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Ian Rider discovers the problem on a Tuesday.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the light.
The kitchen was quiet—too quiet, really. The sort of quiet that made every adult who had ever been responsible for a toddler instantly suspicious. Ian paused in the doorway, mug of coffee halfway to his mouth, eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.
Alex was nowhere on the floor.
That was the first warning sign.
The boy had been in the kitchen less than thirty seconds ago. Ian had turned his back to rinse out a mug.
Thirty seconds. Perhaps forty, at most.
Plenty of time for a toddler to vanish.
Ian set the coffee down slowly.
“Alex?” he called.
No answer.
That was the second warning sign.
Alex Rider was two years old, small for his age but wiry, with a halo of messy blonde hair and enormous brown eyes that were usually either curious or deeply, deeply mischievous.
Silence from Alex almost always meant something had gone terribly wrong.
Ian moved into the kitchen.
The cupboards were closed.
The fridge was shut.
The pantry door was—
Ian stopped moving.
“Alex.”
The voice came out flat, controlled, and just barely holding together.
Because Alex Rider was sitting on top of the refrigerator.
Not near the refrigerator.
Not climbing it.
Sitting on top of it.
The child was perched cross-legged, with the calm dignity of a tiny monk, one sock missing, holding a wooden spoon as if it were a royal sceptre. From his vantage point, he was surveying the kitchen with clear approval.
“Hi!” Alex said brightly.
Ian stared at him.
The refrigerator was nearly two metres tall.
There were no chairs nearby. No stools. No ladders.
Ian knew this because he had moved them earlier. Very deliberately.
“Alex,” Ian says slowly, carefully, “how did you get on top of the refrigerator?”
Alex grins.
“Up!”
Ian is beginning to suspect his nephew is going to be very good at getting into places he shouldn’t.
“Yes,” Ian said slowly. “I can see that.”
The toddler waved the spoon in a vague, celebratory arc.
“Up!”
Ian rubbed a hand over his face.
When he looked again, Alex was leaning forward slightly, peering down like an explorer examining a newly discovered canyon.
“You’re going to come down now,” Ian said.
Alex shook his head with alarming conviction.
“No.”
“Alex.”
“No!”
The spoon was now pointed at Ian in firm defiance.
Ian took a breath. This, he reminded himself, was manageable.
Toddlers climbed things. It happened.
The real question was how.
Because the kitchen counters had been clear. There was nothing to climb.
Ian crossed the room and stood beside the refrigerator, hands hovering uncertainly.
“Alex,” he said. “Lean forward.”
Alex considered this.
Then he scooted slightly farther away from the edge.
Ian closed his eyes briefly.
“Right.”
Eventually, with a careful maneuver that involved lifting Alex down while the child giggled as if the situation were extremely entertaining, Ian got him safely back on the ground.
Crisis resolved.
Or so Ian thought.
The second incident happened three days later.
Ian was halfway up the stairs when he heard a faint voice from somewhere above.
“Hi!”
Ian froze.
That voice was not at toddler height.
Slowly, Ian looked up.
Alex was sitting on the banister.
Not next to the banister.
On it.
Perfectly balanced halfway up the staircase like some kind of tiny, reckless gargoyle. One hand gripped the wooden rail. The other held a stuffed rabbit. His feet dangled cheerfully over open space.
Ian felt several years leave his life expectancy.
“Alex,” he said very calmly.
“Hi!”
“How,” Ian asked slowly, “did you get up there?”
Alex kicked his legs.
“Up!”
Ian gritted his teeth.
“Yes. Clearly.”
The banister was narrow—far too narrow for a toddler to climb onto without assistance.
And yet here Alex was.
Perched. Stable. Grinning.
Ian moved closer.
Alex immediately scooted higher along the rail.
“Stay,” Ian said firmly.
Alex beamed.
“Stay!”
This, Ian thought grimly, was not encouraging.
It took another careful retrieval operation to remove Alex from the banister without either of them falling down the stairs.
Once again, Ian surveyed the area.
No chairs. No stools. Nothing that could explain it.
He checked the hallway. The ladder that had previously lived in the hallway cupboard was still hidden in the garage.
Ian had moved it personally.
He had done so after the refrigerator incident.
And yet somehow, Alex kept ending up in high places.
Ian narrowed his eyes at the child.
Alex stared back with the serene innocence of someone who had absolutely done something suspicious.
“Alex,” Ian said.
“Yes?”
“Do you like being up high?”
Alex nodded vigorously.
“High!”
Ian sighed.
This, he suspected, was only the beginning.
It escalated rapidly.
A week later, Jack found Alex sitting on top of the wardrobe.
Ian returned home from a meeting to discover the boy perched on the highest branch of the tree in the garden.
One morning, he walked into the living room and found Alex lying on top of the bookshelf like a small, satisfied cat.
Ian stood there for a long moment.
The bookshelf was over two metres tall.
There were no objects nearby. No ladders. Nothing.
“How?” Ian demanded.
Alex kicked his feet happily.
“Up!”
Ian considered the possibility that his nephew might be some sort of tiny climbing prodigy.
Then he considered the possibility that Alex was actively trying to shorten his lifespan.
Both seemed equally plausible.
The ladders were the final straw.
Ian hid them all.
Every. Single. One.
The step ladder went into the locked garage. The folding ladder vanished into the shed. Even the kitchen stool disappeared into the boot of Ian’s car.
There would be no more climbing.
Problem solved.
Or so Ian thought.
The next morning was suspiciously quiet.
Ian should have known immediately that this was a bad sign. Silence in a house containing a toddler was rarely a positive development.
“Alex?” Ian called.
No answer.
Ian walked into the living room.
The room was empty.
He checked the kitchen.
Nothing.
“Alex?”
Still silence.
Ian’s eyes narrowed.
He moved toward the hallway.
And then he saw it.
A pair of small socks sticking out from the top of the door.
Ian stopped.
Slowly—very slowly—he looked up.
Alex was sitting on top of the door.
Not leaning. Not clinging. Sitting.
Perfectly balanced, with his legs dangling over either side, like this was a completely reasonable place for a toddler to be.
Ian stared.
The top of the door was at least two metres off the ground.
There was nothing nearby. No furniture. No ladders.
No explanation.
Alex spotted him and grinned.
“Hi!”
Ian pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“How,” he asked very quietly, “did you get up there?”
Alex pointed vaguely at the wall.
“Climb.”
Ian looked at the wall.
It was smooth. There were no footholds. No shelves.
Nothing.
Ian looked back up.
Alex waved.
“Up!”
“Yes,” Ian said weakly. “I’ve noticed.”
He reached up and carefully lifted Alex down.
The toddler immediately tried to climb his shoulder like it was a convenient mountain.
“No,” Ian said firmly, setting him on the floor.
Alex looked offended.
“Up!”
“No more up.”
Alex stared at him with deep disappointment.
“High.”
“Yes,” Ian said. “I’m aware you enjoy high places.”
Alex considered this for a moment.
Then he nodded solemnly.
“High good.”
Ian sighed.
The final incident occurred a few days later.
Ian had just returned from the garage after double-checking that every ladder was still hidden.
They were.
All of them.
Which meant that the sound coming from the roof was extremely concerning.
Ian stepped outside slowly.
He looked up.
And froze.
Alex Rider was sitting on the roof.
Not near the roof.
On it.
Specifically, he was perched beside the chimney like a tiny, triumphant king surveying his domain.
Ian stared.
The house was two stories tall.
Two.
Stories.
Tall.
“Alex,” Ian said faintly.
Alex waved.
“Hi!”
“How,” Ian asked slowly, “did you get on the roof?”
Alex pointed toward the tree.
Then toward the gutter.
Then toward the roof.
“Climb.”
Ian followed the path with his eyes.
Tree branch.
Gutter.
Roof.
It was…theoretically possible.
Highly inadvisable.
Extremely dangerous.
But possible.
Ian closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, Alex was scooting slightly closer to the edge to see him better.
Ian’s heart nearly stopped.
“Stay,” Ian said sharply.
Alex froze.
Then nodded obediently.
“Stay!”
Ian moved closer to the house.
“Don’t move.”
Alex grinned.
“Stay!”
Ian climbed the tree himself—far less gracefully than a two-year-old apparently could—and hauled himself onto the roof.
Alex clapped enthusiastically.
“Up!”
“Yes,” Ian muttered. “Up.”
He scooped the boy into his arms.
Alex leaned happily against his shoulder.
“High,” Alex said contentedly.
Ian carefully climbed back down.
Once they were safely on the ground, he set Alex down and crouched to eye level.
“Alex,” he said.
“Yes?”
“You are not allowed on the roof.”
Alex blinked.
“No roof?”
“Yes. No roof.”
Alex thought about this.
Then he nodded seriously.
“Okay.”
Ian exhaled in relief.
That had been easier than expected.
Alex pointed at the house.
“Tree okay?”
Ian stared at him.
“No.”
“Fridge?”
“No.”
“Door?”
“No.”
Alex frowned thoughtfully.
Then his face brightened.
“Ian!”
“Yes?”
“Shoulder!”
Before Ian could react, Alex attempted to climb him again like a determined baby mountaineer.
Ian caught him mid-climb.
“You are not a cat,” Ian said.
Alex giggled.
“High!”
Ian sighed.
Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, a quiet voice whispered a disturbing possibility.
If Alex was already this good at climbing…
Ian looked down at the small boy who was currently trying to scale his leg.
…then one day he was going to be very good at getting into places he wasn’t supposed to be.
Alex finally succeeded in clambering up to Ian’s shoulder and sat there triumphantly.
“Up!” he declared.
Ian stared straight ahead.
Yes.
This, he thought grimly, was definitely only the beginning.