"If you can't find it," Grandmother said, a twinkle in her eye. "You'll have to pay a visit to the Merchant of Lost Things." I stared at her, open-mouthed. "But why would he steal my phone?" I asked. "Because he can," she said. "Go on. You'll find him up Old Hill." She pointed out the window. "He'll be sitting on one of the branches of the Old Oak Tree." She reached into the pocket of her apron. "You'll need to give him this," she flicked something at me. I caught it. It was a silver coin. I thanked her, put the coin in my pocket, pulled on my boots, grabbed my coat and headed up the door. "And," Grandmother said. "Be nice. The Merchant of Lost Things does not respond well to bad manners." I paused at the door and said, "Yes, Gran." The trek up the hill was hard. I hadn't left the house in days. It occurred to me, halfway up, that perhaps it was a ruse, on Grandmother's part, to get me out of the house.
...
