He ran down the hallway to Annie's door and stopped for a minute to let his breathing return to normal. He smoothed down his hair, knocked, and opened the door without waiting for a response.

"Hey, Fi," Clu said, attempting to be casual and not let his excitement bleed through his cool, collected exterior. "What are you doing?"

She looked up from her computer with an expression of mild annoyance. "Typing. What are you doing?"

"I found it," he said, smiling like the Cheshire cat. "And we know you wrote it, because Jack didn't write it to Annie and I didn't write it to Jack. So who'd you write it to?"

She arched an eyebrow and closed her laptop with a sigh. "Define 'it,' please, because I'm completely lost."

He tossed the folded-up paper at her and sat down on the bed. She unfolded it and read it over quickly. "Wow, this is really great, Clu."

"You wrote it for me, didn't you?" he asked gleefully.

"Well, no, I didn't write it."

He looked slightly disappointed, but only momentarily. "So who do you think it was?"

"I don't know," Fi said with a glimmer of mischief, a plot clearly brewing in her mind, "but if it wasn't written by you, me, Jack, or Annie, we should definitely find out who the real author is."

Fi's plot was pretty simple, really. It consisted of leaving the letter out in the open and observing surreptitiously to discover the true author, who would surely snatch it up and deliver it to its rightful recipient... or not. Clu and Fi snuck down the hall and she casually tossed the paper on the couch while he made a distraction by falling down noisily. Then they retreated and observed from the shadowy hallway. Jack and Annie eventually emerged as well, but nothing was happening of any interest. After about 15 minutes, they all thought of other things they could be doing with this time and scattered.

It wasn't until later that evening that someone did pick up the poem. The bus had stopped. Ned, Irene, Carey, Jack, Fi, Clu, and Annie had all debussed at a gas station to reload on soft drinks, unhealthy snack foods, and local newspapers. Molly had fallen asleep on the couch a couple of hours ago, and she woke up to the unfamiliar sensation of a still bus. She sat up groggily and felt something stabbing her from below. She pulled the paper from beneath her and unfolded it. Unlike the others, she didn't bother to speculate as to the original author or its intended recipient. She retreated to her usual sleeping quarters and retrieved her guitar, then returned to the couch and began working out a melody.