I stealthily slip off my cleats and socks, easing them to the floor. Then, ever so slowly, I creep to the far side of the kitchen, my legs threatenin
g to buckle beneath me. The linoleum bites cold against my feet. With my back pressed against the far wall, I rack my mind, trying to figure out where my parents’ phones would be. They got rid of the landline years ago to save money.
Should I go upstairs to find Dad’s phone? Mom would tell me to hide. Dad would say run to the neighbors’ house.
“Hey!” one of the men says. “The kid isn’t lying on the floor anymore.”
My heart dives as he steps into the kitchen. The counters are barren, sparkling clean. Not a weapon within my grasp. I slide toward the kitchen’s other exit into the hall, when my foot hits something smooth. My soccer ball. I pick it up and kick it as hard as I can at the man’s face. My aim is true. It smashes the guy so hard, he slams backward into the wall. With a wail, he slumps to the floor, holding his face.
I spring past him, through the living room and into the hall, sprinting for the front door. There at the other end of the hall, blocking the front door, stands Baseball Cap Guy. His lips curl into a devious grin. I skid to an abrupt stop.
“Having a bad dream, are you?” he says.
I backpedal, only to discover the other man now fills the doorway to the living room I just exited.
“Easy now, little girl.” He holds up his hands as if to calm me, but my eyes are riveted to the glowing watch on his wrist. “We don’t want to hurt you. If you’ll just tell me where your family keeps their special things, then everything will be okay.”
I clench my fists. As if I’m telling him anything.
I bound up the stairs and sprint down the hall, pumping my arms and focusing on the door at the end. My parents’ room. The walls press in too tight. The house suddenly feels too small. I careen inside the room and slam the door shut, clicking the lock. Quickly, I drag Mom’s desk chair over and jam it under the doorknob.
The lights flicker. And I’m plunged into darkness. They cut off our electricity.
One of the men pounds on the door, screaming at me to open it. The door shudders. I swallow the lump in my throat, trembling as the wood bulges under the man’s bulk.
Don’t panic, I tell myself. Stay strong.
With only the moonlight to guide me, I rush to Dad’s dresser, shoving everything on it to the floor in my search. Wristwatch, comb, magazines, envelopes. It’s not here. Then I move to Mom’s desk. No phone there either.
The sound of wood splintering cuts deeper into my terror. The chair holding the door scrapes the wooden floor as the door jostles it about. It won’t be long before the men will burst in.
A blue glow from the partly open bottom drawer of Dad’s dresser captures my attention. Could that be Dad’s phone calling? I dive across the room, flinging open the drawer. Shimmering blue light emanates from a long, slim velvet box buried along with Dad’s bird books, broken cameras, and shell collection.
A desperate need to open the box overwhelms me. I know I shouldn’t waste my time and instead keep searching for the phone.
But I can’t.
My hands tremble as I pick up the box. An emblem is imprinted on the top. Two Ws—one gold, one silver—woven together. Slowly, I open the lid. Glittery blue light showers me and I’m drenched in a cool mist. Tucked within the velvety folds lies an old-fashioned silver pen. Just the sight of it sends a thrill through me. As if I’ve been waiting my entire life to see it. To touch it.
My fingers curl around its cool surface. It sinks into the center of my palm, feeling as though it was crafted just for my hand. The world washes in blue. Stars swirl around me. Time stops.
It’s just me and the pen. My world is complete and I’ve never felt more alive.
And yet, in the corner of my mind, something nags at me. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Then I remember. There are intruders, terrible men, out to hurt me. I must stop them, but I don’t know how.
A stream of ideas bubbles through my head and I need to write them down. I snatch up the copy of Dad’s Field and Stream and, clutching the pen tighter, I scribble out a list on the back flap.
When I finish, the sapphire winds churn in a stream of stars and whispers around me before sinking back into the pen. The room is black once again and the pen is just an antique from Dad’s drawer. I drop the magazine from my hand, blinking in confusion. Did I just have a hallucination? I’ve heard that kind of stuff happens when people undergo massive stress.
“Open this door right now!” the man yells, pulling me back to the moment. “Or I’ll hurt your parents. Then they won’t be having such lovely dreams anymore, will they?”
Those words spur me to action. I stare at my list on the back of the magazine lying on the floor. What if this list actually worked? I rush to the bed where Dad’s suit jacket is laying, just where the list said it would be. Then I dig into the pocket and discover his phone. Just like the list said.
I dial 911 and quickly explain the situation to the operator. Relief floods me when she tells me the police will be here within minutes.
But my relief is short-lived as the door splinters along the center and the hinges bend one by one. I clutch Dad’s phone tighter. I have only seconds before the door comes crashing down. Frantically, I continue down my list.
I rip up the loose floorboard by the bedroom door, which creates a good-sized hole. Mom always complained to Dad to fix it, but now I’m glad he was too busy. Next I sprint into their bathroom, grab the bottle of shampoo, and step back out to dump it on the floor outside the bathroom door. I pause, panting. What is next on the list? The hinges of the bedroom door groan.