#36
It was only a matter of time.
Gerald made himself as small as possible in the corner. The witch was trying to fatten him up for sure. He’d read all about that in a book.
Five times a day or more, she gave him a plastic spoon heaped high with peanut butter. He ate the peanut butter greedily and threw the spoon into the corner of the witch’s cage, which was probably an old dog crate, from the smell of things.
He didn’t mean to get himself in this predicament. He was a growing boy after all. And the ice cream truck called to him, its chimes tinkling “Camptown Races” in the same key his grandfather used to sing it in. Gerald didn’t mean to answer the call. But here he was, in the clutches of a ruthless, murdering witch who was just waiting for him to get fat on peanut butter so she could gobble him up.
“Do you really believe all that?” the witch asked.
“Believe what?”
“That I’m trying to fatten you up so I can eat you?”
“How do you know about that?”
“You were narrating again, Gerald. By the way, for the hundredth time, I’m not a witch. I’m your mother. Now get out of the dog crate and get ready for school.”
