I looked at Max. He looked back at me sheepishly. He's done something, I thought, I just know it.
I took a look out the window: Nope, nothing there. Frankly, I'd been expecting another mob of recent: Angry Wookies, maybe. But no, my garden looks quiet. Not that creepy almost-too-quiet they have in films, but a normal quiet, with the occasional noise of no particular interest, and only a few zombies in the distance.
"What've you done?"
Max continued to look sheepish. Maybe, I hoped, it would something anti-climatic, like that time he spent a week worrying he would die because he picked a peanut out of his teeth after he peed, but before he washed his hands.
"You've done something, I can tell."
After the recent Smurf debacle, I hadn't really been happy leaving Max alone. But yesterday, he escaped on the train to the highway. After some questioning, I found out he'd stolen an ice-cream truck that had been abandoned in the pileup. Then, filling it with vegetables, he had raised the hopes of local children. And, as they gave him money for a refreshing, icy beverage to cool them down, he'd thrown celery at them and sped off.
Max, while usually well-meaning, had a very cruel streak...