Dr. Brewer motioned for them to come upstairs, then he stepped into the hallway.

"I thought he was going to yell at us," Casey whispered to Margaret as he followed her up the steps.

"I just went down to get my shirt," Casey said, his voice trembling.

"Very disappointed," their father repeated.

Finally, he said, "You're okay?"

"It grabbed Casey!" Margaret told him.

"We didn't touch anything. Really!" Casey exclaimed.

"Sorry, Dad."

"Dad -- the plants!" Margaret cried.

"Yeah," they said in unison, both of them nodding.

"Sorry," Margaret said. "We knew we shouldn't --"

He stared down at them, his eyes cold and angry, unblinking. He was silent.

They stared up at him expectantly, waiting for him to move, to unball his fists, to relax his hard expression, to speak. But he glared down at them for the longest time.

"I'm very disappointed in you both," Dr. Brewer said in a low, flat voice, cool but not angry.

Margaret realized she was still holding Casey's hand. She let go of it and reached for the banister.

His eyes went from one to the other, as if studying them, as if seeing them for the first time. His expression was totally flat, almost robotlike, revealing no emotion at all.

This wasn't like him. Not at all. He was always a very direct person, Margaret thought. If he was angry, he said he was angry. If he was upset, he'd tell them he was upset.

Was their dad trying to make them feel uncomfortable? she wondered. If so, he was doing a good job of it.

"I'll explain them to you some day," he said flatly, still staring at the two of them.

"He sure yelled at us the last time we started into the basement," Casey replied.

"That's not Dad's style," Margaret whispered back.

"They're -- so weird," Casey said.

"It looks very interesting," Margaret said, struggling to say the right thing.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Brewer asked.

They followed their father into the kitchen. He motioned for them to sit down at the white Formica table, then dropped into a chair across from them.

"Dad, what's with those plants?" Casey asked.

Margaret and Casey glanced at each other. Finally, Margaret said, "We won't do it again."

So why was he acting so strange, so silent, so… cold?

"But can't you take us down there and tell us what you're doing?" Casey asked. He still hadn't put the T-shirt on. He was holding it in a ball between his hands on the kitchen table.

Casey raised his eyes to Margaret and shrugged. Their father reappeared carrying the lab coat he had tossed over the front banister.

He nodded. "I guess." He pulled on the lab coat over his head.

"Some day," their father said. He returned the chair to all four legs and then stood up. "We'll do it soon, okay?" He raised his arms above his head and stretched. "I've got to get back to work." He disappeared into the front hallway.

"Yeah. We'd really like to understand it," Margaret added enthusiastically.

"I asked you not to go in the basement," he said quietly, crossing his legs and leaning back so that the kitchen chair tilted back on two legs. "I thought I made it clear."

"Mom got off okay?" Margaret asked.

"I guess he's not going to ground us or anything for going down there," Margaret said, leaning against the table and resting her chin in her hands.

"I hope Aunt Eleanor is okay," Margaret said.

Dr. Brewer's reply was muffled as he adjusted the lab coat and straightened the collar. "Later," he said. He disappeared into the hallway. They heard him shut the basement door behind him.

"I guess," Casey said. "He sure is acting… weird."

"I can't believe that plant grabbed me," Casey said thoughtfully, not budging.

"Maybe he's upset because Mom is gone," Margaret said. She sat up and gave Casey a push. "Come on. Get up. I've got work to do."

She went up to her room, thinking about how she missed her mother already. Then the scene in the basement with Casey trying to pull himself free of the enormous, twining plant tendrils played once again through her mind.

"You don't have to push," Casey griped, but he climbed to his feet and stepped out of Margaret's way. "I'm going to have bad dreams tonight," he said glumly.

"Just don't think about the basement," Margaret advised. That's really lame advice, she told herself. But what else could she say?

At least we're not being punished for going down there, she thought.

But the words on the page blurred as the moaning, breathing plants kept creeping back into her thoughts.

The next Saturday afternoon, Margaret was up in her room, lying on top of the bed, talking to her mom on the phone. "I'm really sorry about Aunt Eleanor," she said, twisting the white phone cord around her wrist.

She felt better until the next morning when she awoke early and went downstairs to make some breakfast. To her surprise, her father was already at work, the basement door was shut tight, and a lock had been installed on the door.

With a shudder, she grabbed her textbook and threw herself onto her stomach on the bed, prepared to read.

And at least Dad has promised to take us downstairs with him soon and explain to us what he's working on down there.

At least Dad didn't yell and frighten us this time.

That thought made Margaret feel a lot better.

"The surgery didn't go as well as expected," her mother said, sounding very tired. "The doctors say she may have to have more surgery. But they have to build up her strength first."

"He doesn't even grunt to us!" Margaret complained. She held her hand over her ear to drown out the chattering birds. "He hardly says a word."

Mrs. Brewer laughed. "Don't tell me you actually miss me!"

"I guess this means you won't be coming home real soon," Margaret said sadly.

"Well… yes," Margaret admitted. She raised her eyes to the bedroom window. Two sparrows had landed outside on the window ledge and were chattering excitedly, distracting Margaret, making it hard to hear her mother over the crackling line from Tucson.

"How's your father doing?" Mrs. Brewer asked. "I spoke to him last night, but he only grunted."

"Your father's experiments are very important to him," her mother said.

"More important than we are?" Margaret cried. She hated the whiny tone in her voice. She wished she hadn't started complaining about her dad over the phone. Her mother had enough to worry about at the hospital. Margaret knew she shouldn't make her feel even worse.

"He's working really hard," Mrs. Brewer replied. In the background, Margaret could hear some kind of loudspeaker announcement. Her mother was calling from a pay phone at the hospital.

"He never comes out of the basement," Margaret complained, a little more bitterly than she had intended.

"I'm sorry," Margaret said quickly. She decided to change the subject. "He's wearing a baseball cap all of a sudden."

"No, Mom," Margaret replied. "Dad. He's wearing a Dodgers cap. He never takes it off."

"Really?" Mrs. Brewer sounded very surprised.

"Who? Casey?"

Margaret stared up at the ceiling, watching shadows from trees in the front yard move back and forth. The sparrows had flown away, leaving silence behind.

Margaret laughed. "We told him he looks really dorky in it, but he refuses to take it off."

She could hear her mother sigh impatiently. "Margaret, I'm trying to explain to you. You're old enough to understand."

"Your dad has a lot to prove," Mrs. Brewer said. "To himself, and to others. I think he's working so hard because he wants to prove to Mr. Martinez and the others at the university that they were wrong to fire him. He wants to show them that they made a big mistake."

"But we used to see him more before he was home all the time!" Margaret complained.

Mrs. Brewer laughed, too. "Uh-oh. I'm being called," she said. "Got to run. Take care, dear. I'll try to call back later."

A click, and she was gone.

Poor Mom, Margaret thought.

She's so worried about her sister, and I had to go and complain about Dad.

Maybe I'll give Diane a call, Margaret thought. She reached for the phone, then realized she was hungry. Lunch first, she decided. Then Diane.

Why did I do that?

She brushed her dark hair quickly, shaking her head at the mirror over her dressing table, then hurried downstairs.

She sat up, listening to the silence. Casey was over at a friend's. Her dad was no doubt working in the basement, the door carefully locked behind him.

To her surprise, her dad was in the kitchen. He was huddled over the sink, his back to her.

Dr. Brewer appeared to be eating something. With one hand, he was holding a bag on the counter beside the sink. As Margaret watched in surprise, he dipped his hand into the bag, pulled out a big handful of something, and shoved it into his mouth.

She started to call out to him, but stopped. What was he doing?

Curious, she pressed against the wall, gazing at him through the doorway to the kitchen.

Margaret watched him chew hungrily, noisily, then pull out another handful from the bag and eat it greedily.

When she was sure that he had gone downstairs, Margaret walked eagerly into the kitchen. She had to know what her father had been eating so greedily, so hungrily.

What on earth is he eating? she wondered. He never eats with Casey and me. He always says he isn't hungry. But he sure is hungry now! He acts as if he's starving!

The basement door closed behind him. She heard him carefully lock it.

She watched from the doorway as Dr. Brewer continued to grab handful after handful from the bag, gulping down his solitary meal. After a while, he crinkled up the bag and tossed it into the trash can under the sink. Then he wiped his hands off on the sides of his white lab coat.

Margaret quickly backed away from the door, tiptoed through the hall and ducked into the living room. She held her breath as her father came into the hall, clearing his throat loudly.

She pulled open the sink cabinet, reached into the trash, and pulled out the crinkled-up bag.

Her father, she saw, had been devouring plant food.

Then she gasped aloud as her eyes ran over the label.