I whistled a song without a melody, like a computer monitor without a tower. It was meaningless. I have to admit, even though my dog, Doug, had popped my last soccer ball, I couldn’t help but whistle. It was a habit by now, and it made me feel like I was safe and nothing could hurt me. This time my whistle force field didn’t work. Down the street came Billy Charragin and his goons that barely ever spoke. The heck with my deflated soccer ball! I thought, and headed straight for my front door. It was too late, he had seen me.
“Hey Pinocchio!” he shouted.
He always calls me that because of my slightly larger-than-usual nose.
“My name’s Kent,” I mumbled, even though I knew he wouldn’t listen.
He jumped my fence and grabbed me by the front of my shirt. I felt my feet leave the ground, and I could smell his dragon breath. I knew I was out of luck. My mother was out shopping, and my dad was busy writing checks. The only people other than us was Billy’s goons, so I closed my eyes and braced myself.