C.S. Smith

LYNN

FICTION

It had been a very close call. Mr. Carpenter had chased me over the fence and up the alley, passing within two feet of me as I stood crowded between the Hansen's rose bush and their garage, twice, once up the alley, once back, angry, dogs barking, the evidence dangling from his hand. Only the night's darkness had saved me.

It had cost me dearly, a knee skinned in getting over the fence, bloody scratches from the thorns, a heart still racing from the terror of my flight. With a flushed face and torn clothes I tried first the back door and then the front, and found both of them locked. As quietly as I could, I pushed open a basement window and lowered myself through the opening. Before I touched the floor the light went on, and there was my father.

"Explain yourself," he demanded.

"Some kids were chasing me," I told him.

He hit me so hard I almost lost my balance.

"Don't you lie to me! Where have you been?"

"Out...," I said grasping for an acceptable reply.

"In Carpenter's yard; that's where!"

"I wasn't anywhere near Carpenter's."

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