The Walls Have Eyes by Clare B. Dunkle Page A

answer.
    Martin turned around and pushed back his sheet so he could see better. “Hey, Dad?” he called. “Mom, we’ve lost Dad!”
    They hurried back the way they had come and soon found Dad. He had sagged down onto a low outcrop of rock. His mouth was open. “Tried to . . . call,” he gasped. “Had to . . . sit down.”
    â€œWalt!” Mom said. “Walt, goodness! You’re so red, you’re purple!”
    Martin disconnected a water bottle. Dad drank some and made a face. “Already warm,” he groaned.
    â€œLook, we need to get going,” Martin said, picking up Dad’s pack. “I’ll carry this if you can get the fishing stuff.”
    After that, they made good time. Dad sauntered along while Martin struggled with the heavy pack. Martin’s temper began to wear thin, but he refused to slow down. He was determined to show Dad up.
    By early evening, they came to the bank of a lazy stream about half a foot deep and fifteen feet wide. It flowed over pebbles and orange dirt, cutting tiny channels for itself and leaving narrow sandbars high and dry. Long, curvy patterns in the wet sand seemed to trap the tracks of waves. Tall cottonwoods shaded the little stream, and many delicate bird tracks stippled the shore.
    â€œLet’s stay here tonight,” Martin said, dropping Dad’s pack and rubbing his sore arms. “It looks like a fun place to explore.”
    â€œIt does,” Mom agreed.
    Dad unwound himself from his plaid sheet and looked around in vague confusion. “But . . . ,” he began.
    Martin was easing his own pack from his shoulders. The minor movements this exercise required of his strained limbs felt like the cartilage-popping contortions of a circus athlete.
    â€œBut what?” he asked crossly.
    â€œI don’t know.” Dad lifted his hands. “It’s just that there’s nothing here.”
    â€œWe’ve got water,” Mom pointed out. She was folding her stained sheet into a tidy rectangle. “Martin, can we drink it?”
    â€œI’ve got a filter for it,” Martin said.
    â€œBut—no house,” Dad said, turning to gesture at their surroundings. “No chairs, no beds, no fridge, no cooker, no table, no plates, no nothing. No television, and tonight’s the last night of
Chef’s Got Game
.”
    â€œAre you serious?” Martin cried. “You’ve got a million great things to check out here, and all you can think about is the stupid television?”
    Mom silenced him with a look, and he stomped off. Then she stepped up to Dad and put her arms around his waist. “It’s an adventure,” she said. “Our first real adventure, Walt. We don’t need an easy chair.”
    â€œMaybe you don’t,” Dad said. But he kissed her.
    Martin pulled the pairs of bottles off Chip. More than a few were already empty. He took the filter from his pack, found a spot near the bank where the river was deeper than a couple of inches, pushed the hose down into the water, and started to pump. His sore arms immediately protested. The pump took a lot of force. Hertz had made it seem so easy.
    Martin wondered for a few uneasy seconds about Hertz. The rugged outdoorsman had seemed normal at first, as ifhe belonged in the great outdoors. He had known everything about how to survive out here, and yet he was a bot. Where was he now? Were there other bots like him, wandering the hills? Martin pushed the thought away.
    Dad came over to see what he was doing. “I’ll take a turn, son,” he said, reaching for the pump, and Martin’s resentment toward him eased.
    While they pumped, the heat of the day backed off. Then the birdsong died down. Martin glanced up to find that the glade around them had turned golden, and at that same moment, Mom let out a shriek.
    â€œIt’s red!” she cried. “It’s cherry red! You have to come see