And then there's the Carrigans. He lost his job at the mill last summer, and his wife likes fancy clothes, and they're always yelling about money when I'm next door playing with Ralph or when I come around to collect or even at six in the morning when I bring them the paper. Imagine that, getting up way before dawn to argue. Or what about old Mr. Blanchard? His wife's old, too, and she's sick with what my Mom says is cancer, and I haven't seen Mrs. Blanchard in a couple months, but old Mr. Blanchard, he's up when I put the paper under the mat. I can see through his living room window where the light's on in the kitchen, and he's sitting at the table, hunched over, holding his head, and his shoulders are shaking. Even out front, I can hear him sobbing. It makes my throat tight. He always wears this gray old lumpy sweater. I'd feel sorry for him no matter what, but he cries like it's tearing his chest apart.

And then there's Mr. Lang. He's got this puffy face and a red-veined nose and squinty angry eyes. He's always complaining about how much the paper costs and claims I'm cheating him by coming around more often than I should to collect, which of course I've never done. Two months ago, he started swearing at me so I'm afraid to go over there. My Dad says it's the whiskey makes him act like that, and now my Dad collects from him. The last time my Dad came back from there, he said Mr. Lang's not bad if you get to know him and realize he doesn't like his life, but I don't care. I want my Dad to keep collecting from him.

I guess I was spooked by what you read about that happened in Granite Falls two months ago when Mr. Lang swore at me. That paper boy who disappeared. His parents waited for him to come home from his Sunday morning route, and after they got calls from customers wanting to know where the paper was, his Dad went out looking and found his sack full of papers a block away in an empty lot behind some bushes. You remember how the police and the neighbors went out searching, and the paper he worked for put his picture on the front page and offered a reward if anybody knew where he was, but they didn't find him. The police said he might've run away, but that didn't make any sense to me. It was too darn cold to run away, and where would he go? My Dad says he read how the police even seemed to think the parents might have done something to him themselves and how the parents got so mad they wanted to sue the police for saying that. One man was cruel enough to phone the parents and pretend he had the boy and ask for money, but the police traced the calls, and the man didn't have him. Now the man says it was just a joke, but I read where he's in lots of trouble.

Granite Falls. That's not too far from here. My Dad said some nut from there could easily drive to other towns like ours. I wasn't going to give up my route, though, just because of what happened there. Like I said, I'm used to the money I make and going downtown on Saturdays to buy a new CD. But I felt kinda fluttery in my stomach. I sure didn't want to disappear myself. I'm old enough to know about the creepy things perverts do to kids. So my Dad went with me the next few mornings on my route, and I took a flashlight when I started going alone again, and I delivered the papers fast, believe me. You can't guess what the wind scraping through bushes behind you in the dark can make you feel when it's early and there's nobody around to shout to for help. But after a month when nothing happened, I started feeling easier, ashamed of myself for getting scared like I was a little kid. I slipped back into my old routine, delivering the papers half-asleep, looking forward to the homemade Orange Julius my Mom always has waiting for me when I get back from the route. I read the comics in the Gazette before I catch an extra hour of sleep till it's time for school. After being out in the snow, those blankets feel great.

Three weeks ago, another paper boy disappeared, this time right here in Crowell, and you remember how the neighbors searched the same as in Granite Falls, and his picture was in the Gazette, and the parents offered a reward, but they didn't find him, only his sack of papers stuffed behind some bushes like the last time. The police said it looked like the same M.O. That's fancy police talk for "pattern." But heck, you don't have to go to police school to figure out that both kids disappeared the same way. And one kid might have run away, but not two of them, leastways not in the snow.

Oh, yeah, that's something I forgot to mention. Both mornings when the kids disappeared, it was snowing real hard, so there weren't any tracks except for the neighbors searching. No kid runs away in a blizzard, I'll tell you. The rest of us paper boys nearly went on what my Dad calls a strike. Actually it was our parents wanted us to quit delivering. They demanded police protection for us, but the police said we were overreacting, we shouldn't panic, and anyway there weren't enough police to protect us all. The Gazette said if we stopped delivering, the paper would go out of business. They asked our parents to keep a close watch on us, and they made us sign a contract agreeing to give up seventy-five cents a month, so the paper could insure us in case something happened to us on the route.

Well, that made my Dad twice as mad. He told me to quit, and I almost did, but I couldn't stop thinking of all the money I like to spend on Saturdays. My Dad says I was born a capitalist and I'll probably grow up to vote Republican, whatever that means, but I told him I won a ribbon last year on the sixth-grade track team, and I could run faster than any pervert, I bet. Well, he just laughed and shook his head and told me he'd go out with me every morning, but my Mom looked like she was going to cry. I guess Moms are like that, always worrying. Besides, I said, I only have to worry if it's snowing. That's the only time the kids disappeared. My Dad said that made sense, but all my Mom said was "We'll see" which is always bad news, like if you ask for a friend to stay overnight and your Mom says "We'll see," you figure she means "no".

But she didn't. The next morning, my Dad went with me on the route, and it was one of those sharp cold times when your boots squeak on the snow and the air's so clean you can hear a car start up three blocks away. I knew for sure I'd hear any pervert if he tried sneaking up on me, and anyway my Dad was with me, and all the other carriers had it as easy as I did. Still, every morning I got up praying it wasn't snowing, and lots of times it had snowed in the night but stopped, and when I saw the house across from ours clear in the streetlight, I felt like somebody had taken a rope from around my chest.

So we went on like that, getting up at five-thirty and doing the papers, and once my Dad got the flu, so my Mom went with me. You can believe it, she was nervous, more than me I guess. You should have seen us rushing to finish the route all the time we were looking over our shoulders. Mr. Carrigan was yelling at his wife like always, and Mr. Blanchard was crying for his own wife, and Mr. Lang was drinking beer when he opened his door and scared me, getting his paper. I almost wet my pants, no fooling. He asked if I wanted to step in and get warm, but I backed off, saying, "No, Mr. Lang, no, thank you," holding up my hands and shaking my head. I forgot about his stairs behind me. I bet I'd have broken my arm even sooner than now if he'd shoveled them. But the snow made them soft, and when I tumbled to the bottom, I landed in a drift. He tried to help me, but I jumped up and ran away.

Then last Sunday I woke up, and even before I looked out, I knew from the shriek of the wind that it was snowing. My heart felt hard and small. I almost couldn't move. I tasted this sour stuff from my stomach. I couldn't see the house across the street. The snow was flying so thick and strong I couldn't even see the maple tree in our front yard. As warm as I'd been in bed, I shivered like I was outside and the wind was stinging through my pajamas. I didn't want to go, but I knew that'd be all the excuse my Mom'd need to make me quit, so I forced myself. I dressed real quick, long under-wear and the rest, and put on my down-filled coat that almost doesn't fit me anymore and my mitts and ski mask, and it wasn't just my Mom or Dad who went with me that time, but both of them, and I could tell they felt as scared as I was.