Page 24 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to find bread. I just want to go home.

I stumble my way to the edge of the dumpster, pulling myself up the side as best I can, when—

“What are you doing in there?”

Startled, I cling more tightly to the edge. “Help me,” I say. I sound like a baby, asking for help from a stranger, a realization that sends more tears down my cheeks. I sniffle as I try to pull myself up; my back is still throbbing with pain, and my fingers are turning numb from the cold, and I want to go home.

“Hang on,” the voice says. It sounds like a boy, an older one. I hear the sound of footsteps and scraping wood, and then he appears: a face poking up with brown eyes and brown hair. He’s the handsomest boy I’ve ever seen.

“Here,” he says, holding out his hand. I take it, clinging desperately to him as he pulls me up. I topple over the side, landing on top of the boy and sending us both tumbling off the wooden crate and onto the ground.

I break into sobs. Everything hurts and I have a scrape on my back and I didn’t find any bread and my jammies are ruined and I’m cold. This is the worst day ever.

“Hey,” the boy says, righting himself. He crawls over to where I’m lying curled up in a ball on the ground. “Hey,” he says again. “Don’t cry.”

“I got a scrape,” I wail. “And I’m hungry.”

Through my tears, I see the boy’s eyes widen. “Is that why you were in there?” he says. “Were you looking for food?”

I nod, sniffling myself into silence. “I’m hungry,” I repeat.

The boy frowns, scrubbing his hand over his hair and looking around. He’s super tall, much taller than me, and he’s skinny too. “What about your scrape?” he says. “Can I see? Do you need a Band-Aid?”

I swipe at my eyes, trying to stop crying. I don’t want him to think I’m a baby. So I sit up, being super brave, and scoot around, pointing at the spot on my back.

He doesn’t say anything; the only sound I hear is a sort of hissing, like he’s inhaling through his teeth. When I face him again, he’s still flattening his hand over his hair.

“Where’s your mom?” he says. “Or your dad?”

I shrug. “My mom is at home sleeping.”

The boy sighs. “Okay, look,” he says finally. He stands up, his body unfolding to be even taller than I thought. “You stay here, okay? I’m going to go get you some food and something to fix your cut. It’s pretty big. It might scar. But it’s okay!” he says quickly when I begin to cry again. “It’s okay! Nothing wrong with scars. I have one right here, see?” He turns his head to the side and points at what looks like a shiny white line just below his hairline. “I tried to cut my own hair when I was a little kid and cut myself with the scissors. You can cover up a scar if you don’t like it, though. You can keep it covered or even get a tattoo there or something. It’s okay.”

That doesn’t sound so bad. I just nod.

“Stay here,” he says again, backing out of the alleyway. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

I nod again.

“Promise you won’t move?” he says.

I sniffle and give him yet another nod.

“Good,” he says, holding his hands up toward me. “Stay.” And then, without saying anything else, he turns and runs away.

I hope he doesn’t take too long.

While he’s gone I try to get myself cleaned up. My hands are scraped from falling on the pavement, but they don’t hurt too bad, and they’re not bleeding. I wipe them off gently on my jammie pants and then stand up. It’s cold; I want to put my coat back on. I shuffle over and pick it up, shoving my arms through the sleeves and zipping it as fast as I can. Then I wait, bouncing on my tiptoes and doing a little dance to keep myself warm.

I turn around when I finally hear thumping footsteps growing louder and louder, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the boy rounds the corner, carrying a plastic bag. He’s out of breath, but he jogs over to me anyway, holding the bag out to me. I take it.

“There,” he says, bending over and resting his hands on his knees. He gulps in air for a second before standing up again. Then he points to the bag. “Open it,” he says.

I jump; I was so busy watching him, I forgot to check in the bag. I tear it open now, my stomach rumbling extra loud as the scent of food hits me.

My mouth waters as I dig something warm and wrapped in foil out of the bag. I unwrap it with numb fingers, pulling aside the silver paper to reveal the most delicious-looking sandwich I’ve ever seen. I see egg and sausage and bacon and cheese in there, and the bread is grilled and buttery.

Part of me wants to eat it nice and slow, to savor every bite, but the other part of me is really hungry. I wolf it down, bite after delicious bite of cheesy egg and meat, and when I’m done, I lick every single one of my fingers. Then I sigh happily.

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