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Chapter

1

So there I was, tied to an altar et sacrificed to the dark powers by a cult of evil Librarians

As youIt does funny things to the brain to be in such danger—in fact, it often makes a person pause and reflect upon his life If you’ve never faced such a situation, then you’ll simply have to take my word If, on the other hand, you have faced such a situation, then you are probably dead and aren’t likely to be reading this

Indeath ht, since I hadn’t grown up with them In fact, untilabout my parents: that they had a twisted sense of humor

Why do I say this? Well, you see, my parents named me Al In most cases, this would be short for Albert, which is a fine name In fact, you have probably known an Albert or two in your lifetime, and chances are that they were decent fellows If they weren’t, then it certainly wasn’t the name’s fault

My name isn’t Albert

Al also could be short for Alexander I wouldn’t have reat naal

My name isn’t Alexander

I’ht be short for Alfonso has a pleasant ring to it Alan would also be acceptable, as would have been Alfred—though I really don’t have an inclination toward butlery

My name is not Alfonso, Alan, or Alfred Nor is it Alejandro, Alton, Aldris, or Alonzo

My nadoht be irew up in the Hushlands—in the United States I didn’t know about Oculators or the like, though I did know about prisons

And that hy I figured that my parents must have had a twisted sense of humor Why else would they name their child after the most infamous prison in US history?

On my thirteenth birthday, I received a second confirmation that my parents were indeed cruel people That was the day when I unexpectedly received in the mail the only inheritance they left me

It was a bag of sand

I stood at the door, looking down at the package in e looked old—its string ties were frayed, and its brown paper packaging orn and faded Inside the package, I found a box containing a simple note

Alcatraz,

Happy thirteenth birthday!

Here is your inheritance, as promised

Love, Mom and Dad

Underneath the note, I found the bag of sand It was small, perhaps the size of a fist, and was filled with ordinary brown beach sand

Now, e was a joke You probably would have thought the sa, however, made me pause I set the box down, then s paper

One edge of the paper was covered ild scribbles—a little like those et the ink in a pen to flow On the front there riting It looked old and faded—alible in places—and yet it accurately spelled out ht months

Iht

Then I went inside my house and set the kitchen on fire

Noarned you that I wasn’t a good person Those who knehen I was young would never have believed that one day I would be known as a hero The word heroic just didn’t apply to me Nor did people use words like nice or even friendly to describe h I suspect that devious may have been more correct Destructive was another common one that I heard, but I didn’t care for it (It wasn’t actually all that accurate)

No, people never said good things about me Good people don’t burn down kitchens

Still holding the strange package, I wandered toward ht It was a very nice kitchen,hite wallpaper and lots of shiny chro it would immediately notice that thi

s was the kitchen of a person who took pride in their cooking skills

I set e on the table, then moved over to the kitchen stove If you’re a Hushlander, you would have thought I looked like a fairly normal American boy, dressed in loose jeans and a T-shirt I’ve been told I was a handsome kid—some even said that I had an “innocent face” I was not too tall, had dark brown hair, and was skilled at breaking things

Quite skilled

When I was very young, other kids called s—plates, cameras, chickens It seemed inevitable that whatever I picked up, I would end up dropping, cracking, or otherwiseenerally tried to do my best despite it

Just like I did this day Still thinking about the strange package, I filled a pot ater Next I got out a few packs of instant ra at the stove It was a fancy gas one with real flames My foster mother Joan wouldn’t settle for electric

So how easily I could break things This one simple curse seemed to dominate my entire life Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to fix dinner Perhaps I should simply have retreated to my rooo out because I orried about the things I ht break? Of course not

I reached out and turned on the gas burner

And, of course, the flaher than should have been possible I quickly tried to turn down the flarab the pot and take it off the stove But, of course, the handle broke off I stared at the broken handle for athe drapes on fire The fire gleefully began to devour the cloth

Well, sothe broken handle over ain, I feel I must remind you that I’e as I walked out into the den

There, I pulled out the brorapper, flattening it against the table with one hand and looking at the stales, with an old-fashioned airplane in the background behind her All of the stamps looked old—perhaps as old as I was I turned on the computer and checked a database of staht They had been printed thirteen years ago

Someone had taken quite a bit of effort to ed, addressed, and stamped over a decade earlier That, however, was ridiculous Hoould the sender have knohere I’d be living? During the last thirteen years, I’d gone through dozens of sets of foster parents Besides, my experience has been that the nue increases without warning or pattern (The postage people are, I’ard) There was no way soe it would cost to send a package in my day

I shookthe M key fro to stick the keys back on—they always fell off again anyway I got the fire extinguisher from the hall closet, then walked back into the kitchen, which was now quite thoroughly billoith suisher on the table, then picked up a broo my breath as I calmly knocked the tattered remnants of the drapes into the sink I turned on the water, then finally used the extinguisher to blast the burning wallpaper and cabinets, also putting out the stove

The so off, of course You see, I’d broken that previously All I’d needed to do was rest ainst its case for a second, and it had fallen apart