There were thirteen Freds out and about, doing dastardly deeds. And, as everyone knows, thirteen is an unlucky number.
It sure was unlucky for young Winston Clarkwood. He had been minding his own business, walking home from school, when a red Ferrari jumped the curb and came roaring down the sidewalk toward him.
Winston dived into the street just in time. Just in the nick of time, to be exact. He tore his pants and skinned his knee, not to mention his face.
He got to his feet, took a deep breath, and continued on his way. A few minutes later he passed the First National Bank just as a man burst from the front door, holding a bag of money. He ran right over Winston. There was no getting out of the way this time. More skinned knees. Another face-plant into the concrete.
Winston got up slowly and stumbled on. Funny, he thought, the bank robber looked just like the man in the red car. Exactly like him in fact. How could that be?
It was a confusing and painful day for young Winston Clarkwood. He’d had painful days before, and he’d had confusing ones. But this was the first time he had both on the same day. And the problem was, his day wasn’t over yet.
He moved on, keeping an eye peeled for the guy in the red sports car, or his bank robbing twin. His face was tired of meeting the ground up close and personal.
Suddenly Winston saw him. The sports car man, the bank robber dude. “Don’t tell me there are three of them,” he said.
“Actually, there are thirteen of us,” the man told him, blocking his path. “The name’s Fred. Stick ’em up.”
Winston blinked. This can’t be happening, he thought. Somebody wake me when it’s over.
“Your money or your life.”
Winston just stood there, not believing his own ears.
When he didn’t move, Fred turned him upside down until every last coin fell out of his pockets. Then he grabbed the money and walked off. “Pleasure doing business with you, kid.”
It wasn’t very pleasant for Winston Clarkwood. But at least he didn’t hit the ground for a third time that day.
When Fred left, Winston ran the rest of the way home. Los Angeles was no place for a kid on his own, he decided. That evening he was quiet at dinner. He did his homework in his room and fell asleep early. This was one day he wanted to forget.
But when Winston closed his eyes he saw the same face—Fred’s face. He had one nightmare after another. He woke up screaming.
His mother came running. “What is it, Winston?”
He was shivering under his covers. He didn’t say a word.
“Winston?” his mother asked. “What’s wrong?”
He sat up and poked his head out from under his blankets. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I—I—”
“For goodness’ sakes, what is it?”
He swallowed hard. “I see Fred people.”
