Free Wanderville by Wendy McClure

“But you know how it is,” Alexander added finally. “Don’t need to tell you.”
    â€œRight,” Jack said quietly.

    Frances sensed it was time to change the subject. “So, what kind of supplies are we getting?”
    â€œGood question,” Alexander said. “We’re nearly out of potatoes, and we need salt pork, too. Lumber would be good if we can find some we can carry. But we’ve already got plenty of nails in our inventory.”
    â€œInventory?” Jack asked.
    â€œYou have to think about what you have, as well as what you need,” said Alexander. “These towns out west, they always have to keep track of the stock in their stores, since everything comes on the train. . . .”
    â€œLike us!” exclaimed Harold, grinning.
    Jack and Alexander chuckled at Harold, but Frances felt her stomach drop. If the townspeople kept track of the goods that came in on the train, then surely they’d also be counting how many children were supposed to arrive.
Does that mean that someone will be looking for us?
Perhaps Mrs. Routh’s husband, the sheriff?
    â€œSee that bridge over there?” Alexander said, interrupting Frances’s racing thoughts.
    Ahead of them, a wooden footbridge rose above the creek, spanning the high banks. “We’re going to climb up on the bank on this side of the creek, and then cross the bridge,” he told them.
    Frances took a deep breath. The past day and a half had been so very strange. In the woods it had all felt like make-believe—especially with this Alexander kid’s talk about “Wanderville”—but soon they would be back in the real world. “And then?” she asked.
    â€œAnd then we’ll be in Whitmore, Kansas.”

13.
T he O ther Town
    T hey all stayed close behind Alexander as they crossed the bridge into Whitmore.
    â€œWalk calmly until we get close to something we can hide behind,” Alexander instructed. “Two at a time.”
    â€œIt’s not a big town, is it?” Frances murmured. There were just a few dusty streets, each no more than three blocks long, beginning at the footbridge road and stopping at the railroad tracks. Still, the town’s tiny size didn’t do anything to make Frances less anxious.
    â€œDepends on how you look at it,” Alexander replied, shuffling along. “Whitmore’s no New York City, but it has all the supplies we need.” He darted behind a barn and motioned for the others to follow.
    From there, they kept to the narrow alleys that ran between the streets, creeping as quietly as they could from one shed to another.

    â€œHuh,” Jack whispered. “False fronts.” Most of the buildings, he realized, were one-story houses built to look as if they were two stories tall in front. But now that he was creeping along the back, the town looked much less imposing—just muddy yards, crooked lean-tos, and people’s washing hung out to dry.
    In the alley on the second block, Alexander waited for Frances and Harold to catch up, and then they ducked into an empty stable.
    â€œAll right,” Alexander told them. “Here’s how I do it. I start with the mercantile over here on Front Street, right by the depot. Never go in the store when you’ve already liberated goods elsewhere, because they’ll be able to tell you’re hiding something.”
    Frances’s eyes narrowed as she listened.
    Alexander ignored her and went on. “I always stop in here and grab some straw and stuff it at the end of my coat sleeve to plug it up.” He slipped his coat off one shoulder and pulled his arm out, then pushed straw down into his sleeve as he’d described. He tucked the end of the sleeve into his jacket pocket. “See, it looks like I’ve still got my arm in there, but you can stash things in the empty sleeve, long as they’re not too heavy.”
    â€œYou mean