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The kind that would put you in the history books forever.

DADDY IS SO SILLY

The building was perfect.

Rusted, once-white metal beams held up a peaked ceiling way above. There were holes in that ceiling. Through them Chelsea could see little patches of early-morning sky, tiny stars still flickering their fading light. She could see the heavens. It was such a long building—her Mickey Mouse watch said it took her thirty seconds to run from one end of the trash-strewn floor to the other. On one side of the building, a second deck and even a third deck looked out over a long, open, central area. There was lots of graffiti. Some naughty words, too. If anyone else came in to paint bad words, Chelsea would have Mr. Jenkins take care of them.

They’d found a big entrance in the back. Mr. Jenkins called it a loading dock. Up above was a metal roll-up door, stuck three-quarters of the way open. Mr. Jenkins said it worked exactly like a roll of paper towels, that people used to just pull it down, but it was rusty and broken. Grafitti-covered plywood blocked the rest of the entrance. Mr. Jenkins had to drive the Winnebago right into the plywood, and the whole wall fell in like one of those drawbridges like in the princess stories. He drove over it, cracking the wood in many places, but then he and Daddy and Old Sam Collins and Mr. Korves were able to put it back up again.

The Winnebago was inside, safely out of sight. Which was good, because right about the time they put that plywood back, Chelsea sensed that the dollies were almost ready to come out and play.

Chelsea made Mr. Jenkins put all the dolly daddies side by side in front of the Winnebago. The rising sun was already spreading a little light into the building through the small holes in the roof, but she wanted the daddies in the headlights so she could see everything. Their heads were closest to the Winnebago, all their tootsies pointed away. Kind of looked like nap time at summer camp.

Mr. Jenkins tied them up.

He tied up Daddy, Mr. LaFrinere, Mr. Gaines, Old Sam Collins and Danny Korves.

Mommy took one of Mr. Jenkins’s knives and cut off their clothes.

They all s.h.i.+vered a lot. A little bit of snow had blown into the building, fine white powder drifted up against fallen boards and broken bricks. Every now and then, a gust of wind found a way through the walls and the boarded-up windows, swirling the powder in slow arcs.

Then the dolly daddies all started screaming. That was annoying. Chelsea told Mommy to stuff their mouths with some of the cut-up clothing. That helped.

Chelsea sat down and watched.

They were all tied up, but they still kicked and thrashed around. Everyone except Daddy. Daddy was looking at Chelsea. His eyes seemed very sad. He was trying to say something. He wasn’t screaming like the others, even though the dollies on his arm were starting to bounce in and out.

Chelsea stood and walked over to him. She pulled the piece of T-s.h.i.+rt out of his mouth.

“Chelsea, honey,” Daddy said. It was hard to understand his words because he was breathing so hard. “Please, baby girl, make . . . make them stop.”

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