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cartoon cowboys. They were real, and he was the Shilshole Kid. He and Dastardly Dave were on foot, being chased through the woods by an evil sheriff and his posse. He kept thinking that once he and Dave made it to that little shack, they’d be safe. No one would find them there.
    He heard a loud snap—like someone had broken off a tree branch.
    â€œOh, sweet Jesus, my baby!” his mother screamed. “Don’t hurt him! Collin, get out of here! Oh, no . . .”
    He couldn’t tell where his mother’s voice had come from. Maybe she was waiting for them in the shed. He did what his mom told him to, and ran even faster. He gasped for air, and felt his lungs burning. Through the tree branches, he spotted the little shack up ahead. But he’d lost track of Dave.
    Somewhere nearby, he heard a muted whimpering. It sounded like an animal was trapped and wounded here in the woods. All Collin could think was this ailing creature would give away his position. The wheezing sound went on and on.
    â€œShut up!” Collin finally yelled.
    Or had he? He told himself again that it was just the pill he’d taken. None of this was real. He was dreaming.
    â€œSon of a bitch!” someone grunted. It was a stranger’s voice. “Can you believe it? The fucker’s still alive. He’s still breathing. Finish him off. . . .”
    The Shilshole Kid reached the cabin at last. He burst inside and shut the door behind him. He’d wait for Dave’s special knock. But as he turned around, he realized he wasn’t in the shack in the woods. He was in a dark attic, and about ten people were huddled together, hiding in there. He didn’t recognize any of them, except the somewhat frumpy-looking blonde in one corner of the room. It was Shelley Winters. “Shhhh, Collie,” she whispered. “You have to be quiet. The Nazis are outside. We can’t let them find us. Stay still, baby. . . .”
    â€œOf course,” he whispered.
    There was the rumble of footsteps up the stairs. It sounded like at least two people.
    â€œNo witnesses!” someone said. “Where’s the kid? She’s got a kid. . . .”
    Collin heard a door creak open. “Shit, somebody was in here,” one of them said. “The fan’s still on.”
    His heart was racing. Collin didn’t dare move a muscle—or breathe. He heard another door yawn open. Gazing over toward the little trapdoor, he couldn’t see it at first—and then an outline of light from the other side suddenly appeared at the hinges. Hangers rattled.
    All at once a loud shot went off. Collin flinched.
    â€œChrist, what the hell is he doing down there?”
    There was a scuttle of footsteps, and the hangers clanked again.
    It sounded like the Nazis were leaving. Collin could hear them going down the stairs. They were arguing about something, but he couldn’t make out what they said. Were they talking in German? He stared at the line of the light around that little door. He was still too afraid to make a move. The voices started to fade.
    â€œWe have to remain quiet,” Mr. Frank whispered. “No one move a muscle.”
    Collin didn’t know how long he lay there motionless. It didn’t sound like anyone had left yet. There was still a lot of movement in the house—voices whispering, doors opening and shutting. He glanced over at Anne Frank, who sat quietly and stroked a cat in her lap. The young, dark-haired girl gave him a sweet, reassuring smile.
    At last, he thought he heard some car doors slamming. Then tires screeched.
    â€œJust lie still,” Mr. Frank whispered. “It might not be over yet.”
    Huddled in the sleeping bag, Collin tried not to move. He wondered if those men were really gone.
    â€œYou just need a little help falling asleep,” he heard his mother say. “I’ll try to hustle them out of here soon.”
    He wanted to thank her. But he was too