2
THREE SOFT KNOCKS
The next morning, Max yawned as he watched his father toss a pair of black socks into an overnight bag. Zipping it closed, his father suddenly grunted and lumbered down the hallway. He returned a minute later with a handful of television cables and video-game controllers.
“Not that I don’t trust you…”
The tangled mess was stuffed into the bag and zipped up tight.
“What am I supposed to do all day?” Max moaned.
“Being grounded is a punishment,” his father growled. “You’re the one yawning—feel free to sleep the day away.”
Max had to admit that didn’t sound half bad. He had spent much of the night peering out of his window. The idea that the dead-eyed man might have Max’s name and address and could be coming at any moment had kept him occupied until dawn. By daylight, however, his fears seemed silly.
All the same, as a taxi honked outside, Max had a sudden urge to tell his father about the man at the museum. He swallowed his words. At this point, it would seem little better than a last gasp to avoid punishment.
“I’ll only be gone a day,” his father sighed. Mr. Lukens had granted Mr. McDaniels the opportunity to pitch a new client, and he was off for an overnight trip to Kansas City. “The number for the Raleighs is on the fridge. They’ll expect you for dinner by six, and you can sleep over there. Be good. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
With a peck on the head, Scott McDaniels was gone. Max locked the door, and curiosity led him back upstairs to examine his letter. Several readings later, it was still a mystery. He stood and looked out the window, listening to the wind as it shook the tall trees near the backyard fort he had built with his father. When his stomach began to growl, Max finally put the letter aside and went downstairs to make a sandwich.
He was descending the stairs when he saw a shadow moving beneath the front door. Max stopped as he heard three soft knocks. He remained still, poised between steps, when the knocks sounded again.
“Hello?” a lady called. “Anybody home?”
Max exhaled—it was not the man from the museum. Tiptoeing down to a side window, he glimpsed a plump, elderly woman holding a suitcase and glancing at her watch. Her cane was propped against the door. Catching sight of Max, she smiled brightly and waved.
“Hello. Are you Max McDaniels? I’m Mrs. Millen. I believe you received a letter that said I would be visiting you?”
Max smiled and waved back.
“Might I come in?” she asked sweetly, nodding toward the locked door.
He slid back the brass bolt and opened the door. Mrs. Millen stood on the doorstep, beaming and extending her hand.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Max. I was hoping I could have a few words with you about the letter you received.”
“Sure. Nice to meet you, too.”
“Yes, well, can we sit down and have a chat?”
Max led Mrs. Millen to the dining room. She politely declined when he offered to carry her suitcase, leaning heavily on her cane as she swung it along. With a grateful sigh, she settled into a chair, sending up a waft of perfume. She smiled and removed her glasses to massage red, puffy eyes as Max took a seat across from her.
“Well, before we begin…might I have the pleasure of meeting your parents? Are they at home?”
“My dad’s out on business.”
“I see,” she said. “And your mother?”
Max glanced at an old photo of the McDaniels family propped on the buffet.
“She’s not home, either.”
“Well, that certainly makes my job a bit easier,” she said. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave Max a little wink.
“How do you mean?” Max frowned, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at her suitcase, puzzled by the long, shallow scratches that scored its side.
“Oh, well, parents are often very set in their ways. For example, most parents can’t really understand strange events at the Art Institute, now, can they?”
Max smiled.
“You did have quite a day yesterday, didn’t you, Max?”
“Yeah—I mean yes. Yes, I did.”
“And tell me, what was so special about it?”
“Well, I saw lots of weird things,” Max said with a shrug. “I found a room—a room I couldn’t find again after I’d left it. While I was in the room, I saw a tapestry.”
Mrs. Millen nodded, tapping her finger against the table’s smooth, shiny surface.
“Was it pretty?” she asked. “Was it a pretty tapestry?”
“Not at first.”
Her finger froze in mid-tap.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“It was ugly,” Max whispered. But then he paused. His experience now seemed very personal. He was hesitant to share it with her.
“Yes?” Mrs. Millen said. “It was ugly? An old, ratty tapestry? Go on, dear…. I know it seems secret and silly, but it’s all right to share it with me. Believe me, Max, you’ll feel better if you do.”
She smiled and leaned forward expectantly. Max suddenly felt sleepy.
“It started to glow,” Max said slowly, tracing the table’s grain with his finger. “There were words and pictures and music.”
“And what were those words, Max? Tell me, what pictures did you see?”
She spoke in hushed, urgent tones. Max felt his neck begin to itch; he paused to look at her closely.
Her face was round and strangely taut. Although her smile stayed fixed, her pupils began to dilate. Max was fascinated by them as they grew. They reminded him of a polar bear he had once seen at the zoo. He had never forgotten the way its flat, black eyes had followed him hungrily from across the protective barrier.
Max blinked in alarm.
There was no barrier here.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he muttered.
“Yes, yes, certainly. But first, tell me what you saw in the tapestry!”
“Maybe we should talk when my dad gets home.”
Mrs. Millen’s eyes widened with surprise. The chair creaked under her shifting weight, and she sniffed suddenly as though she had a cold. Several long seconds passed as they studied each other. Then a sly smile crept across her face as though they had just shared a secret.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” she chuckled. “You are a cautious one, Max! You are one cautious, bright little boy! You just might be the one we want.”
Sweat broke out on Max’s forehead; his throat itched. He glanced at her cane, realizing he could run. No one had ever been able to catch him when he ran, and Mrs. Millen was old.
“I think you should go now,” he said. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Of course, my dear…”
The woman pushed back from the table.
“…but you’re coming with me!”
The smile never left her lips as her hand shot across the table to seize Max’s wrist. Max yelped and shot backward, squirming painfully out of her astonishingly strong grasp and falling off his chair. At the same time, Max heard something crash upstairs in his room. Heavy footsteps were coming down the stairs.
Someone else was in the house.
Max scrambled to his feet and bolted for the back door. With a dreadful shock, he realized that the old woman needed no cane as she rounded the table and raced after him.
Fleeing into the backyard, Max made for the big pine fort. He fumbled at the rusted latch, pushing the door open and hurrying inside. He tried to slam the door shut just as Mrs. Millen crouched to barrel in after him—but she managed to wedge her arm inside, twisting it wildly about.
Max gave the door a great push with his shoulder, and Mrs. Millen shrieked and withdrew her arm. He slammed the door shut and slid its crossbeam into place.
Leaning his back against the door, he waited.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!” she cackled. “Not so wise and cautious after all! Our little one was quick, but he has made a poor choice, indeed….”
Max heard her nails dragging along the fort’s walls as she slowly circled its perimeter. She paused to tap at its narrow windows. Max gulped down his fear and tried to think. He could yell for help, but his house was at the end of a quiet street, and his neighbors worked during the day. As he heard her near the fort’s back wall, Max decided to make a run for it.
Just as he reached for the crossbeam, however, it dissolved into a pile of gray ash.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo!”
The door flew open, and Mrs. Millen snatched the front of Max’s shirt. He gave a yell and jammed the heel of his hand into her nose. She cursed and recoiled, losing her grip on him. Backpedaling furiously, Max slammed into the opposite wall and started scrambling up the small ladder that led to the fort’s roof. Max heard her muttering a few feet below him as he climbed. When he glanced down, he saw that she was standing on the lowest rung. Her ringed fingers clawed for his ankle.
“Stop right there, Max! Astaroth!”
At that moment, Max felt an icy numbness in his right leg. Straining, he climbed up and through the hatch and waited a moment, slamming the door down hard on the woman’s head as she scrabbled up after him. His leg almost completely numb, Max dragged himself toward the roof ’s edge. Glancing back, he saw Mrs. Millen emerge through the hatch. Squeezing her bulk through, she crawled after him on all fours like an animal.
Max shut his eyes and rolled over the edge.
He fell with a hard, wheezing thud onto the lawn. Stunned, he opened his eyes to see her peering down at him from the fort’s roof ten feet above.
“Don’t you touch him,” she panted, glaring in the direction of the house. “This little scrapper’s mine!”
Max wildly scanned the house and yard but saw no one else. Then he realized Mrs. Millen’s head had vanished. He heard the trapdoor clatter shut as she began her descent.
Moaning, Max struggled to his feet. His leg threatened to collapse beneath him as he rounded the side of the house, but he managed to limp up the driveway toward the street. Turning, he saw Mrs. Millen galloping after him.
Rounding the corner to the front yard, Max collided with a man, who let out a groan and dropped his briefcase. Max screamed, shut his eyes, and began fiercely pummeling him.
“Hey there! Ouch! Stop hitting me!” the man exclaimed, taking firm hold of Max’s arms. Max whipped around, expecting Mrs. Millen to come barreling around the house. She did not.
“Are you all right, my boy?” the man asked in a subdued British accent.
Max felt the grip on his arms relax. He turned and looked up at the person before him. It was not the white-eyed stranger from the museum. Tall and impeccably dressed in a navy suit, this man had sandy hair, a high forehead, and wire glasses. He gave a nervous smile and eyed Max’s hard, trembling fists.
“Was she talking to you?” Max demanded.
“Excuse me—who?”
Max collapsed before he could find the words.
Max awoke with a start. He was on the couch in the den, his leg no longer numb but tingling as though it had been asleep. Looking down, he saw his shoes had been removed and paired neatly on the floor. He could hear a pleasant whistling approaching from down the hallway. Max had barely managed to sit up when the man with the wire glasses entered the room carrying a plate of cookies and a mug of steaming cocoa.
“Hello, Max! I hope you’re feeling a bit better,” the man said cheerfully, placing the plate and mug on the coffee table. “My name is Nigel Bristow, and I’m terribly sorry to have given you such a shock! I hope you don’t mind that I rummaged around your kitchen a bit. You should have a biscuit. They always work wonders for me.”
Max felt too drained to be afraid or to protest. He reached for a cookie, keeping his eyes on Nigel as the man settled into his father’s leather chair. Max nibbled the cookie.
“It wasn’t you that scared me,” he mumbled. “I was being chased.”
Nigel’s smile straightened into a tight line; his eyes glittered seriously.
“What exactly do you mean, Max? Who was chasing you?”
“I got a letter…a letter that said I was going to receive a visitor. She came to the house today and…” Max broke off as tears welled into his eyes. He flung his arm over his face, mortified to be in such a state in front of anyone, much less a stranger.
“I see.” Nigel’s voice was calm and sympathetic. “Max, I want to help you. Do you think you can share what happened with me?”
Max nodded and took a deep breath before telling Nigel the story of Mrs. Millen’s visit.
When Max was finished, Nigel scooted his chair forward and patted him on the shoulder.
“It’s all right, my boy. I want you to stay right here. Based on what you’ve told me, I need to attend to a few things. I won’t be far away.”
Nigel unfolded a nearby quilt and draped it over Max before handing him the mug of chocolate. Murmuring words in an unfamiliar language, Nigel left the room, tapping doorways and windows as he went.
To Max’s relief, the numbness in his leg faded with every sip of cocoa. He wriggled his feet for good measure. Then, hearing Nigel’s footsteps creaking upstairs, Max realized that he was expected at the Raleighs’ house for dinner. Nigel returned just as Max was reaching for the phone.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Max. There’s no need to call the police.”
“I’m not—I know you’re not here to hurt me. I’m calling my dad’s friends. He’s out of town and I’m supposed to stay with them tonight.”
“I see. Max, I think it would be unwise for you to leave my company this evening. If you like, I can handle the arrangements.”
“Who are you?” asked Max, sitting forward.
“I am a Recruiter,” Nigel said, standing to inspect a photograph on a bookshelf. “I am the visitor that you were intended to receive. I am only sorry I did not arrive earlier.”
“Then who was that woman, Mrs. Millen? I thought she was going to kill me.”
Nigel frowned. “I do not yet know who she was or how she came to know who you are. This is no small matter, and I have already informed my colleagues. I’m no great terrifying Mystic, but my presence should deter any trespassers until our specialists arrive.”
Max was not sure he wanted any more visitors.
“Now,” said Nigel. “Let’s fix another cup and I’ll see if I can explain everything.”
The two of them wandered into the kitchen. Max heated the kettle while Nigel hummed pleasantly and rummaged about for more cookies. Reaching into the cupboard, he pulled out a box of Bedford Bros. Crispy Soup Wafers.
“Are these any good?”
“According to my dad, they’ll save civilization,” muttered Max, looking down to rub the remaining numbness from his leg. A moment later, he heard a loud crunch.
“Well, I don’t know about saving civilization,” Nigel crowed, “but they’re rather tasty!”
The Recruiter scooped up a handful of snacks and headed for the living room. It was getting dark outside; thunder rumbled in the distance. Max brought two mugs of cocoa from the kitchen and found Nigel standing before the fireplace.
“Seems we’ve got a storm heading our way. Let’s cheer things up a bit!”
Nigel’s fingers danced as though manipulating a marionette. The cold logs in the hearth suddenly hissed and popped. Yellow flames flicked along the edges. Within seconds, a bright fire was crackling merrily.
“There we go!” Nigel clapped. “A storm on the way, fuel on the fire, and a sip of chocolate to soothe the soul! Come on over here, Max.”
Max gaped at the fire.
“But how did you…?”
“All in due time,” said Nigel, spreading the quilt on the hardwood floor so the two could sit down. “Now, Max, before we begin I need you to promise you won’t tell Mum and Bob that I ate so many of these whatchacallums.”
“Um…okay,” said Max, confused.
“Excellent!” Nigel stuffed a pair of Bedford wafers into his mouth. “These recruiting trips are the only chance I get to sneak a bit of decent comfort food!” He smacked the crumbs from his hands before continuing.
“Max, as frustrating as it might be to hold off on your questions, I’d like you to begin by sharing a bit of yesterday’s experience with me.”
As the fire crackled and the storm approached, Max recounted the previous day to Nigel. Unlike Mrs. Millen, however, Nigel simply listened and did not press for details as Max spoke.
“I don’t know what it all means,” said Max when he brought his tale to a close.
“Ah, it seems someone needs an introduction to Celtic mythology! That’s a most unusual vision, Max, involving the Cattle Raid of Cooley. It speaks very highly of your capabilities as a Potential.”
“What is a Potential? That word was used that way in the letter I received.”
“Why, Max, you are a Potential, and that is why I’m here! You are one of a handful of people on our wondrous little planet with the potential to become one of us. When you found that room and discovered that tapestry, we were made aware of you. I’m here to see if you have enough of that special something to merit making you an offer.”
“Who is ‘we’? An offer for what?”
“All in due time, all in due time. First, I need to administer a few tests.”
Rain pattered on the windowpanes. Max thought he saw a shadow dart across one of the windows.
“Somebody’s out there!”
Nigel smiled.
“It’s quite natural to be a bit jumpy. But we are quite safe. This house is being watched by friendly eyes.”
Max shivered, uncertain if he wanted to be watched by anything, friendly or not.
“What happens if I fail?”
“Then I clean up the kitchen and go on my merry way, happy to have made your remarkable acquaintance. Within a few days, you’ll have forgotten all about me and this afternoon’s unpleasantness. You won’t remember a thing.”
“But—”
“I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry. I’ve placed this house under priority watch. Given what’s happened, it will continue to be under surveillance for some time—even if the tests elude you. There may well be more than one Agent standing guard outside this house, Max.”
It was clear that Nigel thought that this explanation was weighty and sufficient. It was not. Max went to look out the window.
“You won’t see an Agent,” Nigel said as Max peered out the curtains. “Even I might not see them. That’s part of an Agent’s job—to be as slippery as smoke.”
Max frowned and closed the curtains; the storm was now directly overhead.
Nigel stood and motioned for Max to follow him back into the kitchen.
The Recruiter set his briefcase on the kitchen table. Opening the clasps, Nigel reached in the case and removed a digital voice recorder and what appeared to be a large silver tennis racket without any strings. Max could not see how the racket had ever fit within the slender case.
“Come over here, Max—we may as well get started. If you don’t mind, hop up on the counter there and forgive me for the formalities.” Nigel activated the recorder and leaned against a cupboard.
“Senior Recruiter Nigel Bristow initiating Standard Series of Potential Tests on Mr. Max McDaniels, age twelve, of Chicago, Illinois, United States of America.”
Holding the recorder toward Max, Nigel continued to speak in a clipped monotone.
“Mr. McDaniels, please indicate that you have been fully briefed and agree to participate in the following trials with full knowledge that they are highly experimental and likely to result in severe disfigurement….”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” shrieked Max, jumping off the counter.
Nigel chortled. “Just a bit of humor. Couldn’t help myself.” He waved Max back up onto the counter. “All right, then. First test to be administered: physical aptitude. Max, you’ve been to the doctor before, haven’t you? Well, this is similar to when he taps your knee with a rubber mallet. Only instead of a mallet, I’m going to hold this little contraption. It can’t hurt you, I promise.”
Max watched Nigel adjust a number of tiny dials on the handle. A small screen flickered on, and a ring of white light appeared within the empty oval head. The contraption began to whine.
Max squirmed.
“Nigel, are you sure that thing is safe? It doesn’t sound safe!”
“Perfectly safe, perfectly safe,” muttered Nigel, carefully guiding the contraption around Max’s dangling foot and up toward his knee. “Now, in a moment you’re going to feel a bit of a shock—nothing painful, but it will make you want to kick your leg out. I want you to resist that temptation and keep your knee within the boundaries. Do not touch the device! Ready…and begin.”
The machine’s whine rose to a fevered pitch, and Max felt a sudden jolt to his knee. He shut his eyes and focused all of his will on controlling the powerful impulse to kick. Sweat beaded on his face and trickled down his back. Glancing down, he saw his knee moving in a blur of tiny circles that approached but never touched the instrument. Finally, the machine’s pitch descended to a steady hum before slowing to a halt. Nigel studied the device’s screen and reached for his recorder.
“Lactic production rate: eighty-two. Lactic dispersion rate: eighty-four. Twitch speed: ninety-five. Muscular density, current: sixty-four. Muscular density, projected: eighty-seven. Synaptic bypass: eighty-four. Mental stress fatigue: fifty-two.”
Nigel frowned as he read the last number.
“Hmmm. Stress fatigue’s surprisingly low. Score is likely result of subject exhaustion following preemptive Enemy intercept. Recruiter recommends retesting at later date if applicable.”
Brightening, he looked up at Max, who was mopping his brow. Nigel switched off the recorder.
“Good show, my boy! Acceptable ratings across the board and you managed to keep from hitting the device. You’re a talented devil. I’ve only been recruiting for seven years, but I’ve never tested anyone who registered a ninety-five for twitch speed. Never even heard of it, actually.”
“What do those numbers mean?” Max asked.
“Oh, a lot of hogwash, really,” replied Nigel, seemingly distracted as he switched off the contraption. “They’re supposed to give us an understanding of your physical capabilities and, more importantly, your ability to control your actions in a stressful environment. I’m sure someone will explain all the numbers to you later if you’re really interested.”
Max glanced at the strange, silvery instrument.
“Is that thing magical?”
“Magical? Heavens, no! In fact, don’t let any of the Device people hear you say that! They take a lot of pride—too much, if you ask me—in making all kinds of useful non-mystic things. I’m just happy this new model works. The last one was—”
He coughed and glanced at Max, who raised his eyebrows.
“Well, needless to say, it wasn’t as reliable as this model. This one, however, is a peach!”
Nigel patted the device affectionately before letting it slip from his fingers into his case. It fell in without making an appreciable sound or dent within the smooth calfskin sides. Plucking up the recorder, he beckoned Max back into the living room.
“Right. One test down, and possibly two to go. Now, I’d like you to stand across the room and face the fireplace.”
With a sweep of his arm, Nigel extinguished the lamps. The fire was now the room’s only source of light.
“Wow,” said Max.
Nigel smiled and placed several more logs in the hearth. Firelight danced on the walls. Max waited nervously, his eyes adjusting to the darkened room. The fire burned much brighter when Nigel finally stood and turned to him.
“Max, the first test was not so unusual—bit of an elaborate physical. This next test will be a tad strange for you. I’m going to ask you to try something that you don’t currently believe you can do. I want you to extinguish this fire from where you stand.”
“Are you kidding?” said Max, shaking his head and laughing with disbelief.
“You have what it takes to do this, Max. Relax your mind. Imagine this fire ebbing to a low flame, then to a trickle of smoke, and finally to a cold hearth.”
Max’s eyes followed the brilliant oranges and yellows that writhed about the logs. He heard the wood crackling, watched the heat rise in steady waves. A log collapsed in a shower of sparks. Max flexed his fingers. He pictured the flames slowing to a halt, losing their intensity, and leaving the space cold and dark.
To Max’s utter amazement, the fire began to die. It was unmistakable, as if the wood was slowly but steadily absorbing the flames.
“Very good,” said Nigel. “Now finish the job and put it out….”
Max shut his eyes and focused his entire being on the glowing logs and embers. He clenched his fists, imagining the heat being drawn into the surrounding brick and diffusing throughout the house. His body shuddered; he felt utterly drained. Opening his eyes, he saw Nigel smiling at him.
“Bravo, Max. Well done, indeed.” Nigel swept his arm up and restored the lights. Max winced as Nigel grasped a log that had been burning only moments before. He tossed it to Max, who instinctively backed away and let it fall to the floor in a small puff of ash and soot. Crouching down, Max flicked at it with a finger. It was cool to the touch. Beaming at Nigel, he placed it back in the hearth.
Nigel tipped an imaginary cap as he activated the recorder.
“Test two completed. Subject extinguished a confined stage-two fire from a distance of seven paces. Subject successfully eliminated flames and further sapped residual heat from logs. Test completed in one minute and forty-seven seconds.”
Max’s chest expanded as Nigel shut off the recorder.
“One minute and forty-seven seconds is pretty good, isn’t it?”
“Well, Max, not to burst your bubble, but the modern record is under five seconds by our very own Miss Hazel Boon. Your score was, well, average among Potentials. Not to worry! It took this poor Recruiter over three minutes to squelch his first flame, and even then you could roast marshmallows over the logs!”
Max smiled at the thought of a miniature Nigel frowning in his blue suit while a Recruiter roasted marshmallows and reported the disappointing result.
“So, what’s next?”
“Oh, the last test isn’t so bad—you’ve already had the biggies! It’s just a bit of a puzzle. I’ve got it in my case in the kit—”
Before Nigel could finish his sentence, there was a deafening boom of thunder and the house went black. Squinting in the dark, Max saw Nigel sprawled on the floor. The back door had been smashed to pieces. To Max’s horror, Mrs. Millen eyed them from the kitchen.
Her hair was matted from the rain; her makeup was smeared into dark streaks on her fleshy face. She shambled toward them, bent and furious. Her cane smacked the floor at rapid and regular beats.
“Hoo-hoo-hoo! Thought I’d just gone away? Thought your friend’s little charms could keep me out?”
Max started to scream but no sound emerged. At his feet, Nigel moaned and struggled to stand, but his arms buckled beneath him and he collapsed back to the ground.
“Better run, Max!” Mrs. Millen warned. “Better run while you can! Leave that scrawny thing to me and I’ll let you go!”
She was just ten feet away when Max finally bolted.
He wrenched the front door open to the summer rain. Whipping around, he saw Mrs. Millen chuckling and crouching low over Nigel, whose foot thumped dully against the floorboards.
A blind rage came over Max. “Get away from him! Get away from him!” He dashed back into the living room only to see Nigel sitting, comfortable and composed, by the rekindled fire. Max stalked down the hall, adrenaline now racing through his body. There was no sign of Mrs. Millen. The kitchen door was whole, solid and secure on its hinges.
Nigel smiled and spoke softly into his recorder. “Test three complete. After a brief moment of initial hesitation and retreat, Mr. McDaniels responded to phantasm with a frontal assault, exhibiting extraordinary determination and—oh dear, how should I put this—ferocity! Given that phantasm was generated from a mind cache recently exposed to the Enemy, this is particularly remarkable. It is with great pride and personal satisfaction that this Recruiter may report that Mr. Max McDaniels has passed the Standard Series of Potential Tests.”
Max stared in disbelief at Nigel. “So that was all just a…test?”
“Yes, I am sorry about that,” said Nigel with a sigh. “It’s the only way we know of to test a Potential’s courage and loyalty. Unfortunately, it’s the test most Potentials ultimately fail, but we’ve refused to compromise our standards. You were willing to help me at great danger to your person, my boy, and I am indeed touched.”
Nigel smiled and rose to place a hand on Max’s shoulder.
Max glanced at the hand. He let it slip off his shoulder as he walked wearily toward the kitchen. Nigel followed.
“Don’t be too angry with me!” he pleaded. “It’s not so easy being on my side of it, either—what with all the screaming, the crying, the irretrievably soiled pants….”
“I’m not mad anymore,” sighed Max. “Just promise that you won’t conjure up Mrs. Millen again. I don’t think I could handle her three times in one day.”
“It’s a deal,” chuckled Nigel. “Now, let’s see if we can’t find some more of those Crispy Sons Snack—whatever you call them.”