The next morning Logan woke up early again, ate his breakfast, packed his gear, and headed to Sandwiches to resume his surveillance. There was a light drizzle falling, though the sun was shining, a typical occurrence in April in Nelsonport.
A block before Logan reached the store, he spotted a flyer on a telephone pole. On it was a color image of the dog he was sure he’d seen abducted by aliens. Above the picture were the words LOST DOG.
Across the street, he saw another copy of the poster tacked to another telephone pole. And another down the street. Logan peeked left and right, then reached up, ripped the flyer from the pole, and stuffed it into his bag.
He removed it later at school, and smoothed it out on the table for his fellow operatives of the Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit.
“That’s the dog,” he said.
“The one that vanished?” Thatcher asked. “The one you saw from the bus?”
Aggy looked up from her book and said, “Hmm. You sure this is the dog, Logan?”
“That’s the dog,” he answered.
“Maybe she was taken after all,” Aggy said, studying the poster carefully. “Her name is Pickles. Looks like some sort of spaniel mix.”
“Pickles?” Thatcher asked. “A dog called Pickles? Who calls a dog ‘Pickles’?”
“Trudy does,” Aggy said, pointing at the woman’s name.
“Let’s call her and tell her an alien took her dog,” Kian said with a straight face.
“Yeah!” Thatcher said.
Aggy looked up at them. “It wasn’t an alien.”
“Yes, it was,” Logan said. “I have a sense about these things.”
“And how many times has that sense of yours been correct?” Aggy asked.
“Nineteen,” Logan said. “I’ve just never apprehended one, that’s all. They’re not easy to catch. You ever caught an alien, Aggy?”
“Nope.”
“I haven’t, either,” Kian deadpanned.
“That’s because they’re not easy to catch,” Logan said.
“Not easy to throw, either, I bet,” Kian said, and threw his pencil at Thatcher. It bounced off his chest.
“Ow!” Thatcher said, and cocked his fist to reciprocate when Nathan appeared at their table.
“How’s the astronomy project going, guys?” he asked.
“Good, Nathan,” Kian said.
“We’re going to put on a skit,” Thatcher said. “I’m going to be a meteorite.”
“Not a black hole?” Kian asked.
Thatcher kicked him under the table, and said, “Kian’s going to be a dwarf star.”
Kian stared daggers at Thatcher. He didn’t like cracks about his height.
“Sounds good,” Nathan said. “What about you, Logan?”
“I’ll be portraying an organism of superior intelligence from a faraway galaxy hurtling through space in a spacecraft made entirely of ice,” Logan said.
“I come along and smash into him and turn his ship into ice cubes,” Thatcher said.
“Not crushed ice?” Kian said.
“Better!” Thatcher said.
“Actually, no,” Logan said. “The alien destroys the meteorite with a cryogenic torpedo.”
“No way,” Thatcher said. “I dodge that.”
“Okay, some good ideas,” Nathan said. “But get them down on paper, too. You should be making costumes and rehearsing by now.”
“Costumes?” Thatcher asked. “We have to make costumes?”
“Produce!” Nathan said, and walked away.
“Who cares about a stupid skit,” Logan said. “We have more important work to do.”
“I’ll help you find the dognapper,” Aggy said.
“Yes!” Thatcher said, pumping his fist. “The ICRU to the rescue!”
“I don’t like the ‘Intergalactic’ part,” Aggy said. “Can’t we just call it the CRU?”
“I created this task force,” Logan said, “and I say it’s the Intergalactic Canine Rescue Unit. The I-Crew, if you like.”
“I won’t be involved, then,” Aggy said, opening her book. “And I’m the only one with a cell phone.”
Logan scowled at her. “Okay,” he said. “The CRU.”
“Yeah!” Thatcher said, doing a little hip-swiveling dance in his chair. “The Crew!”