Non-classifiable
Last year a fisherman shot a sea otter farther up the coast. He said it was destroying the catch. That's what happens to animals that eat fish around here. No one has time for them.
Something wasn't right, though. Nate Brown was still lying out in the middle of the field. Dr. Stevens was kneeling beside him now, watching him intently and checking his pulse. My chest began to tighten, and I started to sweat. Why wasn't Nate getting up?
I sit up and stare at the tree. It's coming over? Part of me knows I better get out of there, fast, but my body refuses to move. My brain is saying, "go," but my body's just not getting it.
Sure enough, the tree starts rustling, and I think I'm going to faint now, just check out, when a long skinny leg emerges from the leaves. That leg is followed by another. Both legs are clad in striped socks. Seriously, red-and-black-striped socks.
The legs dangle for a moment and then an entire body drops to the ground. There is nothing else for me to do but scream. I close my eyes, throw back my head and howl.
