down forward and hard, his back tire screeching, to close the distance of the thirty yards in two seconds flat—a new track record. He stopped short, before the gaping maw; the papers were like decaying teeth, and the concrete floor a gray, diseased tongue. His heart now racing, he started to back pedal, turning the handlebars for an easier escape. Then he heard something. Was that...yes! It was “Surfin’ USA” by the Beach Boys! Leaning closer to the open garage, he tapped his foot to the beat. He lay his bike on its side, ignoring his dad’s constant reminders about the kickstand. He walked into the garage, the beat of the music carrying him along on an imaginary wave. The wave broke over him just as he reached the small concrete crack separating the garage from the driveway. Stepping over the crack, Colin held his breath, and glanced up at the retracted door. A large strip of metal gleamed sharp. Razor sharp. He could imagine the door closing and chopping off his toes. This little piggy. A smell hit him like a punch. A wet, stinging smell like the dead, bloated and hairless cat near the stream a few blocks from home, and he nearly wretched. Holding his breath against the stench, Colin took the garage in. Every wall was covered with newspapers stacked tightly, the bottom of the stacks as yellowed as pee-stained underwear. The middle of the stacks were fading to yellow, and at the top, still the grayish-white of a fresh Sunday delivery. Each row was two stacks
deep, and between them, a corridor led to a door. Nothing else was on the garage. No bikes, or wagons, or cardboard boxes full of yardsale junk. The only thing out of place was a newspaper on the floor. It was the same color as the piles nearest the ceiling. He picked up the paper. Behind him, the garage door slammed shut. He was in the dark. Panic gripped his heart in an icy fist. Then that door between the stacks creaked open. “Well, well, well. What’ve we got here.” The voice, ragged and sharp as a hacksaw on metal, came from directly in front of Colin. Small ovals of yellowish light danced in the dark, disappearing to reappear. Colin’s chest ached and his pulse sprinted, his veins threatening to burst. The oval lights vanished, and now a brilliant, blinding light flooded the garage. The Beach Boys sang “Surfin’ USA” again. “You like this song, don’t you, Colin.” The voice came from behind him now. Colin spun around so fast, he landed on his can. “Look, I, uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh, sneak in. I wasn’t going to steal anything. I pro...pro...promise.” He scooted back a few feet, trying to distance the chill he felt emanating from this man. “I know you didn’t come to steal anything. You’re just a curious boy, aren’t you? All boys are curious.” The man’s grin exposed yellowed teeth, some cracked, chipped, or missing. Scars pitted his face from either 20