Free The Boy from Earth by Richard Scrimger

as heavy as stone, but not nearly as strong. I snake my right hand back to my side, and use it to push cake away from my eyes. Some falls into my mouth. I swallow it. I shake my left arm, which is tingling, coming back to life. I can use it. I push some cake out of the way, trying to dig a tunnel to the top. You know those avalanche movies? It's sort of like that. Or
The Great
Escape.
But with one key difference. There isn't any place to put the handfuls of cake I'm clearing away. I can't reach behind me. The only empty space I have is my mouth. I fill it quickly. When I swallow, it's empty again. So I fill it again. And again.
    That's right, I end up eating my way to freedom. Handful after handful, bite after bite. Sounds like it'd be fun, but it isn't. For one thing, there's no milk to wash it down. And there's no stopping, even after I begin to get full. My mom calls me a bottomless pit, but I'm not. I'd like to be excused, but I keep eating anyway. I breathe cake. I live cake. My world is cake. I keep chewing and swallowing until there's enough space around me so that I can sit up. That's better. I move faster now, digging through cake like a dog, pushing the handfuls behind me, clawing, scrabbling, tunneling, until, at long last, my hands break through. I clear enough cake away to get my head out, and take a deep breath of air that doesn't reek of almonds. A few frantic after-dinner heaves later and I'm standing in waist-deep cake. I climb out without too much difficulty My space suit feels too tight, my hair is full of crumbs, and I've eaten enough dessert to last me all the birthdays of my life, but I'm free.

The lobby of Bogway Park Lodge is deserted, except for me, and Barbara under the cake, and Norbert.
    Norbert is sitting on a chair with his hands clasped together. His anxious expression vanishes when he sees me.
    –
Well, if it isn't Ding-Dog
, he says.
    The night is silent. No more pounding and shaking and screaming. The intruder, whoever he was, seems to be gone.
    “Shut up, Norbert,” I say, “and help me dig.”
    –
Buried treasure?
    “Something like that.”
    He picks his way past a broken coffee table and bits of fallen ceiling. –
I was wondering where you were. I didn't think to look under there.
    The slab of cake is the size of a limousine. I begin diggingnear the hole I came out of, scooping away handfuls and throwing them behind me. “What happened just now?” I ask. “The frogs knew what was going on. ‘It's him,’ they said.”
    Norbert shrugs. –
I didn't see anyone.
    I lift him on top of the cake and tell him to dig down while I dig across. I hope he finds Barbara before I do. I'm a little shy of her.
    “Crime Dog!” calls Wilma, from the doorway. “Have you seen my daughter? I can't find her anywhere.”
    “She's in here,” I say, grabbing another handful of cake.
    –
Oh ho!
says Norbert.
A booby prize.
    “Very funny,” I mutter.
    Wilma hops over to help. “Barbara!” she calls. “Barbara, can you hear me?” Behind the glasses, her eyes bulge with a mother's love.
    I clear a path into the cake, and reach as far forward as I can. The smell of marzipan sticks in my nostrils. Nothing, and then –
    “Ouch!”
    Feels like my finger is caught in a mousetrap. I yank hard and out pops Barbara's head – golden hair plastered down, beautiful face covered in crumbs, full-lipped mouth clamped around my index finger. “Hi, there!” she says. “Let's be friends.”
    I slide out my finger thankfully and Norbert hops down from the cake. We stand back while Wilma sets her daughter free and embraces her. The bog-smelling frog and the beautiful girl seem happy together.
    Wilma and Barbara say good-bye to us in the lodge's broken doorway. The night is blue-gray under the moons. The air is dank and buggy. The swamp is as flat as stale cola, and about the same color.
    “I'm so sorry you have to go, Crime Dog,” she says, over her daughter's head. “You too, Prince Norbert. But I've got