By me, with art by Sam Messerly.
Click here to read from the beginning.
The first thing I thought when I put down Warbell’s journal was that he STILL did not explain why he wanted so badly to live in MY garage. I just read through that whole thing, and all those bizarre ramblings about time travel and cyborg dinosaurs and idiotic names (Razzberry? Really?), and Warbell still didn’t have the decency to answer the first question I asked him?
And oh, man, was I ever confused after reading that tome! My brain didn’t feel up to the challenge of understanding half of what was written in that thing.
But if what Warbell had written in that journal was true, then he was not just innocent of all charges, but he was trying to protect all of humankind… and I had just told the bad guys where he was going. I texted Colander with a brief and bewildering message about what I had learned—something like, “Warbell might be saving the world from matter-stealing interdimensional lovesick dinosaurs, and I just gave directions to the evil villains as to where he is going!”
I glanced at the time. It was getting to be around eight pm. A sense of determination filled my gut. I grabbed my jacket, my rifle (it probably wouldn’t do much to stop an evil dinosaur from a timeless dimension, but I had to bring something or else I felt like I was just running naked into a fight with an army of monsters), placed it and my other things on my porch, and marched over to Charlie’s place.
I banged on the door.
Charlie’s daughter Harriet opened it.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Daddy said that he isn’t home if you come over, but you can buy some Tyrannosaurus Mex from me. It’s my new stall. Instead of just lemonade, I decided to try selling tyrannosaurus-themed tacos, and they are really popular. What do you think is a better name, Tyrannosaurus Mex, or just Rex Mex?”
“Sorry, kiddo, but this time, I really need my truck back,” I said.
“Oh,” the kid said. “Daddy said if you said you really need your truck back, then I should say he is…”
The little girl pulled out a note from her pocket and checked it, then cleared her throat.
“He is in the hospital right now with appendicitis and I am sorry but he can’t come talk with you.”
This was getting me nowhere.
“Charlie!” I shouted. “I saw your kid’s note, and I know you’re in there! Just give me my truck back because I need it to save the world!”
At first there was no response, but his daughter was looking up at me with something like awe on her face.
“I’ll get him,” she said. “If you gotta save the world, then Daddy can drive the rusty old jalopy this week.”
Within five minutes, I was in my truck, turning the key. It felt really strange to be in that truck again. My heart pounded as the engine turned over, as I hit the clutch, as I pulled slowly out of the garage. Part of me was still terrified to be behind that steering wheel. I paused for a moment and took a deep breath.
Someone knocked on my window. I looked over, and was startled to see Colander standing in the street with what looked like a bazooka strapped to her back. Her eye patch had the more traditional skull and crossbones this time, though the color was pink instead of black. I rolled down my window.
“I’m coming with you,” she said.