"Strange kid..." he muttered as he carried it into the house.

Charlie met the gaze of his mother who regarded him critically. "Charlie," she said, "what have I told you about wearing that T-shirt?" 

Charlie picked at his shirt with his fingers. It was bright green and had a replica of Salamanderman on it. Salamanderman was Charlie's favorite superhero and a regular feature of children's breakfast time TV. He had suction pads on his feet and he could catch criminals with his tongue. "I told you to put that T-shirt in the laundry basket," said his mother, "it's filthy!"

Charlie supposed that she must mean the baked bean stains just beneath Salamanerman's arm. Or perhaps she meant the oil stains beside Salamanderman's head—he had got those while fixing his bike a couple of days ago.

"Charlie," she said, "don't just stand there staring at yourself. Do something useful. Take this high chair inside. Your sister can't carry this on her own, you know."

Charlie took the bright, pink contraption from her. He didn't suppose that his sister could carry it on her own since she was only fifteen months old. In fact, there wasn't much she could do except toddle about. As Charlie carried the high chair into the house, a thought occurred to him.

"Can I go out on my bike?" he asked.

"No!" said his mother, wrestling a disjointed lamp that fell upon her neck like a vampire. "Oh, alright! It'll get you out of the way. Where is your father?"

"Here I am, lovey!" Mr. Goodfellow bound from the doorway—a gangly, middle-aged, balding man in a jogging suit. "Don't try to lift that, deary!" He ran to his wife's aid. "You'll give yourself a hernia or a slipped disc. Think of the medical bills!" Then, noticing Charlie wheeling his bike across the lawn, he frowned. "Where are you going?"

"For a ride," said Charlie. "Mom said that I could."

Mr. Goodfellow glanced anxiously back at his wife who was now being attacked by a python-like garden hose. "OK," he said, "but wear your bicycle helmet, don't be away too long, and don't talk to strangers." His father glanced about suspiciously. "We don't know this neighborhood yet... You don't know what kind of weirdo's might be about."

Charlie rolled his eyes.

"And don't roll your eyes!" said Mr. Goodfellow as he disentangled his wife. "It happens all the time, y' know—kids get taken and then—"

His words trailed off. Charlie couldn't hear him anymore. He had strapped on his bicycle helmet and was riding away. He changed through the gears.