I?
I gazed around. The dark woods started to my right. To my left, I saw houses with their lights on.
I swallowed hard. I still felt dazed from the wild flight—and the fall.
I stood up. I gazed at the houses. I recognized the one across the street.
Of course. Of course.
Mr. Pinker’s house.
I stared at the yellow light in the front window. The lights were all on.
Yes. My piano teacher’s house.
Mr. Pinker must be home,
I realized.
Mr. Pinker will help me.
I started to push through the tall grass toward his house.
How lucky,
I thought. The owl had dropped me so close to his house. So close to someone who might help me.
It was my first lucky break of the day.
Now, if I could make it to his house without being grabbed by a worm, or a spider, or a bird, maybe … maybe I could get help.
Could I do it?
25
I stared at the glowing yellow light in his windows. They seemed to grow brighter as the night sky darkened.
The street was silent and empty. I darted out from behind a parked car and ran across it as fast as I could.
I kept gazing all around. Gazing up. Gazing down.
I knew that danger could come from anywhere. So I kept alert as I ran up Mr. Pinker’s gravel driveway. The gravel seemed as big as boulders, and I kept stumbling and slipping, banging my knees on the sharp edges.
I was surprised to see a pet door down at the bottom of Mr. Pinker’s front door. He didn’t have a dog or a cat. Maybe the people who lived here before him had a pet. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get in.
I took a deep breath and lifted the little metal door. I peeked inside.
The front hall was brightly lit. I saw a stack of sheet music on a table opposite the front closet. I heard music from a back room. Classical music.
The air smelled sweet. I realized Mr. Pinker must have baked another batch of cookies.
I slipped through the door and then stepped into the hallway. Then I tiptoed to the living room. Empty. The piano keyboard cover was down. I saw a stack of CDs on the piano bench.
I started toward the hall. “Mr. Pinker?” My voice came out tiny and high. I knew he couldn’t hear me.
I heard a sound. “Mr. Pinker?”
No. Just a creak of the house.
I turned the corner into the back hall. I began walking toward the kitchen.
No. Wait. I’d turned the wrong way.
I stood at the door where I’d glimpsed the tiny dollhouses. The door that Mr. Pinker had chased me away from.
Was he in there?
The door was open a crack. I leaned my shoulder against it and pushed.
It took all my strength to budge the door enough so that I could squeeze inside. The ceiling light was on. I stared at the dollhouses that filled the room.
The houses were taller than me now. Big enough to walk into … big enough to
live
in.
I took another step into the room. “Wow.” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
There had to be twenty or thirty little wooden buildings. Narrow roads were painted on the floor. The buildings faced the roads.
They were carefully painted. Most of the roofs were red. I saw white houses with green window shutters. And a gray post office with a tiny flag on a flagpole out front. Next to it—a red fire-house with little fire trucks in the open door.
An entire town. All built of wood and arranged in city blocks.
I moved around the side and saw a market with carts of tiny fruits and vegetables. A butcher store with a pink ham hanging in the window. A gray library with narrow columns in the front.
A row of white and yellow houses had garages at the end of black driveways.
“Totally weird,” I muttered. “Why didn’t he want me to see this?”
I came closer and looked inside one of the houses.
“NOOOO!” I uttered a gasp of horror.
Through the window, I saw tiny people. Tiny people—about my size—living in the dollhouse!
26
I froze. And stared in shock into the window.
“Who’s in there?” I shouted. “Who are you?”
No one moved.
I peered into the house. I could see a boy about my age. He
I gazed around. The dark woods started to my right. To my left, I saw houses with their lights on.
I swallowed hard. I still felt dazed from the wild flight—and the fall.
I stood up. I gazed at the houses. I recognized the one across the street.
Of course. Of course.
Mr. Pinker’s house.
I stared at the yellow light in the front window. The lights were all on.
Yes. My piano teacher’s house.
Mr. Pinker must be home,
I realized.
Mr. Pinker will help me.
I started to push through the tall grass toward his house.
How lucky,
I thought. The owl had dropped me so close to his house. So close to someone who might help me.
It was my first lucky break of the day.
Now, if I could make it to his house without being grabbed by a worm, or a spider, or a bird, maybe … maybe I could get help.
Could I do it?
25
I stared at the glowing yellow light in his windows. They seemed to grow brighter as the night sky darkened.
The street was silent and empty. I darted out from behind a parked car and ran across it as fast as I could.
I kept gazing all around. Gazing up. Gazing down.
I knew that danger could come from anywhere. So I kept alert as I ran up Mr. Pinker’s gravel driveway. The gravel seemed as big as boulders, and I kept stumbling and slipping, banging my knees on the sharp edges.
I was surprised to see a pet door down at the bottom of Mr. Pinker’s front door. He didn’t have a dog or a cat. Maybe the people who lived here before him had a pet. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get in.
I took a deep breath and lifted the little metal door. I peeked inside.
The front hall was brightly lit. I saw a stack of sheet music on a table opposite the front closet. I heard music from a back room. Classical music.
The air smelled sweet. I realized Mr. Pinker must have baked another batch of cookies.
I slipped through the door and then stepped into the hallway. Then I tiptoed to the living room. Empty. The piano keyboard cover was down. I saw a stack of CDs on the piano bench.
I started toward the hall. “Mr. Pinker?” My voice came out tiny and high. I knew he couldn’t hear me.
I heard a sound. “Mr. Pinker?”
No. Just a creak of the house.
I turned the corner into the back hall. I began walking toward the kitchen.
No. Wait. I’d turned the wrong way.
I stood at the door where I’d glimpsed the tiny dollhouses. The door that Mr. Pinker had chased me away from.
Was he in there?
The door was open a crack. I leaned my shoulder against it and pushed.
It took all my strength to budge the door enough so that I could squeeze inside. The ceiling light was on. I stared at the dollhouses that filled the room.
The houses were taller than me now. Big enough to walk into … big enough to
live
in.
I took another step into the room. “Wow.” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
There had to be twenty or thirty little wooden buildings. Narrow roads were painted on the floor. The buildings faced the roads.
They were carefully painted. Most of the roofs were red. I saw white houses with green window shutters. And a gray post office with a tiny flag on a flagpole out front. Next to it—a red fire-house with little fire trucks in the open door.
An entire town. All built of wood and arranged in city blocks.
I moved around the side and saw a market with carts of tiny fruits and vegetables. A butcher store with a pink ham hanging in the window. A gray library with narrow columns in the front.
A row of white and yellow houses had garages at the end of black driveways.
“Totally weird,” I muttered. “Why didn’t he want me to see this?”
I came closer and looked inside one of the houses.
“NOOOO!” I uttered a gasp of horror.
Through the window, I saw tiny people. Tiny people—about my size—living in the dollhouse!
26
I froze. And stared in shock into the window.
“Who’s in there?” I shouted. “Who are you?”
No one moved.
I peered into the house. I could see a boy about my age. He
Similar Books
