The idea of getting jumped by Littles was laughable. We didn’t jump Amazons, we ran from them. Half a dozen Littles could dog pile onto an Amazon and the giant might (might) fall over in a best case of scenario. But there’d be nothing to stop them from picking themselves back up, dusting themselves off and starting all over again; the second time with a fresh round of spankings.
Bert led us crouching through the front entrance of Misty Brook. Nothing was on. The front trailers had all their lights off and the blinds drawn. It was still. Too still. No voices. No music or T.V. sounds. I didn’t talk. Neither did Bruce or Bert.
We just looked as we creeped along the main road of this trailer park ghost town. Looking for signs of an adoption raid. No trailers were moved. No doors ripped open.