Neville Nordstrom stared at the screen. His thick vanilla eyebrows furrowed together like a pair of hairy caterpillars and his nose began to twitch.
‘Is it really you?’ Neville whispered at the computer. But of course there was no reply. His friend had logged out moments ago, signing off with the usual ‘so long and happy hunting’.
They’d been talking via the secure chat area of the club for only a couple of months. But in that time Neville had come to realise that his friend, wherever he was, was the most passionate collector he’d encountered yet. Smart too.
But perhaps not smart enough. Neville was sure that his new friend was conversing under an assumed name; he’d laughed out loud when he saw it. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Wasn’t that a famous writer – and a dead one at that?
Then again, Neville hadn’t exactly been honest either. He wanted to tell his parents about his hobby but he knew they wouldn’t understand. And it was getting harder to keep up the ruse. He’d overheard his mother talking to his father last week – wondering how on earth Neville’s shorts could be getting tighter when he was playing football every other day. Neville made a mental note not to eat so many doughnuts while he was hunting.
Then yesterday, his online friend’s disguise had begun to slip. He had said too much and one by one Neville was joining the dots. Neville was almost certain that he was chatting to someone very important – more important than most people in the world, really. And definitely the one man who could help him to save the species. Now all he had to do was prove it.