I made my way along a narrow passage lined with faded photographs of strangers who had won Golden Book Awards. I found a scrapbook among the matchbooks on the back porch. It had been placed there under lock and key. I opened it and read the directions which were printed in Japanese with a fuzzy font. Nip it in the bud was the only thing I could make out. I rechecked the parts order just to be sure. The twins burst through the door of the trailer and began scrambling eggs with a marionette, mumbling tales about their grandfather, a WWII vet. It was obvious they were being stoic about something enormous left on the stoop with a note pinned to its trousers. A bright yellow Tonka dump truck took a dive. The twins panicked. A chef's torso stared out of the sleeper no doubt awaiting a curtain call. Bodies in motion in the weatherbeaten clapboards slipping past glued themselves to screens with Elmer's for the latest culinary treat. The lights dimmed. A disembodied voice informed us of the location of the emergency exits.
