Free In the Land of the Lawn Weenies by David Lubar Page A

couldn’t believe it. He listened to the rest of the story, trying to compare the details to what he had heard on the phone.
    â€œNo one was hurt, but the station was badly damaged. We’ll have more information on the eleven o’clock report.”
    A shiver ran down Joe’s back, then twisted through his stomach. He rushed to his room and grabbed the phone. He switched it on, but all he got was dead silence.
    He tried the phone again an hour later. The line
was still dead. But on the next try, right before he went to bed, Joe heard the two people talking again.
    â€œI just hate this weather,” the man said.
    Joe looked out the window. Stars twinkled in a cloudless sky.
    â€œI don’t mind the rain,” the woman said, “but ever since I was a kid I hated thunder.”
    Joe could hear a crackle over the line like there was lightning in the air. Definitely crazy, he thought as he turned off the phone and went to sleep.
    Six hours later, clouds filled the night sky. A heavy rain fell. The first thunderclap woke Joe. Lightning danced across the clouds in jagged flashes. Maybe they aren’t crazy, Joe thought as he watched the storm.
    Joe started checking the phone as often as he could. Whatever the man and woman talked about—the weather, the news, the latest episode of their favorite television show—happened just as they said. But each event took less time to come true than the last. The future Joe overheard in the phone kept getting closer to the present. But none of it was worth anything to him.
    The next day, Joe finally heard something exciting.
    â€œImagine that,” the man said. “All those bags of money lying there—right on Adams Street, just past the corner at Main.”
    â€œCan you believe it was there for over an hour before the police found it?” the woman asked. “The robbers must have dropped the loot when they were getting away. Good thing Adams isn’t
a busy street. It’s still pretty amazing nobody picked up the money.”
    Joe switched off the phone. This was better than knowing the weather or the news. This was information he could use. Main and Adams streets were less than half a mile away. Joe started running. He reached Main and headed toward Adams. As he turned the corner, he saw bulging canvas bags scattered across one side of the street.
    Joe ran down the block, his eyes fixed on the sacks. A police car came speeding past. It slid to a stop right next to the money. Two officers jumped out, grabbed the sacks, and tossed them into the trunk.
    â€œStupid phone,” Joe said as he watched the patrol car drive away. He was so frustrated he almost threw it in the garbage. What good was knowing the future, he asked himself, if he couldn’t get there in time?
    Joe started walking home, holding the phone in his hand. He kept wondering what the man and woman were discussing right now. Probably chatting about the weather, he thought. Or something stupid, like a new movie. But maybe it was something really important …
    Joe felt like he was holding onto the last piece of popcorn from a box. He couldn’t leave it untasted. He had to try again. As he started across Bridge Street, he switched on the phone. Tell me something I can use, he thought. That’s all I want. Tell me something important. Just one small thing.
    He held the phone to his ear. They were talking.
Joe relaxed. Hearing the voices was like running into old friends.
    â€œPoor kid,” the woman was saying.
    There was a sadness in the woman’s tone that caused Joe to stop walking and listen carefully.
    â€œYeah, I saw it on the news. It’s a shame he died.”
    Joe shook his head. “Who cares,” he muttered. This didn’t sound like anything useful or important. But he kept the phone to his ear. He couldn’t help himself.
    â€œHe was just standing there,” the man said, “right in the middle of Bridge Street, by the