Free Moonpenny Island by Tricia Springstubb Page B

the voice on an educational film. “It’s called amniotic band syndrome, or ABS. It happened in utero—in other words, before I was born.”
    â€œOh. Okay.” Flor’s voice squeaks. She looks away. “I didn’t notice. I mean . . .”
    â€œI know. You’re not very observant.” Jasper rolls her sleeve back down. “Now you really are pale.”
    Across the room, Dr. Fife has missed the whole thing. He might have forgotten she’s even here. It’s him and the trilobites. The room’s lonesome feeling suddenly becomes so strong, all Flor wants is to go home. Even if Mama and Dad raise the roof again tonight, home is where she wants to be.
    â€œI have to go,” she squeaks.
    She takes her plate to the sink, which is full of rocks, and swings her backpack over her shoulder.
    â€œThanks for everything.” she says, and starts for the door.
    â€œGoing already?” Dr. Fife looks up, distressed.“Would you like more ham? Or some lemonade?” He glances around the room, like maybe there’s something else he can offer to make her stay and be Jasper’s friend. But all he’s got are rocks.
    â€œShe has to go!” says Jasper. Probably she wishes she hadn’t shown Flor her arm. Probably she’s wishing this pale, squeamish, unobservant girl would leave as quickly as possible. She walks Flor to the room’s door, then shuts it firmly behind her.
    The inn’s porch is empty. The birders, who get up before dawn, must have gone to bed. Bats swoop in and out of the yellow light at the end of the walkway, and high in a tree, a ghost shrieks.
    Stop it right now, Flor tells herself. That is a screech owl and you know it!
    She hates the dark. She’ll have to ride as fast as she can.
    No! She smacks her forehead. Her bike! It’s still back at the quarry, where she left it when she walked here with Jasper.
    Flor doesn’t know what to do. She can’t go all the way back to the quarry now. She can walk home, but it will take forever, and the dark is very dark.Streetlights are few and far between on Moonpenny, and where is the moon? No moon. She could go back in and ask to borrow the phone, but her parents will already be angry at her, and having to pick her up will make things worse. Why didn’t Dr. Fife offer to drive her? A normal parent would never let a kid leave by herself after dark.
    That pink nub where an arm and hand should be. Flor rubs her own two arms, creepy with goose bumps.
    Walk. She’ll just walk, that’s all. She’s way too old to be this afraid of the dark.
    Within seconds, the friendly yellow light of the inn is history. Some closed-up cottages and then it’s nothing except a wall of trees on either side. If she cranes her neck, she can spy a few cold white pinpricks. She could be a trilobite, crawling in the murky mud at the base of the inland sea. She could be a sack of bones lying at the bottom of the swim hole. If it had a bottom.
    Sylvie tried to help her get over her fear of the dark. Flor strains to remember some of the things she’d say. “Night is when the world does stuff itdoesn’t want people to see. Trees and flowers grow, and beautiful moths come out of their cocoons. Little baby fawns get born. Nighttime is magic time, Flor!”
    Sylvie would die before she’d let Flor walk home alone in the dark.
    All that ham made Flor so thirsty, she can hardly swallow. That owl screeches. Predators! She hates predators. One foot in front of the other. Her backpack bumps between her shoulder blades. Her heart bumps in her chest. In the distance she can hear the lake. Grow up , it scolds. You silly scaredy-cat girl .
    Above her, the air goes electric, then hollow. Something swift and silent scoops it clean, and Flor flings her hands over her head. The grass beside the road parts, and she can sense the owl, his spread wings, his sharp beak and steely talons. Eeek! A