Trapped by Laurie Halse Anderson Page A

excellent place to spend a summer afternoon, reading and listening to the wind in the branches. Poe loves to ride on my shoulder as I climb up, and he hates to leave once we’re there. I think he knows it’s his only chance for being up high, now that he’ll never fly again.
    Anyway, the Morrisons’ treehouse is even nicer than ours. It’s got an actual Plexiglas window and a tiny balcony with a nice railing. Somebody knew what they were doing!
    â€œWell?” David asks. “What do we do next?”
    â€œI guess we knock on the door,” I say, gulping a little as I look back at the house. Considering how I behaved the first time we met, jumping out from behind a boulder and yelling at him, I wouldn’t blame William Morrison if he slammed the door in my face.
    I lead the way up the front walk. There are three steps up to a small porch, which holds several wooden chairs made with tree branches, cleverly bent and tied with grapevines. Cool! Dad would be impressed.
    There’s a doorbell to the right of the front door, and I reach up and push it. I can hear the ringing inside, and I strain to hear footsteps coming to answer it.
    But I don’t hear a sound. I ring again. I’m almost starting to hope the guy isn’t home. Suddenly, my plan to talk him out of trapping seems a little nuts.
    â€œWait, what’s that?” Maggie asks, turning around quickly.
    â€œI don’t hear anything,” I say, still listening for footsteps inside.
    â€œNo, it’s coming from around back. It sounds like somebody talking.”
    I turn away from the door to listen. Sure enough, I hear a male voice. I look at David and Maggie. They look at me.
    â€œLet’s go see,” I say, squaring my shoulders.
    We go around the house, and there’s my old pal William Morrison standing beneath a fir tree along the edge of his backyard. He’s talking out loud to something at his feet.
    â€œCalm down, will you?” he asks. “Be still. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have to.”
    I can’t see who—or what—he’s talking to until we get closer. Then, suddenly, I can see all too well.
    It’s a fawn. Not a baby with spots, but a young deer, light brown with a velvety black nose and huge dark eyes.
    It’s lying on the ground with its bony, lanky legs all twisted beneath it. The fawn is struggling as it looks up at William Morrison, and there’s something unmistakable in its eyes.
    Fear.
    William Morrison is holding his pistol. He’s aiming it at the deer. He’s getting ready to shoot.
    â€œNO!” I yell.
    â€œSTOP!” yells David.
    William Morrison turns to look at us. “Hey, what the—?” he begins.
    â€œDon’t shoot that fawn,” I beg. “Please, please, don’t shoot that fawn.”
    The arm holding the pistol drops to his side. He peers at me, recognizes me. “You!” he says.
    â€œI don’t care what you think of me,” I say. “Just don’t shoot that fawn.”
    He’s still holding the pistol. Now he looks down at it and frowns. “I don’t want to,” he says, “but she’s suffering. Can’t you see? Her leg is broken. A fawn this old won’t recover from a broken leg.” The fawn is lying back now, eyes closed. I can see its ribs rising and falling as it pants. “And she’s all torn up from being caught in the barbed wire that runs along our property,” continues William. “I guess she managed to free herself somehow, but she’s not going any farther than right here.”
    â€œI bet Gran could do something,” Maggie suggests in a low voice.
    â€œI know she’ll at least try,” I answer. I turn to William. “Do you have a car?”
    He shakes his head. “No—I mean, my mom does, but she’s at work.”
    I nod. “Can I use your phone?”
    He looks a little surprised.