STUCK: IT'S ABOUT TO GET VERY WEIRD

I stop breathing and don't move a muscle.

I don't know what to do now. My mind races. A monster? Bug-Crunchers? A dog? A bear? Suddenly I feel something cold and hard, like steel, closing around my neck from behind. I lunge forward and flip over to get away, but now I'm pinned to the ground. There's a steel hoop the size of my neck pushed into my throat, holding me on the ground, and it's attached to a rod that someone is pushing on, standing over me, holding me down.

"Keep fighting and it's lights out Bug freak!" someone shouts.

The voice is that of a little boy. I have tears in my eyes from the pain of the bar on my neck, so I can't quite see who it is. It looks like a little kid but it must be the strongest kid I ever met, and I can't get out. Finally I stop struggling, because I'm out of breath and having trouble getting air.

"Caaan't...breathe" I gasp.

"Exactly. You want out, you better run when I let you go. I know you're alone, and I ain't afraid to use this bar to relocate your brain, your brain."

"Not...Bug...Cruncher" I say, barely able to speak.

The kid stops pushing and slowly lifts the bar off my neck and backs up, holding it with both hands like a sword in front of himself. I sit up and try to catch my breath, rubbing my throat.

"Why...why did you attack me? Who are you?" I choke.

"You're not acting like a Bug-Eater, just not a Bug-Eater, huh." He says.

I finally wipe my eyes and get a look at him. He's small and wiry like my sister. I bet he's only about seven or eight years old. He has curly brown hair, with an old set of ski goggles pushed up on his forehead, and he's filthy. His tan army pants are covered in dirt and stains, and his face is just as dirty. He's got no shirt on and he's skinny, but I can see muscles in his arms as he points the iron bar at me. He clearly doesn't get much to eat, but he also looks like he could handle himself, even against an adult. The expression in his dark brown eyes is changing from angry to puzzled.

"Where in the world did you come from, where in the world?" He demands, not letting the bar down.

"I came from the past, in a machine." I say, realizing as I say it that it must sound crazy. "The Bug-Crunchers are messing up the world and I came to try stop it."

"First of all...AS IF!" The kid blurts. "Try another story, another story! Second, too late saving the world, too late. It's done. Too late mate, look around, look around, just around."

"Who are you?" I ask. "What year is it? Where are we?"

"What's with all the questions? What are you, a stalker? You dirty little stalker!"

This is one funny little kid.

"Okay, I'll play along." He says, finally letting his weapon down, and leaning on it with one arm.

"Ben's my name, it's the year 2033, and we're in Aspen City, 20-33. Now how about you start telling me where you come from, history girl. Start telling!"

My heart sinks. Aspen City, my hometown, in 20 years. The future doesn't look very bright from here.

"Look, I wish I could prove to you where I'm from, but I can't." I say as I adjust my sitting position and pull off the backpack.

Ben sees the bag and jumps forward. "What's in the bag? Got any food? You got food? Big food? Got some? Got some?" Ben has completely forgotten his bar and is leaning in to try look in my bag.

"I dunno, I'll look." I say, telling the truth. Tom packed it but I didn't really see what he put in. I open it up and I'm rummaging around when I feel Ben's head right beside mine. He's practically sticking his head in the bag, looking for food.

"Whoa, easy buddy!" I say, pushing him back. "You tried to choke me and now you want my lunch? I don't think so."

Ben steps back, looking kind of hurt. "Sorry, no lunch for days, I'm sooo hungry. No lunch. Just none today." He is standing there with his steel bar hanging down by his side and he doesn't look tough anymore at all. He looks hungry.

"Please? Just please?" he asks.

"Okay, just relax and I'll have a look."

I dig around, and at the bottom, I find a few chocolate bars and drink boxes. Thank goodness for Tom. This will help me win over this strange little kid, because even though he tried to disconnect my head from my shoulders, maybe he's ok; maybe this world is the kind of place that teaches you to choke first and ask questions later.

I pull out an Oh-Henry bar and hand it to him and he attacks it. He runs and crouches down beside a big block of cement. He looks like some kind of monkey in a zoo. He bites off chunks without even taking off the wrapper, chewing and spitting out the wrapper pieces as he goes. I can see that more wrapper is disappearing than getting spit out, but he doesn't seem to care. When he's almost done I hand him a drink box.

"The straw is on the side of the-" I start, but Ben has already torn the corner of the box off with his teeth and is sucking the juice down through the jagged hole. When the box is completely sucked flat, he rips it open and licks the juice left over in the corners. Then he stops suddenly, sits perfectly still, and cocks his head to one side, like a deer listening in the forest. He stays like that for at least ten seconds, and then he gets a really serious look on his face.

"We have to go. They'll be coming soon. It's getting late. They like late. They really do. I don't like late. I really don't."

With that he starts half running, half sneaking, keeping hunched over like he's playing hide and seek. Every once in a while he stands up and peeks over the rubble and then ducks down again.

Idon't know who "they" are but I can hear strange howling noises in thedistance, and Ben suddenly looks really scared, and whatever he's scared of, Iprobably should be, too. Because thehowling is getting closer.