan … please …”
“Woof,” Duncan whispered to his dog, “stay.”
And then he crawled off to look for the first-aid kit.
Fran struck the concrete foundation with the sledgehammer, the wooden handle stinging her palms like she’d pressed them next to a belt sander. She struck again. And again. And again. Chips of stone flaked away, the ten-pound head digging divots into the cement.
“Fran, we have to find another way.”
She ignored Josh, ignored all the pain, ignored everything except the task at hand. Swing. Smash. Swing. Smash. If she had to pound a hole all the way to hell to get her son, she would.
Josh put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and raised the sledge again. He tried to wrestle it from her, but she refused to let go.
“It’s a steel vent.” His eyes were glassy but firm. “Even if you break up the foundation around it, we can’t make the vent wider.”
“You heard Duncan! You heard that gunshot! That crazy old woman is trying to kill him!”
“We need to find a rope or something, pull him up. But trying to dig through ten feet of dirt, rock, and rebar is just wasting our time.”
Fran nodded quickly, letting Josh take the hammer. A rope. If they had a rope, they could snake it down the vent, Duncan could tie it around his waist …
Another gunshot echoed out through the grating.
Fran dropped to her knees and screamed her son’s name.
Duncan found the first-aid kit next to the peas, right where Mrs. Teller said it would be. It was a large white box, made out of metal, with buckle clasps on the front and a big red cross painted on the lid. He clutched it to his chest, unsure of what to do next.
“Duncan … please help me … the blood …”
“I’ll throw it to you,” he said, then darted to the right in case Mrs. Teller tried to shoot where she heard his voice.
“I can’t see … in this smoke … you need to bring it to me.”
Woof barked at Mrs. Teller. Duncan shushed him. He knew the dog was just protecting him, but he was giving their position away. Duncan went farther right, until he was against a wall. He had to get down to Woof’s level to breathe because the smoke was so thick, but even near the floor the air was getting bad.
“Throw me the gun,” Duncan said. “Then I’ll come to you.”
“What? Duncan … I can’t hear you …”
Duncan filled his lungs and yelled, “Throw me—!”
The sonic BOOM blew a hole in the smoke, and birdshot chewed into the metal first-aid kit Duncan held out in front of him. The kit jumped from his hands like it was alive, and Duncan’s hands stung. Just as bad were Duncan’s ears—it felt like someone had punched him on both sides of his head, and the ringing was so bad he actually looked for bells. He also realized he’d peed his underwear a little.
He pulled Woof away from the wall, toward the shelves, and then put his hands in front of his face. They hurt like crazy, but there wasn’t any blood. Duncan’s lower lip trembled, but he didn’t cry—maybe he was finally all out of tears. More than ever he wanted Mom, wanted to give her a huge hug. She’d protect him. She’d make it better.
But Mom wasn’t here. Only Mrs. Teller. And she was going to kill him unless he did something about it.
The room had gotten brighter, and the green light from the glow sticks was replaced by orange. A shelf had caught on fire. Duncan recalled Bernie’s lecture, about how bad it hurt to get burned. He didn’t want to burn to death. He didn’t want to get burned at all, not even a little bit. He’d rather get shot.
“Duncan? Did I get you? If you’re hurt let me know. I can end your pain, child. I’ll take all your pain away.”
Duncan watched the shelf burn and hugged his dog tighter. He had to do something. Anything. Or else he and Woof were going to die.
