The Second Life of Abigail Walker by Frances O'Roark Dowell

Author:Frances O'Roark Dowell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers

the fox’s hackles unexpectedly shot up, and she felt them even before she saw them—the girls. The scrawny raccoon girls were back. She watched them from her field as they slunk around Abby’s house, peering in the first-floor windows.

“I bet she’s inside, but she’s pretending like she’s not home,” she heard one of the girls say from the front porch. “She was on the bus.”

“I still don’t get what we’re supposed to say,” the other girl complained. “I bet Abby’s made up a bunch of lies about us to tell her mom. They probably won’t even invite us in.”

“First we’ll say we’re coming by to tell them that we saw a fox in the neighborhood and my mom called animal control, but they haven’t found it yet. And then we’ll figure out some way to make Abby’s mom ask us in.”

The girls disappeared into the backyard, and the fox could hear their footsteps crunching through the woods. She knew that Abby wasn’t inside the house. She’d come to the field after school and sat in her chair for a while, drawing pictures in a book. And then she’d set off for the creek. The fox had followed her for a while, but then she’d smelled purple berries—a fat, juicy smell that pulled her back into the field.

Really, being a vegetarian wasn’t so bad, not when the berries were still sweet.

The fox nipped at a branch and caught a berry between her teeth. Animal control, eh? Did anyone think animal control had a chance against her? All she had to do was make a set of tracks going to the left, and another going off to the right, and the poor fools would be so confused, they wouldn’t know which direction to head in. They’d walk around in circles for days, months, years.

No, animal control wasn’t a problem, only a nuisance. But these girls. These raccoons in training. Or perhaps weasels? Because raccoons were clowns, but weasels were mean. Low-down. The fox never trafficked with them if she could help it.

The weasel girls were after Abby.

The fox began pacing in circles. Maybe there was something she could do. Something more than just watch.

The fox had always watched. She was known for standing to the side and letting the action unfold. Observing, always observing. She was not unaffected by what she saw (the children standing by the bedside, their mother covered with pox; the great ship sinking into the frigid waters; the line of men waiting for a cup of soup and a chunk of bread), but she didn’t step forth. Didn’t try to make things different from what they were.

Maybe it was time.

Maybe then the nightmares would stop.

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