Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"There is no science project," Roy admitted.

"And the hamburger meat that your mother gave you?"

"A snack for the owls."

"Continue," Mr. Eberhardt said.

"It's a long story, Dad."

"I've got nothing but time."

"All right," Roy said. In some ways, he thought wearily, a spanking might be easier.

"See, there's this boy," he began, "about the same age as me…"

Roy told his father everything-well, almost everything. He didn't mention that the snakes distributed by Beatrice Leep's stepbrother were highly poisonous and that the boy had actually taped their mouths shut. Such details might have alarmed Mr. Eberhardt more than the petty acts of vandalism.

Roy also chose not to reveal that Beatrice had nicknamed her stepbrother Mullet Fingers, just in case Roy's father felt legally obligated to report it to the police, or file it away in some government computer bank.

Otherwise, Roy told what he knew about the running boy. His father listened without interruption.

"Dad, he's really not a bad kid," Roy said when he finished. "All he's trying to do is save the owls."

Mr. Eberhardt remained silent for a few moments. He reopened the Sibley Guide and looked at the color drawings of the small birds.

"See, if the Mother Paula's people bulldoze that property, they'll bury all the dens," Roy said.

His father put the book aside and looked at Roy fondly, though with a trace of sadness.

"Roy, they own the property. They can do pretty much whatever they please."

"But-"

"They've probably got all the necessary paperwork and permits."

"They've got permits to bury owls?" Roy asked in disbelief.

"The owls will fly away. They'll find new dens somewhere else."

"What if they've got babies? How will the baby birds fly away?" Roy shot back angrily. "How, Dad?"

"I don't know," his father admitted.

"How would you and Mom like it," Roy pressed on, "if a bunch of strangers showed up one day with bulldozers to flatten this house? And all they had to say was 'Don't worry, Mr. and Mrs. Eberhardt, it's no big deal. Just pack up and move to another place.' How would you feel about that?"

Roy's father stood up slowly, as if the weight of a hundred bricks were on his shoulders.

"Let's go for a walk," he said.

It was a calm cloudless night, and a pale sliver of moon peeked over the rooftops. Insects as thick as confetti swirled around the cowls of the streetlights. Toward the end of the block, two cats could be heard yowling at each other.

Roy's father walked with his chin slightly downward, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"You're growing up fast," he remarked, catching Roy by surprise.

"Dad, I'm the third-shortest kid in my homeroom."

"That's not what I meant."

As they went along, Roy hopped from crack to crack on the sidewalk. They talked about comfortable topics-school, sports, sports in school-until Roy nudged the conversation back toward the delicate subject of Mullet Fingers. He needed to know where his father stood.

"You remember that day last summer we floated the Madison canyon?"

"Sure," said his father, "in inner tubes."

"Right," Roy said. "And remember we counted five great horned owls in one cottonwood? Five!"

"Yes, I remember."

"And you tried to take a picture but the camera fell in the river?"

"Not exactly. I dropped it in the river," Roy's father recalled sheepishly.

"Hey, it was a cheapo disposable."

"Yeah, but it would've been a great snapshot. Five in the same tree."

"Yeah," said Roy. "That was pretty amazing."

The owl story did the trick. His father took the cue.

"This boy you told me about-you really don't know his name?"

"He won't tell me. Neither will Beatrice," Roy said. "That's the honest truth."

"He didn't take his stepfather's last name?"

"Leep? No, not according to Beatrice."

"And you say he doesn't attend school."

Roy's spirits fell. It sounded as if his father intended to report Mullet Fingers for truancy.

"What worries me," Mr. Eberhardt said, "is the family situation. It doesn't sound too good."

"No, it's not," Roy conceded. "That's why he doesn't live at home anymore."

"Aren't there any relatives who can take care of him?"

"He feels safe where he is," Roy said.

"You're sure about that?"

"Dad, please don't turn him in. Please."

"How can I, if I don't even know where to find him?" Roy's father gave him a wink. "But I'll tell you what I am going to do: I'm going to spend some time thinking seriously about all this. You should, too."

"Okay," said Roy. How could he possibly think of anything else? Even his battle with Dana Matherson seemed like a fuzzy, long-ago dream.

"We'd better head home," his father said. "It's getting late and you've had a long day."

"A real long day," Roy agreed.

But after he got into bed, he couldn't fall asleep. His body was exhausted but his mind was wide awake, buzzing with the day's turbulence. He decided to do some reading, and reached for a book titled A Land Remembered, which he'd checked out from school. It was the story of a family who lived in Florida back in the 1850s, when it was still a wilderness. Humans were scarce, and the swamps and woods teemed with wildlife-probably a pretty good time to be a burrowing owl, Roy mused.

An hour later, he was half-dozing when he heard a tap-tap on the bedroom door. It was his mother, slipping in to say good night. She took the book from his hands and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. Then she sat down on the bed and asked how he was feeling.

"Beat," Roy said.

Gently she snugged the covers up to his neck. Even though he was way too warm, Roy didn't object. It was a mom thing; she couldn't help herself.

"Honey," she said, "you know how much we love you."

Uh-oh, Roy thought. Here it comes.

"But what you did at the hospital tonight, letting that other boy use your name to get in the emergency ward-"

"It was my idea, Mom, not his."

"And I'm sure your heart was in the right place," she said, "but it was still a lie, technically speaking. Providing false information, or whatever. It's a serious matter, honey-"

"I know."

"-and it's just, well, your father and I don't want to see you get in trouble. Even for the sake of a friend."

Roy raised himself up on one elbow. "He would've run away before he'd give out his real name, and I couldn't let that happen. He was sick. He needed to see a doctor."

"I understand. Believe me, I do."

"They were asking him all kinds of nosy questions, Mom, and meanwhile he's about to keel over from the fever," Roy said. "Maybe what I did was wrong, but I'd do it all over again if I had to. I mean it."

Roy expected a mild rebuke, but his mother only smiled. Smoothing the blanket with both hands, she said, "Honey, sometimes you're going to be faced with situations where the line isn't clear between what's right and what's wrong. Your heart will tell you to do one thing, and your brain will tell you to do something different. In the end, all that's left is to look at both sides and go with your best judgment."

Well, thought Roy, that's sort of what I did.

"This boy," his mother said, "why wouldn't he give out his real name? And why did he run away from the hospital like that?"

Mullet Fingers had escaped through a window in the women's restroom, next door to the X-ray department. He left his torn green shirt dangling from the antenna of Officer David Delinko's patrol car, which was parked outside the emergency room.

"He probably ran," Roy said, "because he was afraid somebody would call his mom."

"So?"

"So, she doesn't want him anymore. She'll have him locked up at the juvenile hall."