"Hiya, Mayor! What have you been up to?"

Ned eyed Bert from Accounting suspiciously. Though he had mostly accepted that the voice coming from his office drainpipe was really an elephant named Horton, he couldn't entirely shake the feeling that the whole thing was an elaborate joke set up by his friends at the Town Hall. Still, he flashed a smile at Bert, affecting an air of exhaustion (not hard to fake, considering every second he worried that the speck he lived on would be destroyed). "WhoCentennial planning, hoo," he said with an exaggerated sigh, pretending to wipe his forehead. "Makes the giant meatball look like cake!"

They both paused, pondering that awkward and unappetizing comparison. Then Bert shook it off and clapped Ned on the shoulder — a little too hard, as always; Bert was one of those skinny men who was stronger than he looked (or thought he was), and consequently was always accidentally hurting people and breaking things. "Don't let the Chairman get you down, Mayor! It'll be perfect."

"Like everything in Whoville!" he shot back, giving Bert a thumbs-up and moving on before the conversation could continue. He had to get back to his office before Miss Yelp noticed that there was still a horn dangling over his balcony. Need to call Sally, too, he thought with a sigh. He'd have to tell her that he was going to be home late.

There were a few things he needed to follow up on that had nothing to do with the WhoCentennial.

"Late again?" Sally asked, brushing her hair out of her eyes and focusing on the giant mauve puddle that was making its way across her kitchen floor. Her daughter, Heady, was standing in the middle, her eyes wide with shock as she held out an overflowing glass of juice to her twin, Freddie (well, Winnifred, but they already had a Winnie) and a now-empty carton in the other hand. Freddie's fur was bright purple from the juice, and her mouth opened wide as she blinked it out of her eyes. Sally waited, holding her breath, then letting it out in relief as her youngest daughter began laughing.

"Well, this celebration, Sal, it's really — you know, a hundred years is a long time — I have a lot to get ready for." Ned wasn't much of a wordsmith, but she wasn't used to him fumbling over himself like this.

"Everything okay?" Despite her best intentions, however, she found herself only half-listening as Ned began to assure her that he was fine, everything was fine, there was absolutely nothing unusual going on. Heady, enjoying the sound of her sister's laughter, had decided it would be even funnier to spill the rest of the juice on Freddie, and delighted giggles rapidly turned into shrieks of indignation. Ned stopped mid-sentence, hearing Freddie's wails. "Should I let you go?"

She winced, feeling guilty for not paying him attention, especially when he was so stressed. "If you don't mind," she said apologetically, scooping Freddie up and setting her in the sink, then plopping Heady on the counter next to her. "Girls are fighting again. I'll keep dinner warm for you." Heady, realizing who her mom was talking to, reached out her chubby hands for the phone.

"Da!" she said eagerly.

"Sorry, girls, but Daddy's busy. He'll be home to tuck you in goodnight." She hung up quickly and got to work cleaning up her girls.

The thought flitted through her mind that Ned had been taking a lot of late nights recently, and even when he was home, he was distracted and nervous. But then again, she had ninety-seven kids to take care of, and she let the worry fade just as easily as it had arrived.

Her husband was a good man, after all.

He'd go crazy before he'd lie to her.

Daddy's busy. Ned felt a twinge of guilt, but pushed it away and focused more intently on the stack of papers in front of him. "I'm not lying, after all," he muttered to himself, and that was true enough. He was busy. Technically.

After a few seconds of staring blankly at the papers, he shoved them away. How could he focus on deeds and bills for the WhoCentennial when he wasn't even sure there would be a WhoCentennial?

Like he had every fifteen minutes or so ever since he first heard the elephant's voice, he scrambled to his feet and hurried to his balcony — throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that his door was closed. "Horton?" he called softly, standing on his tiptoes to better speak into the horn. "How's it going?"

"Good, Mayor!" Horton's voice was bright and cheerful, just as it had been every time they'd spoken. "We're currently wandering through the beautiful Jungle of Nool . . . On my left is a pool where I take my daily baths, and up ahead is a beautiful pile of rocks that the children made me."

Ignoring the strange idea of bathing in a pool, Ned asked, "Children? You . . . you have a family?"

Horton laughed, the sound a little sad to the mayor's ears. "No, no. They're my students."

Ned sat back against his balcony railing, forgetting in his fascination that anyone walking behind Whoville Hall would see him talking to a gutter. "I've always wanted to teach," he said wistfully. "Not enough to give up being mayor, but . . . you know, it'd be fun."

"Oh, it is, Mayor! It's the most wonderful thing in the world, teaching Tommy, and Jessica, and Katie . . . Not that you know any of them, of course." Horton sounded embarrassed.

His eyes wandered back to the papers that needed to be signed and sealed, then up at the picture of the chairmen, which tradition dictated had to hang over his desk. A flash of guilt shot through him, and then in a burst of defiance he turned back to the horn and said, "Tell me about them."

It was rare that Sally ever got a moment alone, so she'd become very skilled at using the time she had as efficiently as possible. It was the only way that she could take care of 97 children, keep the house clean, and somehow still have relationships with Ned and her friends.

It was also why, when her friends came over for their Friday night parties, they had to simultaneously babysit their combined 101 children.

"Jojo!" Sally shouted, balancing two of her daughters on each hip and a tray of drinks on her head. He appeared at the top of the stairs like a ghost, silent and immediate. "Can you bring those platters into the living room?" She tried to gesture with her foot, but quickly gave up. Besides, he'd know what she was talking about, considering all the oldest children had spent over an hour helping her make them. "Get Nora if you need help, too!" she added as he disappeared into the kitchen. "Don't try to carry them all!"

Over the low-level roar that filled the house's waking hours, she heard a single snap. Rolling her eyes, she carried the girls into the living room, nearly dropping the tray as she ducked under the doorway. Erik leapt to his feet and grabbed the tray, deftly tossing beers to Patrick and Sarah and handing sodas out to the kids. "You really should let us help," he reproached, taking the four children out of Sally's arms and setting them on the floor.

Sally laughed, patting Sarah's husband on the shoulder. "Why would I? I have almost a hundred little helpers right here — Don't throw sodas at each other!"

Patrick stood and plucked the drinks out of the offending girls' hands, holding them well out of reach. "So Ned's gonna be late again, huh?" As the years had passed, Patrick had grown skinny, the rich green hair on his head thinning and his glasses thickening. To Sally, though, he was still the sweet, clever boy that he'd always been, and it always disappointed her that he'd never found a girl who loved him for that.

"Yeah." She sighed, shaking her head. "I can't wait until this WhoCentennial nonsense is over. He loves it, but it's killing him."

"I can imagine." Erik ran a hand through his pink curls and shook his head. "The students are taking an extra week of break to celebrate, which means everyone's scrambling to make up for lost time. The library's been a nightmare." He was the head librarian and a researcher at the Whoniversity, a job the McDodds appreciated almost as much as Erik did; more than once their friend had used his position and popularity to raise support for Ned at the college, deflating what could have been nasty conflicts with the council.

Sarah suddenly sat up straight. "Where are the munchkins?" she asked, referring to her children. "They better not be causing trouble . . . Hey! Kids!"

Erik and Sarah's three sons suddenly tore through the hallway, racing past the living room. Years of practice giving her speed and strength, Sally grabbed the scruffs of their necks in both hands and hauled them — gently — into the living room. "Where's your sister?" she asked.

Joey shrugged, dragging his lavender-furred toe across the floor. Little Pat, the oldest and most mature of the children, looked up and said, "Upstairs, Aunt Sally. With the other girls." Neddy, the youngest, stuck out his tongue and added, "Ewww, girls!"

Erik laughed, tousled Neddy's peach-colored hair, and said, "That's my boy."

Ignoring Erik, Sarah leaned forward and met Little Pat's eyes. "Are you guys being good?"

"Yes!" all three boys chorused, and Sarah waved for Sally to let them go.

"All right," Sarah said, "that's three down, one to go. JOSIE!"

"Yes, Aunt Sarah?" one of Sally's littlest daughters asked, popping her head into the living room.

"No, sweetie, big Josie," Sally said, kissing the top of her head. "Is she with Mimi?" When little Josie nodded, she added, "Being good?"

Little Josie shrugged. "As good as they can be."

"Oh, good." Sarah settled back, satisfied that her children weren't destroying Sally's house. Where Patrick had become slim and lanky, she had plumped up, her long purple curls cascading over full breasts and a round belly. She joked that she was shaped like a basketball and could roll faster than she could run, but Erik (and sometimes Patrick) still looked at her like she hadn't aged a day. "So spill it, Sal. What's going on with your husband?"

Sally sighed, ushering one of her daughters out of an armchair and sinking into it. "I wish I knew," she said. "I mean, it might just be the stress of the Centennial, but he's been so strange. Always flustered, like —"

"He's lying," Patrick finished, sitting down on the couch next to Sarah and Erik. "I noticed it when we had lunch last week. He kept jumping at every noise and looking up at the sky."

"The sky!" Sarah echoed, slapping Patrick's knee. "I noticed that too! What does he think is up there?"

Erik shrugged, taking a swig from his beer. "I'm not sure, but he should be careful. The —" They suddenly looked around, aware that the ten or so children in the room were staring at them. At that moment, Jojo came in, balancing six trays in a complicated pyramid that looked unstable but didn't even shudder as he maneuvered the toys and bodies littered across the floor. Taking the trays from her son, and passing them out to her other children, she jerked her chin toward the front yard.

"Thank you. Now, I need to talk with your aunt and uncles," she told him. "Could you do me a favor and keep them entertained outside?" Rolling his eyes and giving a dramatic sigh, he snapped his fingers once and waved his hands at his siblings, herding them out of the room.

Lowering his voice, Erik continued. "The Chairman is doing everything he can to convince Whoville that Ned shouldn't be mayor. And Ned acting odd — well, odder than usual — could give him the ammunition he needs to turn the rest of the city on him."

"Which means he has to keep it together." As Patrick spoke, three pairs of eyes turned towards Sally, expectant.

"I know, I know. That's my job." After all, if Ned was suddenly deposed, not only would their only source of income disappear, but Jojo might have to take his father's place. And he wasn't even verbal! "I'll do what I can to keep him sane, I promise."

"Keep who sane?" They all jerked around to see Ned standing in the doorway, looking exhausted. He had daughters hanging from each limb and from his neck, all clamoring for his attention.

Sally leapt to her feet, pulling the girls off of him. "Honey!" she exclaimed, ignoring the question. "You're home early!"

"Work took less time than I'd thought." Kissing Sally and Sarah on the cheek and cuffing Patrick and Erik on the shoulder, he collapsed into a chair and pulled Heady onto his lap. Bouncing her absentmindedly, he surveyed his friends. "So what's going on?"

Patrick, sensing the others' panic, immediately leapt into a story about his job at the dentist's office and what had happened earlier that week. "I wish I'd gotten a good look at this guy," he was saying. "Somehow got a shot of NovWhocain to the arm and sprinted out before the doc could fix it. All I saw was a brown hand hurtling at my face and then WHAM! Straight in the eye." He rolled his own eyes and laughed. "Got a couple people in the waiting room, too, but of course they didn't notice him until he'd smacked them and was gone, and the doctor-patient confidentiality rule means no one in the office will tell who it was. I'm actually not supposed to be sharing this story . . ." He paused, considering, then shrugged. "Well, what they don't know can't hurt them."

"That was the day you had your root canal, right Ned?" Sally turned to him, relieved that their previous conversation had been forgotten. "Did you see whoever attacked Patrick?"

Ned's gray eyes went wide. "No!" he snapped, then winced at the sharpness in his tone. "I-I mean, that was before I got there. But I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt anyone . . . It was probably hard to control an arm full of painkiller."

Before anyone could respond, Erik's cellphone rang. Holding up a finger in apology, he answered: "Hello, Erik Redson speaking. Oh hi, Mary! How are you?" As he listened, his eyes darted toward Ned, though Sally couldn't read the expression in them. Her husband, however, had gone white. "For the mayor? Of course. There's a copy of the key behind the portrait of Dean Winthrop. You'll want section 911, by the windows. You're welcome." He hung up and turned to Ned, seeming confused. "That was Dr. Larue. Wanted information on the history of Whoville's weather patterns . . . for you."

Still pale, but looking more confident, Ned smiled. "Oh, yeah, that's what made me late," he said after the slightest hesitation. "I needed her to look up some figures for me, see if we could predict the weather for the WhoCentennial."

It sounded good, and Ned was an awful liar. Still, something about his story made Sally nervous, and she could tell that her friends felt the same way. She met their eyes and shook her head, almost imperceptibly. "I'd put faith in Mary Lou," she declared with a wry grin. "She's nothing if not thorough, as I'm sure we all remember."

They laughed, and immediately it was like nothing unusual had happened. They shared stories and jokes like it was just another one of their weekly get-togethers, like Ned wasn't hiding anything.

I'll talk to him tonight, she resolved, watching her husband argue with Patrick over the pros and cons of various Whoball teams (though neither of them played, they were fanatic spectators). As Ned picked up a piece of cheese and threw it at Pat — accidentally hitting Sarah instead and causing her to retaliate, resulting in a full-blown food fight — she couldn't help but smile. No matter what he was going through, Sally knew they were going to be just fine.

They'd been through worse, after all.