Jack and I ran down a grassy hill, kicking up dandelions as we ran. Fuzzy white bits floated and drifted in the breeze and I laughed. Suddenly Mrs. Puchalski ran down the hill banging her pot lids. Jack turned and barked ferociously at her.
I woke up. Jack was really barking and I heard the clatter of trash cans. My heart almost leaped through my chest. I tore to the window just in time to see two furry creatures feasting on the chicken. Raccoons.
I threw the window open. “Hey!” I yelled. Jack stood with his front paws on the windowsill, barking excitedly. The raccoons looked up at us; they held our gaze for a moment as if deciding how bad the threat was. Then they took off.
My bedroom light blinked on. “What’s going on in here?” Dad asked. His hair was ruffled and his eyes were half-shut.
“Aw, just some raccoons raiding the trash cans.” I shook my head and tried to act annoyed. “We scared them away.”
Dad walked over to me and patted my shoulder. “Scared me, too.” He glanced out the window, then pulled it shut. “You hop back in bed now. See you in the morning,” he said, snapping off my light as he left.
I felt bad as I listened to him walk back to his room. I’d sort of lied to him and it made me feel guilty. He trusted me; I was planning to betray his trust. And yet I had to. For Jack.
I gave Dad a few minutes to fall asleep, then got out of bed to reset the trap. Jack dropped softly to the floor, and his nails clicked on the wood as he followed me.
“No, Jack,” I whispered and crouched beside him. “Stay here. I have to go by myself.”
I got up, turned away, and heard him clicking after me.
“Jack—” It was useless. Excitement colored his eyes. His ears blushed and stood erect. Something was up and he knew it.
“Okay,” I said. “But you have to be quiet.”
We slipped through the house like shadows and made our way to the refrigerator. I looked at that ham. Through the plastic, I could see the pineapple rings crisped with brown sugar. Cloves decorated the crisscrosses Millie had sliced across the meat. I licked my lips. Dad would kill me.
The chicken was already gone—that would take some explaining. But I didn’t think I’d be able to explain the disappearance of the ham and the chicken. I shifted around the cheese and found some bacon and bologna.
I closed the fridge. Jack sniffed the air, raising himself for a moment on his hind legs. He licked his chops.
He followed me to the back door. “No, no, Jack.” I couldn’t bait the trap and hold him at the same time.
I backed up to the door and twisted the lock and the handle. Cool air breezed through the crack. With my back against the door, I pulled out a few pieces of bologna and threw them deep into the kitchen.
“There you go!” I said. He went after it like a chowhound, and I slid through the door and pulled it shut.
The trash cans lay on their sides. I looked at the chicken left behind by the raccoons. It wasn’t much but, together with the lunch meat, it might be enough to draw a coyote.
The bacon was raw and greasy. I smeared it all over the outside of both trash cans and then the insides before throwing it in with the bologna. The garlic aroma of the chicken wafted up, mixing with the bacon and bologna, and altogether it smelled like a trashy deli. A smell that—I hoped—would be irresistible to coyotes.
Jack greeted me at the door, inspecting my hands. He licked the grease and trotted away. I washed my hands.
The trap was set. We went back to my room and waited.