Mom almost ran over me when I opened the front door.
“Oops,” she said balancing a box in one hand. “Nearly dropped Desiree's cinnamon cookies.”
“Cookies?” I reached for the box, but she swung it out of reach.
“Ah, ah. These are for the night crew.”
“Did you leave any for your starving family?”
“Not this time, but your dinner is in the frig. Just pop it in the microwave.” She kissed my cheek and was gone, taking those lovely cookies with her. Desiree's dinners were an experience in alien cuisine, but her baking was positively addictive.
Dad hunched over his laptop in a tiny room off the kitchen that was supposed to be a pantry. It was Dad's personal realm where he could write and still cook dinner. To call it a den or man cave would be an exaggeration. Shelves meant for holding canned goods were now filled with reference books, reams of paper, and an old printer. Dad affectionately called it The Grotto.
He didn't look up as I opened the frig to find the mystery dinner. The discovery didn't take long. Leftovers from last night. I crinkled up my nose and opted for cereal instead.
I finished off a box of shredded wheat. Not quite satisfied, I opened the frig again and began the search for leftover cake. There it was, strategically hidden behind the broccoli.
Nate thought he was so clever. He had been hiding goodies in the frig behind the broccoli for years. You'd think he would have caught on by now that it wasn't a good hiding place.
Feeling no remorse, I wolfed down the cake. Nate could come in at any time and I didn't want to be caught with the evidence.
I was chasing the last crumbs with my fork when Dad stretched. He turned to the kitchen and stuffed a cookie in his mouth.
“Hey,” I said. “Is that one of Desiree’s cookies? Where did you get it?”
“He grinned through the crumbs and mumbled, “Cinnamon. Last one.” He swallowed. “How does this sound? Jacques hasn’t had enough to eat for days. He's made it through the jungle and now he can see the river and his canoe.”
Jacques wasn’t the only one not getting enough food. “I thought he was wasting away in the sun,” I said.
“He was. But he drank from the pool of youth, remember?”
“Isn't that a little convenient?”
Dad looked exasperated. “It all works.”
“So how did he get through the jungle? Didn't he have to fight pythons and escape from tigers?”
Dad gave me a disappointed look. “If he were to fight a snake it would have to be an anaconda. Pythons are in Africa and Asia. And tigers are in India. We're still in South America.”
“Oh.” It seemed like I was destined to learn about South America one way or another.
“Are you ready now?”
I nodded, wishing I had a cookie.
Jacques crawled down to the river, too weak to move much faster than a sloth. A tapir eyed him warily before retreating into the forest cover.
Each rasping breath felt like fire in his chest, but he struggled down the faint path. When he reached the river he dropped his duffel bag into the canoe startling a caiman that was sunning itself on the bank. The soft splash as it slipped into the water sent ripples lapping at his feet. He fell into the canoe. It only took a feeble shove to send it drifting. Leaning back against the filthy duffel he let the current carry him where it would.
The thick air pressed against him, but now that he wasn't walking it was easier to breathe. With a shaking hand he raised the small cross that hung from the thin gold chain around his neck and pressed it to his lips.
“How do you know all that stuff?” I asked.
“What stuff?”
“You know, the tapir, the caiman, snakes...”
“Elementary my dear Cody. It's called research.”
“I have to write something on South America. Maybe I should take them a chapter from your book.”
“Classified. However, I have an undercover collaborator that might help you. His name is EGOR.”
“Like in Frankenstein?”
“Like in literary research program. EGOR - Examine, Generate, Organize Research. He pulled up a website. “It's through the university. Still in beta, but I haven't found any bugs. You'll want to use the Research feature. I'll give you my password, but this is a paid subscription so treat it with respect.”
He gave me that Serious Dad look, which I knew meant don't mess this up kid. I nodded.
“Okay. Password is Jack.”
“Where did you come up with that?”
His eyes widened. “Haven't you been listening? That's Jacques.”
“Ah...”
The doorbell rang.
“That's Gen. We're going to work on the assignment together.” I headed for the door and turned back. “Good writing.”
He grinned and waved before turning back to his laptop.
Gen and I settled in to the alcove outside the living room where the family computer resided. I was still waiting, and hoping, for my own computer with all the latest extras. But that dream would have to wait until Dad got a job. So far his writing wasn't bringing in a paycheck.
“Dad gave me access to this research program. He thinks it will help us,” I said.
“Yeah? What is it?” she asked.
“EGOR.” I typed in the password. The cursor turned into a hunched, wizened little creature that shuffled across the screen when I moved the mouse.
“Nice,” Gen said with a hint of disgust.
I maneuvered the troll like creature to the prompt box and handed her the paper Bertram had given me.
“What's this?”
“You'll like it. It's a list. From Bertram.”
She grimaced and began reading. “One: Neotropical Migratory Birds. Oooh. That would keep me awake nights.”
I had to agree that didn't sound too exciting. Nate would probably like it. “Next.”
“Two: Life cycles of the Glasswing Butterfly. Okay, that sounds better.”
“It's okay for a girl.”
She smirked. “Three: Marsupials of South America.”
“I could do that.”
“It's all yours. I'm doing number four.”
“What is four?”
She held the paper at arms length and gave me that I know something smirk.”
“Come on, Gen. It can't be that good or Bertram wouldn't have put it on the list.”
She read from the paper with glee. “Four: Native legends of mythical beasts.”
“It doesn't say that,” I said.
“Does too.” She handed me the paper.
There it was in Bertram's scrawl. But there was more. “You didn't read the whole thing. It says, native legends of mythical beasts - why the scientific method is critical in separating truth from fantasy.”
She shrugged. “It's your list. I'm just using it for inspiration.” She pointed to the keyboard. “Type in South American legends.”
Reluctantly I typed. The prompt flashed three choices: Animal, Mineral, Plant?
“Animal,” she said.
The questions continued prompting us for more and more detail. It was like the little kid who keeps asking why.
Finally the troll climbed to the top of the screen where EGOR was written out. Examine Generate Organize Research.
“Dad said to use Research,” I said. When I clicked on the R, the troll scratched his head for several seconds. Then the screen filled with a picture of an ape-like creature labeled Curinquean, the South American Bigfoot.
Gen squealed with delight. I printed it out for her to take home.
She leaned forward and studied the screen. “Can you start over?”
I clicked on New Search, and the prompt box cleared. She pushed on my chair sliding me away from the keyboard. “Let me type.”
Her fingers settled over the keyboard like a gifted pianist. EGOR quizzed her mercilessly, but she never faltered. Without hesitation she clicked on choices an
d keyed in answers. Suddenly the rattle of the keys stopped and I looked at the screen to see what question had stymied her.
It read, Do you have any pictures? She was leaning out of the chair and digging in her jacket. Triumphantly she pulled out her cell phone. “I need a USB cord.”
She uploaded the video and EGOR questioned her further. Finally the little troll scooted to the top of the screen and waited. Gen clicked on Research. The troll scratched his head and a message appeared.
No probable answer available. Please choose:
1. Possible Solutions
2. Wild Guess
“Choose possible,” I said.
She hesitated but clicked on number one.
The answer came back: orangutan, baboon, gorilla escaped from circus or zoo.
“I don't think so,” she said. Quickly she hit the back arrow and clicked on Wild Guess.
The troll pulled out a large pocket watch. A message flashed on the screen.
Research on wild guess scenarios is being processed. Subscription time for your current session has expired. Please enter an e-mail and/or text number for updates and queries.
I heard the keys clicking. “Hey, what are you typing?”
“My e-mail and phone number.”
I hoped we weren't violating Dad's don't mess this up warning.
She shrugged on her coat and picked up her stuff. At the door she turned back and said, “Tomorrow after school we hit the woods. Wear your old shoes.”