"Sure it is," Ian said. "Aw, come on, Mugs. Spill your guts. You sat out the war, probably peeling potatoes. Mountains of them!"
That picture in Ian's head of Mugs and spuds piled to the ceiling, sent the boy reeling with laughter.
"Let's just say this," Mugs said. "I kept my head down and my nose clean. I knew better than to ask questions. Too many could mark you as a spy. And I knew better than to go poking above my pay grade. I did what they asked me to do. And more, sonny. A helluva lot more."
The two were outside, standing beside the mountain of papers, notebooks, and litter that had composed Mugs' whole life.
Ian looked over at the metal quonset hut that Mugs used as a shed.
"That next?" Ian asked.
"Not that one, big man," said Mugs.
Mugs busied himself emptying a box and throwing the leaflets onto the pile.
"What's this?" Ian asked, scrounging in the bottom of a box.
In the little boy's hand was a faded matchbook. Ian flipped open the front.
"Is this some kinda code, Mugs?" he asked, pointing to penciled letters and numbers on the inside flap of the book of matches.
"Avonlea452," said Mugs. "It's a phone number. Keep this kid. You ever need me, just dial it. Angeline will answer. She'll give me your message."
YOU ARE READING
Looking for Answers
General FictionA young boy helps his elderly neighbor clean out the old man's house only to find out later that the aged man has vanished into thin air.
