“No, Annabelle, that’s badword,not badwolf.Wurrr-da.” Margaret sounded it out. “Word.”
“Sit!” Annabelle grinned.
Margaret gave up and prayed the child would not be able to pronounce thehanytime soon.
“You wanna know what happens next?”
Margaret looked at Theodore. “What?”
“The wolf blew down the house of sticks like the house of straw and both piggies had to run and run and run to their brother’s house of bricks. And the same thing happened again.”
Margaret looked at him. “You mean the bad wolf—”
“Sit!”
Margaret ignored her this time and continued, “He blew down the house of bricks? He must have some powerful breath.” Margaret thought one whiff of Hank’s breath could have melted a few bricks.
“Nope.” Theodore grinned.
“He didn’t blow down the brick house?”
“Uh-uh. He tried and tried, but the smart little piggy had built a strong house. Finally the wolf climbed up on the roof and jumped down the chimney. And you know what happened next?”
“What?”
Theodore moved his face really close to Margaret’s. She waited while he grinned. She sensed he was building up to the dramatic ending.
“The pigs put a big kettle of boiling water on the fire, and the wolf fell into it.” His eyes grew big, and he wiggled his fingers at her. “And they cooked him and ate him all up!”
“They atethe wolf?” Margaret made a sick face. “That’s horrible.”
Lydia looked up and scowled at her. “My mother used to read us that story all the time. From a book of fairy tales. It’s Theo’s favorite story.”
Margaret looked at Theodore, who was frowning thoughtfully, then at Lydia, whose look hadn’t changed. Margaret closed her eyes and wanted to kick herself. At that moment she was certain she had disappointed the kids—Theodore in particular—just as much as Hank had.
In the wee hours of the morning, before the birds had wakened, before the tide had waned, and when all were sound asleep, another storm hit the island. It swirled in from the west with rain and clouds and wind. The rain pattered on the sand and on waxy tropical leaves. The clouds blocked the moon and the stars. And the wind blew in a howling wail that sounded like a wolf. Then it huffed and puffed and blew their huts down.
11
Hank awoke to the smell of wet goat hair, which was about the same as sticking his face in an old prison work boot. He quickly turned his head away, and immediately regretted it. He had one mother of a headache.
He closed his mouth tightly and regretted that, too. It felt as if a thousand woolly sheep had stampeded through his mouth. The goat shifted closer and shoved its stinking, wet muzzle in his face, then bleated loudly.
With a moan of pain, Hank rolled away, his head throbbing like a hammer on quarry rock. He held his head in his hands and waited for the pain to subside. After a few deep breaths, he squinted, then cracked open one burning, bloodshot eye.
Bright sunlight almost blinded him. He flinched and rubbed his face with his hands but quickly pulled his hands away and stared at them, scowling.
They were wet. He raised his head a few inches off the ground, an action for which he deserved a medal, and looked down at his clothes. He was soaking wet.
He sat upright slowly, very slowly, so his head could keep up with him. His eyes focused gradually. The goat stood a few feet away, staring at him while it chewed on something.
Hank watched it for moment, then saw some metal sticking out of its mouth. He frowned. What the hell was that blasted animal eating now? He started to crawl toward it, and the goat took two steps backward.
“What have you got there?”
The goat backed up again.
Hank muttered a few choice names and crawled forward.
