Law & Crime
I make it to the flagpole second to last. No Poo Patrol for me. Not today. Today I draw the Grooming straw. Forget my own grooming; for three leisurely hours this morning, I'll be washing, drying, fluffing and brushing out the matted and dirt-encrusted coats of a dozen-odd dogs of questionable parentage. Not that my own parentage is anything to brag about.
It's like the entire school floods into the stairwell. People pound down the stairs toward us. Their voices clamor, frightened voices. They push and shove toward the blocked exit door, trying to escape the school.
Like fish in a bucket, that's what we are. My mouth goes dry. A locked stairwell seems like a good place to kill a lot of people at one time. I grab Zoe's hand.
"Come on. We have to go back up."
There's a masked man in the store, and it isn't Halloween. I duck down again—fast.
I hear someone say, "This is a stickup." It's the guy in the mask. He has a weird voice, like it's not a normal voice. He says, "Is there anyone else in the store?"
That tells me that the masked man hasn't seen me.
"No," my dad says without even a second's hesitation.
