Mr Jones locked the hen-houses. Although he did not shut the pop-holes. Light danced across the yard. He lurched forward. Kicked off his boots. He found the barrel in the scullery. Poured his last glass of beer.
My heart races. I scramble into the car as they slam on the accelerator. The wheels screech. I look around. They are chasing us. Dark blurs race behind me, darting through the trees, getting closer and closer. I turn back around, not wanting to watch them as they surround us. I yell at the driver to go faster. We need to get away. Thats when I know what we have to do. The plan races through my mind. It’ll work. It has too.
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