Free The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls by John Lekich

place until he was satisfied that I was in the proper domestic environment.
    I should explain that I made the mistake of giving Uncle Andy Evelyn’s address when he asked where the Hendersons lived. I always try to tell my uncle a half-lie whenever a whole one can be avoided. But even a half-lie can develop into something totally unexpected.
    For example, there was Cookie knocking on Mrs. Pastorelli’s kitchen door. Fortunately, Evelyn was at her weekly bridge club meeting. This gave me the opportunity to go around to the front door, get the key from under the mat, and intercept Cookie as if I was an actual resident. Unfortunately, Evelyn was due back from her meeting in just a few minutes. Between my sudden panic and climbing down from my tree house very fast, I was perspiring quite a bit.
    Cookie was very pleased to see me and immediately apologized for not being able to take me in himself, since he was currently staying with his cranky cousin in an “adults only” apartment complex.
    â€œYour uncle has requested that I investigate your domestic situation and report back to him,” explained Cookie. “Where is Ricky?”
    â€œSoccer practice,” I lied.
    Then Cookie pulled out a rubber squeaky mouse out of his pocket. “This is just a little something for Ginger,” he said, looking around. “Where is she?”
    â€œYou know how cats are,” I replied. “She’s probably hiding someplace.”
    Cookie put the rubber mouse on the table, sniffed the air and asked, “Do you smell liniment?” When I did my best to look puzzled, Cookie added, “You know, the lotion people use for sore muscles.”
    â€œOh, that!” I said. “Ricky pulled a leg muscle at the last soccer game.”
    â€œNo kidding? And he still wants to practice?”
    â€œThat’s Ricky for you,” I said. “He’s not the bench-warmer type.”
    â€œI guess I was expecting something that smelled a little more inviting,” he said, sounding disappointed that the smell of baked goods was absent from the air. He looked suspiciously at Evelyn’s cold, empty stove and then checked the clock on her kitchen wall. It is a very unusual clock, with pictures of different birds where the numbers should be. Every hour it chimed out a different bird call. But Cookie wasn’t very interested in the clock. “Shouldn’t Mrs. Henderson be preparing a nutritious lunch about now?” he asked.
    â€œMrs. Henderson is at a PTA meeting,” I said.
    â€œIn the middle of summer?” asked Cookie.
    â€œShe’s very dedicated,” I said trying my best to sound casual.
    I glanced at Evelyn’s bird clock. She was usually back from her card game around the time the blue jay started to squawk, and the squawk was getting closer by the second. Cookie walked over to Evelyn’s refrigerator and peered inside. There was a jar of pickles, several cans of sardines, a puckered-up lemon and a carton of milk that was a week past its expiry date. Then he went over to Evelyn’s cookie jar, which resembled the head of a smiling pig. He removed the top of the pig’s head and pulled out a cookie. “Store-bought?” he said, sounding as if he had just been shot through the heart.
    â€œMr. Henderson bought a box from the Girl Scouts,” I said, hearing a drop of my own sweat plop to the floor.
    â€œThis looks stale,” he announced tragically. And then—because he can’t resist anything that’s free or sweet—he popped the cookie in his mouth anyway. “Just as I suspected. I have been incarcerated in places with fresher baked goods.”
    â€œYou just hit the wrong day,” I offered. “Grocery shopping is tomorrow. Plus, Mrs. Henderson has recently sprained her bread-baking arm.”
    â€œHow did she do that?”
    â€œLoading the SUV with a big box of used clothes,” I said. “For