Free Cloaked by Alex Flinn Page B

bird.”
    “A swan? I don’t resuscitate birds. I’m a trained professional. You need to call those Miami Animal Rescue guys on TV maybe.”
    “But he’s dying!”
    “Actually, he’s doing fine.” Meg removes the towel from the swan’s breast, and I see that the bloody spot on his white feathers seems smaller, barely a scrape. “Just a flesh wound.”
    “But . . . it was huge.” I gape at it, then at Meg.
    “I applied pressure.” To the paramedic, Meg says, “Look, it’s still bleeding. Do you think you could give me a bandage or something so I can put it in a cab to the animal hospital? The manager really does like these swans, and people will freak if they see blood.”
    “But . . .” I gesture at the puddle on the ground. “He was bleeding to death.”
    “He was probably just in shock,” the paramedic says.
    I think, not for the first time, that Meg is like the type of shoe we never repair, a Bass Weejun or Birkenstock sandal, the sort of shoe that’s comfortable and lasts forever.
    The paramedic finally gives Meg some bandages, and that’s when the police show up.
    “There was a shooting here?” The officer looks around.
    “Yeah,” I tell her. “This guy on a motorcycle. He shot a swan.”
    “This is about a swan?”
    “Yeah, a swan.”
    “A swan?”
    “That’s illegal, isn’t it? Can you go hunting on Collins Avenue that I don’t know about?”
    The officer looks at her partner, who has just shown up. The partner shakes his head. “Most of the squad’s at the port. Someone heard gunshots.”
    “Did they see the guy who did it?”
    “Some of the dock workers saw a blond guy with black clothes.”
    “That’s the guy who shot the swan! He would have shot me if the swan hadn’t been in front of me.”
    I look at Harry. It’s true. I could be. Someone was aiming at me. The paramedic has bandaged Harry’s wound, and apparently, Meg has sweet-talked him into carrying the swan to a cab on a stretcher. I don’t even know why Meg’s here so early, but I’m glad she is.
    “I could give you a description,” I say. “It might be related.”
    I know it is, and the guy may still be after me.
    * * *
    After the cops leave, I return to the shop. The cloak is there, all bloody. It saved my life. I wash the blood off, then put the cloak on. I wish myself home.
    At home, I pack a backpack with a few changes of clothing, a small tent, and a sleeping bag. Then, I find Mom at the shoe repair. “I have to leave right away,” I tell her.
    I don’t tell her about the shooting. I have to get down to the Keys, the fox, before anyone else does. “Tell Meg I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
    “Wait!” Mom stops me, grabbing my wrist. “The night manager says someone shot a swan in the lobby. Do you know something?”
    I lie. “No. Really?” I know she’ll find out the truth, but by the time she does, I’ll be gone without even a place to charge my cell phone.
    “What if it’s dangerous?” she asks.
    I lie again. “There’s no danger. Probably some psycho bird-hater.”
    And then I leave, taking Meg’s opal ring, the cloak, and what I can carry on my back.
    I thought my life was boring. It isn’t anymore.

Chapter 16
    The Fox said, “Do not shoot me, for I will give you good counsel.”
    —“The Golden Bird”
    Mom and I spend most of our vacations camping in Key Largo because that’s as far as we can afford to go. We always drive south on U.S. 1 with its endless fast-food joints, strip malls, and gas stations. After an hour, we reach the road with blue water on both sides.
    This time, though, before anyone can talk me out of it, I throw the cloak over my shoulders. “I wish I was at the Underwater Hotel.”
    And then, I’m there.
    Or I’m someplace.
    Someplace dark.
    I was expecting a lobby. Or a restaurant. Even a room. Instead, it’s pitch-dark, darker than the Everglades at night. At least there, there are stars. I pull at the cloak to make sure it’s not