Fortune's Magic Farm

it up. It would cost an entire day’s wages to buy one half the size. The sea monster grunted again. “Oh, I’m sorry. Here.” She held it out. Should she stick the apple back up its nose?
To her amazement, the sea monster shook its head.
“Don’t you want it back?”
It shook its head again. Then, with a roar that vibrated Isabelle’s teeth, it turned and made its way back to the water. It hadn’t eaten her. It hadn’t flattened her. It had only sneezed on her. “THANK YOU!” she yelled, waving the apple.
It turned and nodded, its nose bouncing up and down. Then, it swam out of sight.
“Wow,” Isabelle whispered.
Other than being left on a doorstep, that was the most special thing that had ever happened to Isabelle. Even though slime coated her hair and face, and even though she had been scared half to death, she smiled. Gwen would never believe it. Wouldn’t Grandma Maxine be surprised? No one in Runny Cove had ever met a sea monster. No factory worker had ever been given an apple.
She checked to make certain that the water bottle was safe in one pocket and tucked the apple securely into another pocket. Then she climbed onto the driftwood pile and ran back toward the village, feeling extra, extra special.

Water sloshed against Isabelle’s boots as she ran down Boggy Lane. The cobblestone lane dipped into the lowest part of the village, so it was always flooded. As her hood bounced at the back of her neck, rain washed all the sea monster snot from her face and hair.
Old, battered boardinghouses lined Boggy Lane. Lights glowed from kitchen windows. Greasy odors wafted through cracks in the house boards, aggravating Isabelle’s hunger pains. She wondered if the apple would be edible after traveling inside a nose. She plucked it from her pocket and held it beneath a gushing rainspout. Bigger and shinier than any apple in the factory store, she could have eaten it right there, but then she’d have no proof of her adventure. Besides, something that wonderful had to be shared.
Boggy Lane took a sharp turn, then ended at Mama Lu’s Boardinghouse. A vacancy sign swayed in the window, pushed by the wind and rain. No one had moved to Runny Cove for as long as Isabelle could remember, but Mama Lu still insisted on advertising. Isabelle ran up the stone steps and threw herself against the front door, which swelled in particularly nasty weather and needed a good shove to open.
“Yer late!” Mama Lu hollered from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” Isabelle called, closing the door. Of course, she didn’t regret her trip to the beach, not one bit.
The entryway felt chilly, as usual. The sour smell of boiled cabbage hung in the air. A frying pan sat on the floor, collecting water that dripped from a seam in the wall. Isabelle slipped off her boots and placed them neatly at the end of the boot shelf. She removed her rain slicker and hung it on the rack next to the other slickers. She decided to leave the filled water bottle in her slicker’s pocket and get it after supper. The apple, however, was another matter. Mama Lu liked to snoop through pockets and while she’d have no interest in a bottle filled with seawater, if she found the apple she’d claim it for herself.
“This house belongs to me,” she often reminded her tenants. “So everything in it belongs to me, too.”
Isabelle tucked the apple into the waistband of her canvas pants. Her flannel shirt, a hand-me-down from another tenant, was four sizes too large, so it did a good job concealing the lump.
“Did ya check fer slugs?” Mama Lu bellowed. The boardinghouse’s proprietor despised slugs. In fact, she hated them so much that the mere act of seeing one drove her into a tizzy. Unfortunately, Runny Cove possessed more slugs than any other place on earth. The little gastropods bred in every damp nook and cranny the village had to offer. They gobbled up anything the villagers tried to grow, leaving trails of slime in their wake. If a slug wanted to move across town, it would attach itself to a boot or pant leg when a villager walked down the street, or drop from an eave to hitchhike on a hood or in someone’s hair. Mama Lu had decreed that anyone who brought a slug into her house would lose blanket privileges for a month. “Did ya check?”
In all her excitement, Isabelle had forgotten to check. “Yes, I checked,” she lied, quickly sliding her hands through her hair.
“I hate those slimy things,” Mama Lu complained from the kitchen. “I hate their quivery antennas and their squishy bodies.”
Isabelle entered the kitchen, where six tenants sat around a warped table, coughing and wheezing, sharing the same cold. Even though only two of the tenants were related by blood, everyone looked alike. In fact, most of Runny Cove’s villagers shared a similar appearance. Their skin, having never been exposed to the sun, was translucent, and their eyes were light blue. And every hair on every head was gray, even ten-year-old Isabelle’s hair. Some said that the dreary sky had fallen into their hair, but Isabelle’s grandmother said that everyone’s hair was gray because gray is the color of sadness.
In the boardinghouse, only Mama Lu looked different. She dyed her hair with an expensive paste that turned it as black as a beach rock. She had spending money, a luxury none of her tenants had. In exchange for most of their factory pay, the tenants got an uncomfortable twin bed, a cold breakfast, and a lukewarm supper.
Isabelle reached for a tray. “Sit down,” Mama Lu ordered. “Ya can feed yer precious granny when yer done.”
Isabelle squeezed in between Bert and Boris, the elderly toothless twins who lived in the basement. “Hello, Isabelle,” Bert whispered.
“Hello, Isabelle,” Boris whispered.
“Hello.” She liked to sit between the twins because they didn’t smell too bad, not like Mr. Limewig,