A Stranger Thing (The Ever-Expanding Universe) by Martin Leicht, Isla Neal Page B

. “So this is summer ? But there’s snow in it.”
    Somewhere out across the ice there is another crack of thunder. Crack-BOOM!
    I look at Cole and smile wistfully. He smiles back. His teeth are so perfect. I hope Olivia gets his teeth and not mine. Someother things, however . . . I mean, I love the lug, I really think I do.
    I just hope being a moron isn’t hereditary.
    •  •  •
    It might seem weird to get so excited at the sight of a prison camp looming in the distance, but when you’ve been sledding along into nothingness for hours, anything is welcome. Even Alan lets out what I can only assume is a grunt of relief. I have a feeling the guy will be volunteering for kitchen duty pronto when he gets back. Dude does not like to travel.
    The prison camp comes into better focus as the dogs trot closer. And not that I exactly knew what to expect when I heard we were being shipped off here, but this . . . wasn’t it.
    The building is a log cabin. As in, Abraham Lincoln log cabin. It’s big, but not huge-big, maybe like medium-big. (At least, that’s how I imagine the famed poet Robert Frost would have described it in his ever-eloquent verse, “Two Roads Converged on a Medium-Big Cabin.”) And it doesn’t look very prison-y. There are no bars on the windows, no visible locks on the doors. A few huskies similar to the ones currently mushing our sled are hanging out by the front entrance, but they don’t look to be at all threatening. That’s the vibe I get from the way they’re busy sniffing each other’s crotches, anyway.
    “I guess they figure there’s nowhere for us to try to escape to,” Ducky says, piping up for the first time since the depot.
    My Bestie. The cheery one.
    I shrug Ducky’s foul mood off and take in my surroundings slowly, cataloging every path, every window, every tiny crackin the cabin’s wall. And I am absolutely positive my father is doing the same.
    “Here we are,” Alan announces when our driver brings the dogs to a stop. “Your new home away from home.”
    “Who do we call for turndown service?” I mutter, but no one pays me any mind.
    We are greeted by a tall handsome fellow with a weather-beaten face, close-cropped hair, thin lips, and brooding eyes. You can tell just by looking at him that he’s not much of a talker. He walks over to the sleds, limping ever-so-slightly, favoring his left leg, and rather than greeting any of us, he bends down to one knee to pet our dogs. As soon as they get a whiff of him, the pups all stop their playfighting with one another and sit back on their haunches and begin wagging their tails frantically, ears relaxed in doggy glee as they wait, anxiously but obediently, for their turn for a scratching. Clearly they’re gaga for the guy.
    “You Oates?” Alan hollers at him. The man nods, one sharp jerk of his head. “I got some cargo for you,” Alan continues, motioning our way. I notice the distinct change in his tone when addressing Oates. With us, he’s mostly formal, a little short. But with this guy Oates, there’s a disdainful edge that’s unmistakable.
    The man Oates doesn’t reply, just heads to the back of one of the sleds, where he unstraps a few boxes of who-knows-what. Meanwhile, we “cargo” stand shivering in our thermal suits, not quite sure what to do with ourselves. I mean, no one really ever told me if it’s proper protocol to offer to help your new prison guard unload supplies or . . . what.
    “If you wouldn’t mind hurrying,” Alan says, more to his watch than to the man. “I’d like to get back to the Fountain before that thunderstorm catches up with us.”
    For the first time, Oates raises his eyes in Alan’s direction. I notice the leather hilt of a handgun at Oates’s hip. “That’s not thunder,” he says. His words come out slowly but precise, with a definite British accent.
    He returns to his knots, and in short order he has removed the entire load from the sled. He looks straight at us