Author's note: This chapter is properly entitled "The Last Thing I Thought I'd Find Was You", but this turns out to be one letter too long for this site. C'est la vie.

I woke up about 8 a.m. the next morning and sort of slithered down the staircase. The staircase in my aunt and uncle's house has always seemed to be made for slithering down – it's one of those old-fashioned spiral ones, with mahogany banisters and dark red carpeting on the steps.

When I got into the kitchen, Beth was already there, which wasn't surprising. Beth's one of those people who spends maybe four hours asleep per day, and spends the rest of the time in a bustle of activity, trying to fill the unforgiving minute with, if possible, eighty seconds worth of distance run. (My feeling, meanwhile, is that physical activity is something to be done quickly and gotten over with so you can spend more valuable time inert.)

Generally, she slows down a little for meals, but only a little. Right now, for instance, she had – God only knows why – a pen behind her ear, a notepad behind her cereal bowl, and an encyclopedia volume she was holding open with her elbow while she slathered some jam on a piece of toast. (Dry, of course. I've never understood how anyone can enjoy eating dry toast, but Beth insists she does. Maybe it's part of this whole zest-for-life thing she has going on.)

"Where's Mom?" I asked, sticking some bread of my own in the toaster.

Beth glanced up from her research. "Hm? Oh, she went to the Kodak place to get the film in three of her cameras developed."

I blinked. "Three?"

"Yep. Seems somebody's been fooling around with her equipment, and she's down to the last few pictures in each of them." She giggled. "When she left this morning, she was ready to rip somebody's head off."

"I can imagine," I muttered, trying to sort everything out in my mind. I could imagine one of Mom's cameras getting loose, and some naïve person – say, Beth's six-year-old brother, Jeff – getting hold of it and taking five or six pictures of the sofa; but under no circumstances could I imagine this happening to three of them.

My musings were cut short by the popping of the toaster. I pulled out my toast, grabbed the butter dish, and sat down next to Beth, who immediately closed the encyclopedia (Britannica, vol. 8, I noticed – Ménage to Ottawa) and moved to put it down beside her chair.

"No, no, that's all right," I said. "You can keep doing… whatever."

"You sure?" said Beth. "It's no trouble, really."

"I'm sure," I said. "Pass the jam."

She did. "I mean it, Jake, it's not a problem. My mother always taught me never to read a book when someone else is at the table…"

"So did mine," I said, "and when either of them comes in, you'll probably want to remove it. I, however, don't mind it a bit."

She smiled. "Thanks."

"Not at all."

Though as things turned out, it didn't much matter, because at that moment the front door slammed, and a few seconds later Mom came into the kitchen.

She was not, however, the Mom I had expected to meet. I had expected a mother in the throes of righteous indignation, all eagerness to put on the red cap and start passing sentence on anything that moved. By contrast, this Mom's dominant emotion appeared to be bewilderment.

"Good morning, Beth," she murmured vaguely. "Good morning, Jake."

"Morning, Aunt Dana," said Beth.

"So, how'd it go?" I asked.

Wordlessly, Mom pulled a handful of photographs from her skirt pocket, dropped them on the table in front of me, and went to make herself some coffee.

I picked up one of the pictures and glanced at it. It was a long-distance shot of what appeared to be a very short old man standing on a conveyor belt.

A very short old man.

With a pickax.

"What the heck is this?" said Beth, picking up another of the photos.

Mom laughed hollowly. "Do I look like I know?"

"Looks like a doll of some kind," I offered. "Though why anyone would make a doll with this facial expression is more than I can say."

Mom nodded. "You're right, it does look like a doll," she said. "In fact, it seems to me I've seen a doll very much like that one before, but I can't remember…"

At this juncture Aunt Louise entered the kitchen. "Morning, Jake," she said. "Beth, Dana. What's up?"

"Nothing much," said Beth. "We're just trying to figure out the pictures that Aunt Dana developed."

Aunt Louise seemed interested. "Oh, really?" she said. "Let's see." She picked up one of the pictures and examined it.

A look of instant recognition crossed her face, and she gleefully exclaimed:

"Stinky Pete!"