It had been Walter's idea to hang at the sugar shack. Usually, it was a good choice--quiet, sweet-smelling, not far even if you lived in North Amherst or Sunderland. The door was always open. It didn't even have a lock.
Last night, though, someone had secured the door from the inside, apparently with twine. It was Angela who'd noticed the end hanging loose and suggested Mabel wiggle her Swiss army knife along the door jamb till it severed the twine.
Giggling--had they just done something illegal?-- everybody had piled inside while somebody swatted the air overhead for the bare bulb. Smash! The bulb shattered, and Mabel had stumbled back against a display table, knocking a decorative maple leaf bottle to the floor.
The mess wasn't too bad, but still, no one wanted to get blamed for it. They'd done their best to clean up, agreed to keep their mouths shut, and hightailed it. All except Walter and Mabel. In the dark, combing the sticky floor for debris, neither had so much as glanced at the boiler in the shadows.
Mabel, the possessor of one Swiss army knife, a handkerchief full of shattered glass and some shreds of twine, did not want to talk to Angela about Walter. But just at that moment, with an earsplitting peeping, the smoke alarm went off. Only then did Mabel notice the smoking waffle iron. She rolled her eyes. What kind of family has waffles and pancakes for breakfast, anyway? "Gotta run!"
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