Megan's Island by Willo Davis Roberts Page B

to get back to it.
    Her anticipation and pleasure were shattered, however, within moments of setting foot on the small beach. In fact, she was still hauling the boat ashore when Sandy’s stunned voice brought her sharply around.
    â€œMegan, look! Somebody’s been here!”
    And there was the evidence, plain to see: a bare footprint in the sand, bigger than either of their own.

Chapter Seven
    Megan’s initial reaction was disappointment. Someone had invaded her own private territory!
    â€œIt’s bigger than mine, but not adult-size,” Sandy said, placing his own foot next to the footprint in the sand. “I thought these islands didn’t belong to anybody. I mean, Grandpa didn’t say we’d be trespassing if we built a clubhouse here.”
    Megan looked around. While it was true they didn’t own the island, there had been no sign that anyone else ever visited it. Except for the man who was writing a book—the man who threw sticks for his dog—there weren’t even supposed to be any other people living on the lake right now.
    â€œHere’s another one,” Sandy announced, following the trail across the sand. The footprints vanished when he came to the rock. “I hope he didn’t find our hideout! I hope he didn’t mess up our stuff!”
    He was off, first scrambling up the rock, then running toward their cave. Megan hurried after him. It wasn’t fair that someone else should be here, in a place that felt like their own, not after they’d worked so hard to fix it up into a refuge, a place where they could almost forget what was happening in their lives on the mainland.
    Every time Sandy came to a spot where sand lay over the rock, he paused to look for more footprints. Before they ever reached the cave, Megan knew they were going to find that it, too, had been discovered. Both of the prints her brother had found since they’d left the beach were headed in that direction.
    Had someone watched them fixing it up, from the far shore where she could see only dark evergreens and a few contrasting birch trees? She stood for a moment, shading her eyes, but nothing moved on the opposite side of the lake.
    â€œHe’s been here!” Sandy shouted, reaching the cave ahead of her. “He even came inside!”
    Megan ducked her head to keep from bashing it on the rocky overhang. “He must have known it was a private place,” she said bitterly. “He could see we have our stuff here.”
    â€œIt doesn’t look as if he took anything, though,” Sandy said after a moment. “The food’s all here, and the lantern and the sleeping bags.”
    â€œHow did he get here?” Megan wondered aloud. “There was no boat. Our own little beach is the only place you can land with a boat unless you want to climb straight up the way we did the first time.”
    They didn’t learn the answer to that until they returned to their own boat. Sandy poked around and discovered that in the sand at the very end of the strip of beach, there was an indentation such as would be made by the bow of a canoe, and part of one footprint that hadn’t been washed away by the waves.
    â€œIt’s all spoiled now,” Megan said, staring at the marks. “It was a special place, just for us, and he’s spoiled it.” She needed the island, needed a place of her own.
    â€œHe didn’t actually hurt anything,” Sandy pointed out. “Maybe it’s another kid. Maybe it’s someone to do things with.”
    â€œHe went into our cave. He snooped,” Megan said. “He could see it belonged to someone else.” It was the only place that did belong to them, she thought. They had no home, they had been taken away from their friends, and even the cottage was a temporary place, one Grandpa had only rented until his foot healed.
    â€œThere are other islands,” Sandy said after a moment of silence. “Why