One Saturday morning when I was two years old, I woke up hungrier than I'd ever been.

Down the hall I could hear my parents snoring off their hangover, they wouldn't be up until

past noon, at least.

I vaguely remember climbing over my half-collapsed baby gate and waddling down the hallway to the

kitchen.

I twisted the little black knobs on the stove, which is like my parents did, but no scramble

eggs appeared.

Instead, the stove made a mean hissing noise, and the kitchen filled with a nasty smell that

I didn't like at all.

The smell kept getting worse and worse, and I had a feeling that I'd get into the worst

trouble of my life if my parents found out, and went back to my room to play with my

blocks, hoping that the problem would just magically go away.

Five minutes later, there was a loud knock on the door.

My parents grumbled all those four-letter words that they told me never to say, and then

I heard my mother sniffing.

She said the house smelled like gas, whatever that meant.

My father staggered out of the bedroom with his jeans and a shirt half-on, then yulped

when he reached the kitchen.

Windows and doors flew open, I crept downstairs to see what was going on.

How'd you know, my father said, Bethelsey, to the shadowy figure on our front doorstop.

No!

The kindly female voice sounded confused.

...