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food—or not just for the food. He was really hungry for more of the story.
    Feeling greedy, he picked up a mini-tower of containers, turned around with his arms full, and shut the refrigerator door with an elbow. He set the containers on the table.
    Grossbeak glared at him, flaring his head feathers.

    “What?” Truman asked, innocently. “I’m just getting a snack, that’s all.”
    The parrot shook his head.
    “Do you have a problem with that?” Truman asked, spreading the containers around on the table, trying to decide which one to open first.
    Grossbeak nodded. His scaly feet paced back and forth on the back of the chair.
    “Too bad,” Truman said.
    But when Truman pulled up the corner of a lid, the bird squawked viciously and beat his wings, lifting his body off the chair. He flapped in a circle over Truman’s head.
    “Hey!” Truman shouted, covering his head with his arms. “Stop it!”
    But the parrot only became more vicious, snapping his beak and squawking. He flew up toward the ceiling again, but this time he dive-bombed.
    Truman grabbed his snow globe and took off running. He sprinted one lap around the tiny kitchen, the parrot flapping wildly behind him, and then darted into the dark living room.
    Truman stumbled. Everything went quiet for a moment. He thought he might be able to hide here. The bird seemed to have disappeared into the shadows.
    But suddenly, in a gusty flap of wings, he was there again, right in front of Truman’s face, snapping his beak as if he were testing the amount of force it would take to peck a boy to death. His wings stirred a breeze so strong that it rippled Truman’s hair and shirt.
    Truman darted behind furniture and curtains. “Back off!”he shouted. He knew his sister would sleep right through all of his yelling. Was Swelda the same? Could anyone hear him?
    He dodged and parried, and eventually he wound up near the front door. The bird blocked him in, massive wings beating, plumage flared. Truman saw no way to escape him—except through the front door, out into the night.
    Truman struggled with the lock and the doorknob, but at last the door swung open. Truman slammed it shut behind him.
    It was dark outside, except for a distant floodlight on the golf course. It had started to snow. The scene was dusted in white, much like the one in the snow globe that Truman still had tucked under one arm.
    Barefoot and wearing only his pajamas, Truman stood on the front stoop, wondering how he’d get back inside, past Grossbeak, to his bed. And then he heard a pecking noise on the other side of the door, and a click.
    “Grossbeak?” he said.
    Truman turned the knob.
    The door was locked.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Through the Passageway
    Truman hugged the snow globe to his chest and tried to wrap his arms around himself to keep warm. He started hopping from foot to foot to keep the snow from stinging his bare feet. The snow was coming down fast. The flakes were heavy and fat, and the fog was so thick that Truman could see only a few feet in front of his nose. Everything was white. His glasses fogged up too, so it was like trying to see a cloud through a cloud. He pulled them off and wiped them on his pajama top, but as soon as he put them back on they fogged up again.
    He wondered if he should pound on the door and call for help. But would Swelda and Camille even wake up? Or would this just rile Grossbeak?
    Truman remembered the lost golf balls he’d seen earlier. He could dig for some golf balls in the grass and throw them at the boarded-up windows. It was all he could think of, and he had to try
something
. He couldn’t stay out here all night!
    As he walked down the brick steps, he felt the edges crumble just a bit beneath his feet. Was the house about to collapse?
    He tiptoed through the snow to the deep grass near the bushes where he’d seen golf balls earlier. The grass was stiff with cold.
    Then he heard a small cry. It rose up in the night air. Two sad notes:
mewl-mewl
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