Free Chomp by Carl Hiaasen

Tuna where she lived. She pointed toward a dented old Winnebago at the far end of the parking lot.
    “Okay, but where do you keep it?” Mickey asked.
    “Right there.”
    “You live at the Walmart?”
    “They let motor homes stay for free,” Tuna explained. “We got electric and water, everything we need. It’s not so awful.”
    Mickey’s father shook his head. “If you like campin’ in a parking lot.”
    Wahoo knew Tuna was telling the truth. In fifth grade he’d met a boy who had spent a whole summer with his family towing a Gulf Stream trailer from one Walmart store to another, all the way from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, to Portland, Oregon.
    “What really happened to your eye?” Wahoo asked.
    “I told you. I fell down.”
    Mickey said, “That’s bull. Somebody slugged her.”
    Tuna’s cheeks turned red. Wahoo was shocked that his father would say it aloud and embarrassed for Tuna that it was probably true.
    Mickey bent down and whispered, “Was it your old man?”
    Tuna pulled away. “So what if it was?”
    “Has he been drinkin’ tonight?”
    Her eyes welled up. “Every damn night,” she said quietly.
    “Where’s your mom?” Wahoo asked.
    Tuna covered up a sniffle. “Up north with my grandma.”
    Mickey Cray was staring darkly across the parking lot at the Winnebago, and Wahoo knew he was considering paying Mr. Gordon a visit. Such a confrontation could only end badly, with police cars and ambulances. Wahoo’s father had absolutely no use for creeps who beat on small animals, especially kids.
    “You’re coming with us,” Wahoo said to Tuna, “on a
real
camping trip.”
    Her eyes brightened. “Seriously?”
    “We’re heading out to the Everglades for a few days.”
    “Sweet.”
    Mickey said, “I’ll be right back,” and started striding toward the camper where Tuna’s father was drinking.
    Wahoo ran up and cut in front of him. “No, don’t.”
    “He’s got a gun,” Tuna said, “by the way.”
    Mickey frowned. “Then somebody better take it away from him.”
    “Stay out of it, Pop. She’s safe now.” Wahoo unclenched his father’s right hand and pressed a twenty-dollar bill into it.
    “What the bleep is
this
for?”
    “Now that we’ve got company, we’ll need more food for the trip,” Wahoo said. He looked over at Tuna. “You like Coke or Mountain Dew?”
    “Anything’s good,” she said.
    Wahoo gave his father another five bucks. “Mountain Dew it is.”
    Mickey shoved the cash in his pocket and muttered, “You two wait in the pickup.” Then he trudged back toward the Walmart. Wahoo kept an eye on him, to make sure he didn’t make a detour to Mr. Gordon’s RV.
    Once they were seated in the truck, Tuna said, “Look, I don’t want to mess up your vacation.”
    “It’s not a vacation. It’s a job,” said Wahoo.
    “What kinda job?”
    When he told her, she didn’t believe him.
    *  *  *
    Swaddled in his fluffy purple robe, Derek Badger watched the replay of the alligator scene over and over.
    “Crikey, this is golden,” he murmured.
    Raven Stark sat beside the director at a small dining counter in Derek’s motor coach. A map of the Everglades was spread in front of them.
    “Have you arranged for a chopper yet?” Derek called from his bed.
    “It’s on my list,” Raven said patiently.
    Derek loved using helicopters to shoot high aerial scenes of himself traipsing through the bush, making it appear as if he were all alone. The key was to find a place where there were no obvious signs of human habitation. Fortunately, the Everglades covered a vast region, and much of it was remote.
    “Where’s the new script?” Derek demanded.
    “The writers are still working on it,” the director said.
    “I want fresh pages by tomorrow morning. Understood?”
    The pages were being rewritten to put the gator “attack” at the very end of the show. Because the scene was so brief, it would be shown several times in slow motion and dragged out to fill the