Factor It In

by FountainPenguin

Being a 3rd-grade superhero-in-training isn't easy, especially while bouncing between foster families. While 8-year-old Rexagon Pemdas struggles against his controlling nature and inability to keep a secret, 11-year-old Becky Botsford fights major burnout and a rapidly increasing fear of being replaced. Maybe the city doesn't need two heroes after all. (Written Sept 2018 - Ongoing)

3. Base

(Posted July 14th)

Base

.:: January 3rd - Saturday - 1:54 pm ::.

"Analyze yourself at your worst to understand yourself at your best."

(Ancient Hexagon proverb)

➕ ➖ ✖️ ➗

Psst! Look for the words intimidated and integrated

---

SHOOOOOM!

He streaks above the city in a blur of blue. The absence of the Narrator is bitter and haunting. Rex tries not to let it weigh on him. He should treasure these moments. They let him work through his thoughts in private without that infuriating busybody prodding at him with an invisible finger.

Hot chocolate sounds scrumptious in this weather, but the food trucks will have to wait. This mind control belt is going straight to his spaceship hideout before it does any more harm. Rex struggles through the blinding snowflakes as best as he can, wiping melting slush from his eyelashes. Is he over the suburbs yet? The wind lashes him towards the rooftops. He can't see far ahead, and not only because he left the smashed remains of his glasses in that crater. He's too fast. Too cold. Ick. He wraps his hands around his shoulders, decreasing the wind resistance against his body for optimal flight. It's freezing. They didn't have anything like this back on Hexagon, you know. This weather is just all-around awful. Why does WordGirl stay on a planet with such a strong tilt to its axis?

Well… He knows the answer to that question, actually. Her family live here. Her Earth family, anyway. As he veers through the snowflakes, trying not to crash into any buildings, Rex grits his teeth. Family. What a nuisance. Sure, it's easy for WordGirl - Becky - to suggest he settle with an Earth couple. She doesn't remember her parents at all, so switching them out for new ones probably never hurt her.

But the LAST two people he wants to cram into his life are a false mom and false dad. Those titles are acid on his tongue. Becky can build her perilous house of cards, but personally? Rex would rather not create a secret identity around a lie of "having Earth parents" whom he "loves."

So what if he hasn't lived with his mom since he was in his 30s? And so what if his dad hasn't set foot off Lexicon in a century? That doesn't mean they're not his parents. And it doesn't mean it's okay to just replace them with random strangers he's not sure he'll ever care about.

And it's not fair for Becky to make me do that.

But she did.

He can still remember the day, just over two weeks ago now, when WordGirl broke the news about the foster system. They were in the forest, surrounded by the evergreens he'd already grown familiar with. His scooter craft had been damaged in a small fall when it ran out of fuel, just a few days after arriving here on Earth. Rex had crawled underneath it with a couple of good wrenches, scowling hopelessly at the mess of wires and wishing for a pair of pliers instead. Then WordGirl swooped in with her usual hot and fiery swishing noise and he'd jerked up, bashing his forehead on the underside of the scout vessel. He nicked his forehead on serrated metal. Two seconds later, it flickered with an icy chill and sealed over again.

"Well, good news, Rex! I've found you a warm, safe place to stay for the winter while your spaceship heater's busted. Once the snow melts in spring, Bob and I can take a look at it with you and try to fix it up."

She wore her favorite green sweater, like a fluffy carrot top that concealed a discouraging harvest below. She'd been all smiles as he crawled out from under the scooter, and Huggy had squealed his agreement. You know… It really had sounded like good news at first. She got excited for him. Let's break this down. A temporary family who could check up on him every now and then? Help him get food, use the post office, and get around the city? Great! It would be a nice change of scenery to stretch his legs. He could use a few nights away from his spaceship. The journey from Hexagon had been a long one. It took him two years. He hadn't technically crashed his ship when he landed on this planet, but he had clipped a few trees on his way down. Then he bashed the starboard side against a giant boulder and broke a few things. You know, maybe that was considered crashing… but he still had his fingers crossed that he could get it up again in no time. He just… needed to wait for spring, so he could stand working outside for long hours without all this icy wind.

The snow hadn't been this bad back then. Just two inches deep (inches are an Earth unit of measurement, equivalent to 2.72 rokurans). The blood raced in his veins, but he'd thought that would be the end of it. Then WordGirl had mentioned foster care. An agent she knew. Some ideas she had. And he'd just… stood there, staring at her silently with the wrench drooping from his hand.

Foster care. With Earth families and other Earthling kids.

"Oh…" What else was he supposed to say? He fidgeted with the wrench and (very slowly) leaned back against the hood of his scooter craft. "Thanks, WordGirl. I appreciate you looking out for me, but I really don't need a babysitter. I'm 51 and I almost graduated top of my class from the Hexagonian Children's Learning Facility. I already picked up some picture books on forest foraging from the library. I know how to start fires and put them out again safely. I'm perfectly fine with being independent while I'm here on Earth."

WordGirl had hesitated then, and he'd remembered a split-second later that on this planet, he wasn't considered 51. Right. He could recognize his age inherently, even across the universe. His Hexagonian blood wouldn't let him forget it. He'd done the math. One year on Hexagon translated to 61.078 Earth days. But here, the people viewed him as only 8 years old. Rex was pretty sure he'd "turn 9" on this planet sometime this upcoming summer - he'd be close to 53.56209 years on Hexagon if his calculations were accurate - though he wasn't yet confident with the names of the Earth months.

He hadn't relayed any of this to WordGirl yet in case he got the words wrong. January, June, July… March, May… The names danced on a blurry stage like ballerinas encased in ice. Okay, yeah- side note: It still boggled his mind that so many people on this planet could read written words as easily as Lexiconians did. In fact, this whole planet was full of readers.

He still wanted to wait for the right moment to bring up the date. He had time.

WordGirl bit her lip at him, rubbing her arm. At the time of popping over to find him working on his scooter, she'd been dressed as "Becky Botsford" in sweater and skirt despite the snow. Why? He wasn't sure. Maybe because he was out here in just his hoodie, dressed as Rex Pemdas instead of Kid Math? She did prefer dressing as Becky when he dressed as Rex, but he'd seen her fly through the trees to reach him. So much for secret identities. Honestly, they always get in the way.

"I didn't enroll you in the foster care system," she told him, which didn't change his already blank stare. It did prickle his skin. Was that an option on the table? Could she do that? She went on. "If you like, I can help you with the papers since you can't read and might feel intimidated going alone, but I won't do any of that without your permission. I wanted to educate myself on how it works because I think it's something we should talk about seriously."

"'Intimidated?' I'm not familiar with that word."

"If you're intimidated, it means you feel afraid, awkward, stressed, or a mixture of all three. If you were left by yourself to fill out paperwork, you might feel a little overwhelmed - or intimidated - because this kind of paperwork contains a lot of complicated legal jargon and you can only read words related to dairy products. Right?"

"Right…" He'd been lactose intolerant all his life. One of Uncle Vin's Lexiconian research buddies back home had taught him how to read relevant nutritional words in 30 languages because of that. Lexiconians know things. Their scouts collect writing tablets from all kinds of planets. But honing his reading skills any further than labels would have been a waste of valuable time. It takes years to learn to read, plus several more to master "accurate and consistent spelling." And if you want to excel in proper grammar and punctuation, you'll have to spend a few more years after that. And then there's writing books! That takes generations… No wonder the Lexiconian year is a full 8.808 times longer than the Hexagon one. They need every scrap of time they can get.

And all for what? Reading and writing are the two slowest possible ways of conveying information. The Lexiconians can enjoy reading all they want, but his planet gets by just fine with numbers, pictures, and live demonstrations. They don't need the printing press. They have cross stitch.

WordGirl has been teaching him to read, though. Not much yet, but the two of them (and Huggy) once spent a loooooong Tuesday afternoon floating above the city, with her identifying important buildings like the bank, jail, and elementary school from above. Plus she showed him all the streetlights and stop signs. He used the margins of his abstract algebra workbook to mimic every letter. S-T-O-P…

The letters were wobbly under his hand and he wrote S in the same stiff way he wrote his 5s, but it worked. He could shape the letters like a Lexiconian. They squirmed and danced across the page when he looked at them, but at least he knew the marks were there. He'd practiced the word over and over in his algebra book, then pleaded for a break. Couldn't be helped. Breaks are good for the head, and memorizing all four of those letters hurt his brain.

Tch. Letters aren't like numerals. A letter can stand for multiple sounds, but only one at a time. That's part of what tripped him up. Short vowels? Long vowels? The values of these variables shift like pudding devoured from only one side. Rex had watched WordGirl's finger move across page after page, but you know what English is missing? More visual cues that can distinguish one sound from the other. It only has the accent marks in the dictionary, but Earthlings don't seem to value those in daily life. Sure, a longer alphabet would mean more symbols to memorize, but if the accent marks were visible everywhere, he'd flawlessly identify every pronunciation. Simple reasoning.

WordGirl tried to make him spend longer than a few minutes in the library, but Rex had a much harder time than she did staying still. This wasn't anything like the library in his home city, filled with oral storytellers and pretty pictures. But here it was all words, words, words. There were millions of books on this planet alone. Reading every single one of them was impossible, and even if you tried, reading only one barely made a dent in the work. It was a nonproductive waste of time. I mean, what would Grandma Polly have said?

Mmm… Probably something preachy about WordGirl dragging cross-contaminated letter variables into her neat, orderly equations. She never had liked it when her darling little Rexagon zipped across the solar system to watch a star-swat game with his uncles in an honest-to-goodness Lexiconian stadium (complete with all the spicy chips, cheese, and beans that either of them could eat… an uncalculated, unexpected mistake that Kid Math would never permit himself to make again). He'd learned the hard way that dairy did not agree with his digestive system, so dairy words were something he was willing to learn about. Those helped him avoid pain, so those were actually useful. But a whole library of written texts? Those are real? He'd dropped his head on the table before long, covering his ears with his hands until WordGirl asked if he wanted to go home. Uh-huh.

Anyway, that had been the library trip. Back at the spaceships, WordGirl encouraged him to register for the foster care system. Or sit on the doorstep until they let him inside like a soggy kitten; honestly, Rex wasn't sure what the process was. Rex had tightened his jaw then, leaning back and gripping his fingers in the edge of his scooter's hood. "I appreciate the offer, but Hexagonians don't get intimidated. Also, I'm not in the market for another family. I already have one back home."

Huggy chittered softly at that, and WordGirl tugged at the collar of her sweater. She'd stopped looking at him. "Foster care placements are only temporary. If you don't want to be adopted by an Earth family and totally integrated into Earth society, that's fine… but I wanted to suggest it. Maybe you should think about it, at least for the rest of winter. This is a pretty dangerous part of the country, and not just because Fair City is filled with supervillains. Staying outdoors in this climate could be really, really tough… even for a Hexagonian."

Sigh. Reluctantly, Rex had leaned a hand on his hip and taken a good, long look at the thin layer of snow glittering in the grass and dirt around them. Then he'd admitted his friend was right. Back on Hexagon, the lack of atmosphere made weather roughly nonexistent, and what little they did have, they had under control. His people were the smartest researchers in the known universe, and they were total masters of farming and self-sufficiency. I mean, take a look at their planet. New Hexagon had proved itself time and time again to be vastly superior to the old, and now they could drain resources from the abandoned landscape all they wanted. They'd done their research. No sapient creatures had been detected on New Hexagon, so no one else could claim right to it. Nobody could stop them. They'd eked out a living on a place Lexicon had long deemed un-survivable. Er. Unsustainable. That's the word.

His ancestors had lived through tumultuous times once, carefully constructing a neat and tidy society that could resist the intense heatwaves and chills of their new planet. So, he could survive in the desolate woodlands of Earth too. Just toss him a piece of flint and maybe a canteen for drinking water. And maybe crackers for a snack.

But then again… Earth wasn't nearly as advanced as his old home. He didn't know a lot about this planet yet. It wasn't like he'd studied Earth specifically during his training. Hexagonian researchers didn't even know this place existed. Maybe WordGirl had a point. Chilly winters implied the existence of sweltering summers when this planet swiveled to the other side of its axis, and he'd never had to test the full strength of his spaceship's cooling system before. The glass dome of his ship would probably trap in the heat. It might broil him alive. Maybe before he relied too heavily on his Hexagonian tech, it would be wise to settle in a safe place where he could evaluate this planet through all its seasons. He could decide on his long-term plans after that.

Interesting. He'd been on Earth for about 27 days at that point - nearly half a year, if this were New Hexagon - and so far, WordGirl hadn't allowed any of their more blatant cultural differences to drive a wedge between them. You know- all those usual "soft and plushy and sweltering beneath layers of animal pelts" Lexiconian and "cold and mechanical and carefully regulated" Hexagonian stereotypes you hear about from the corner criers. He'd sort of expected it after he found out who she was. She can be a little naggy.

But WordGirl had welcomed him to Fair City with warmth, not snooty disdain. She'd made an effort to be his friend. He could at least extend the same courtesy to her by giving all her advice his honest consideration. Even if it sounded overwhelming.

"Did you go through foster care?" he'd asked her, pulling out a gray rag to wipe his greasy fingers clean. He was still trying to decide if he needed a bandage. He'd scorched some of his skin when the hover pads jolted on. It still hurt, but the wound had mostly closed. The burn remained. Wounds that don't cut skin always take longer to heal, he'd discovered. His body prioritized open wounds a lot more. Pain was survivable. Infection could be deadly. Especially on an unfamiliar planet, no matter how many vaccinations he'd submitted himself to.

"Well, no…"

"So how did you get an Earth family?"

WordGirl hesitated, opening and closing her hands against her skirt. "I came to Earth on accident when I was just a baby. I crawled onto a ship that the legendary Captain Huggyface was piloting, and when I startled him, he crash-landed here on this planet. My parents, Tim and Sally Botsford, found us in the woods and brought me home. Huggy and I stayed with them while they tried to find information about my birth family and how I may have ended up out there. When they realized there were no records of my past, they adopted me."

"Huh. And… you haven't told them you're Lexiconian. They think you're a regular Earth kid." Seriously? They bought that? Rex could hear her oversized heart ticking more loudly than anyone's except his own. He couldn't tune out the deep breathing of her chest. WordGirl could liquify the carbon dioxide in her lungs and spit it out in chunks of ice. So can he. Did her family really never question her nature? It sounds far-fetched. Why wasn't she studied in detail before they welcomed her into their lives? Or did her parents just not care?

"I've tried to share the truth about my alien origins a few times. They never believe me. My brother even laughed at me, and my parents later gave me a veeeery extensive talk about staying safe and not believing adults who try to lure you in by saying they have tech or ancient artifacts that can grant you powers. Discovering new powers as you grow older is uncommon, but not unheard of on this planet. I've considered bringing THAT up with my parents to ease them into the grand reveal."

"But…?"

A shrug, dainty and pretty and raw and charged. "Unfortunately, it gets so messy if I imagine slowly opening up to them about my flight and super strength and not telling them outright that I've been a superhero for years without them knowing. I struggle a lot with my secret identity. Not just because I don't want my parents to worry about me, but also because I don't want to put my family in danger if word ever gets out that we're connected. A villain could take them hostage and try to force my surrender in exchange for not turning the city into cheese, or crushing it with giant robots or something. I'm already crazy stressed having Scoops, Rose, Bampy, and, well… YOU knowing my identity. I haven't figured out how I'm going to approach my parents and TJ. Or Violet."

"Oh. Um. WordGirl?"

"Call me Becky."

"Instead of going into foster care, can't I just stay with you?"

He hasn't forgotten the black hole of a stare she gave him after that. Rex didn't press her any farther. He already had that look burned into the backs of his eyelids. So he jerked his head away, staring at the bright white snow so his crinkling nose wouldn't betray him. It just kept falling, though.

The snow.

➕ ➖ ✖️ ➗

Leaving the city behind, the resilient Kid Math streaks above the evergreens towards a civilian parking lot full of… Wait, hang on a minute. This isn't the scene in my script.

There he is.

"I'm not going to ruin your script," Rex mutters back, rubbing the underside of his gloved wrist across his face. He's coated in more ice chunks than a Snocone. His lips are badly chapped. He barely had the chance to enjoy this planet before the first wave of snow set in, and springtime can't come soon enough. "Just… just give me a minute…"

At least the Narrator chose now to show up if he must be here at all. He doesn't need to know all his private thoughts just yet.

"Uh, where exactly are you going?" asks the Narrator. Rex spares the sky a glance, zooming onward. As far as he can tell, the Narrator doesn't have a physical body. He's just a voice. He's like a cloud, or a fly buzzing on the wall. Rex can sense his presence anyway, like a constant hand on his shoulder that stems from a specific corner of the sky. The invisible figure should probably be a reassuring presence, but out here, in the empty forest with all its wildlife and rustling noises, his heartbeats spike with anxiety. Earth is so different. Back on Hexagon, his quadrant of the city was so highly populated, they had their very own Narrator. Rex only spoke to her once, when May Trix pushed him too hard and he almost fell in the river. She couldn't be everywhere at once, but everyone said she always arrived in time to comfort those who got swept outside the safety bubble so they didn't have to die alone.

Hhh- hhh- hhh- Rex wipes his gloved fingertips down both his cheeks, using the sharp gesture to clear his mind. He shoots right past the Narrator's 'civilian parking lot' without slowing down. "I… I just need another minute… Can you give me a moment alone?"

His words whip away on the wind. That invisible voice hums, awkwardly clearing his throat. "I can't really do that. We already checked in on the Bests and I'm not in charge of switching the scenes. I just narrate."

"Well, can you close your eyes? I think I might be sick."

Which is stupid. This is so, so stupid… He's had so many vaccinations that he's protected against thousands of diseases in every galaxy between here and Earth, or at least that's what the ship told him when he was wiggling in his chair, watching the needles prod ever closer. Needles keep him safe and healthy - he's always known that - but they really hurt when they have to press in deep to pierce through superhuman skin. Rex hadn't expected that. Hopefully he only had to take a few hundred of those shots once. Next time he's due for boosters, he's totally getting his vaccinations on Hexagon instead. The presence of natural Hexanite particles in the soil will tamp his super durable skin down to a less resilient level. Then it'll be tolerable.

But vaccines won't help his snotty nose… or cure dehydration. He's woozy. Trajectory faltering. Thanks to mind control, he hasn't had a sip of water since breakfast. That's a first. Rex slows his rushing pace and glides downward until his boots plop in the snow. Okay…

Okay.

Down here, the evergreen branches block a little of the wind and cold. He braces his palm against a pine trunk and tries to steady out his labored breathing. The bark nibbles at the creases in his gloved hand. Breathing's hard. Breathing's so hard. WordGirl never talks about it. Only Huggy understands. There's so much pollution in Earth's atmosphere, it's ridiculous. Rex forces himself to take a deep gulp of it anyway. Then another. No bile rises in his throat, but the queasy feeling doesn't leave his stomach.

"You okay?" the Narrator asks, his voice gentle.

"I don't feel so good," he mumbles back. Is this the type of dizzying life that civilians live through on a daily basis? He stares silently at the snowbanks. The seconds tick by and he keeps breathing. Fighting. Hanging in there. "I need a minute. Just me."

The Narrator's presence sort of flickers in the air, like he very much wants to comply but doesn't know exactly how. Fine. Fine, whatever… Just… Hhh…

Rex lifts his head, staring blankly into the trees. He doesn't get sick. His fingers tighten against the tree bark. After a few more seconds, he levitates himself into the air again.

Okay.

His ship isn't too far from here. Call it coincidence, or maybe fate had a wicked sense of humor, but he and WordGirl had crashed their spaceships on the exact opposite sides of the city. Funny story, actually. She'd been completely adamant about not telling him where hers was, no matter how much he begged and pleaded (Adamant had been the word of the day back then). Still, it hadn't taken more than a few weeks of scouting Fair City's perimeter for him to stumble across the crater where the recon ship has crashed. Her spaceship lies across the lake. Rex respected his friend and mentor far too much to invade her privacy by forcing his way inside, but just hovering over the thing had flooded him with such intense longing to see more that he couldn't resist landing on its top. One little touch wouldn't hurt.

WordGirl's ship gleamed bright red and gold: the typical colors that Lexicon used to represent their planet to outsiders. The colors said "Lexicon," but the vessel's craftsman was blatantly Hexagonian. See, Lexiconians shared a lot of tech and research with the rest of the Erudite planetary system, but space travel wasn't normally their expertise. They programmed some of the internal tech devices, but the exterior came from his people. The moment Rex pulled off his glove to touch the cool kiranium with his hand, it flooded him with memories of home. And the recon ship looked beautiful… it even had a sailing fin. And not 6, but 18 hyper-thrusters. Understandable, of course. WordGirl's ship - which had been Huggy's pride and joy once upon a time - stood at least three times bigger than his cruiser.

Ah, spaceship envy. He has it in spades. If he were to park his own ship next to WordGirl's, he'd feel like a kid on a tricycle. Well. Not really. Maybe that description would fit if he rode up in his scooter. If he brought his actual cruiser, he'd at least feel like he owned a space canoe. Or maybe a speedboat. But she has a yacht.

Not important right now. He wants to see his ship again. He hasn't had as many opportunities to pop over as he'd like since he started spending his nights in the group home. Everything he does is under scrutiny there. The adults keep nagging him, trying to get his shirt off, hovering around him like gnats to honey (or however that saying goes). Rex shakes snowflakes from his boots and zips into the air again. The Narrator swishes beside him as though flying with invisible wings. Feathered ones, maybe. They sort of tickle. Though creepy bat-like ones would suit him just fine. Did you know you can see that man's warm breath whistle through the air, just like you can see anybody else's? So much for not having a physical form.

"You can't go to sleep, Rex. You might have a concussion."

"I don't. I'm positive."

"Seriously, don't sleep."

"Got it."

Boy. Being a 3rd-grade superhero in training isn't easy. It's funny, really. Everybody in his class back at the Hexagonian Children's Learning Facility thought they had what it took to be a superhero. Hhh…

You know, from the way his peers chattered, you'd expect it to be easy. It's not. You'll get a big head if you delude yourself down that path. Even just one week before his graduation from the training program, Rex had started to gather that, well… Turns out, a whole lot of people thought they had what it took to be a hero, even when they didn't.

It's almost unthinkable! Plus insulting? Definitely. The superhero business is tough. Only the best of the best of the best even qualify for the program, and only a sliver of them get their applications accepted. Fewer still fight their way to the end. Becoming a hero is all about dodging, weaving, and calculating the mass and strength of an opponent before you throw a punch with all you've got. Heroes need to learn how to climb, jump, kick, and wrestle their way to victory. They have to smash boards with their bare hands. They have to keep a calm mind.

Okay, sure. To be fair, being a superhero is great at least 9 days out of 10 (Day 10 is laundry day, because even superheroes need one; it's healthy for your skin and lungs). But superhero stuff also involves work, sweat, and losing all your fear. You're up against real villains, and some of them are seriously dangerous. He'd known that from the start, and he'd applied for the superhero path anyway. He really likes this job. When he was in his 40s, there were days it felt like like punching stuff might be the only thing he was good at. An epic battle between good and evil beats analyzing test tubes, manipulating weather patterns, or cultivating vineyards and orchards any day.

But this life's not all about smashing robots and whaling on hardened criminals, by the way. Since arriving on Earth, Rex has also come to realize that as a nearly invincible Hexagonian, it's also his duty to throw himself in the path of trouble and take whatever hits he needs to in the name of protecting the local, much more fragile people. Swinging his fists at villains is only part of the job. Sometimes he needs to slam into a careening bus, or plunge 20 feet underwater to grab a struggling kid from a riptide.

The training program hadn't focused heavily on any of that. It taught him wilderness survival. It taught him self-defense. Resilience. But it hadn't covered any of this, you know. About how much his head might throb, or how badly he'd want to lie down and curl up for the rest of the night.

He can't fall asleep.

No, not even if it turns out he has no concussion. Who knows what latent effects mind control could have on your brain if you don't get that sort of thing checked out? Rex slaps his hand against his cheek, blinking through the scattered snowflakes in the wind. Right. He's woozy. He doesn't have any water. He doesn't have his glasses. He's still clutching a mind control belt in his hand, and there's no telling if this thing is still active or not. It might have spider legs so it can crawl up his back in the middle of the night and slither into his ear. No thanks. He needs to get back to his ship. No way is he going to beg for WordGirl to save him if he gets lost in the woods. He doesn't need her help. He's better than that.

He's certified in superhero work.

He's good at his job. He's become a productive member of society. He doesn't ruin everything for everybody.

"Hh… hhh…"

His fists press harder in his cheeks his eyelids. Deep breath. P-polluted air. Okay. Okay.

There's his scooter craft, looking like a pebble compared to WordGirl's secret spaceship hideout. It's just a blue swift-skimmer vessel, though Aunt Lois always called it "the boneshaker" while it was registered to her landing pad. Rex jolts back to the present. Double flaps of his hands. He gives himself a shake, then zig-zags back to the ground. Pull up, pull up!

He hits too fast, sinking in snow up to his knees, and pinwheels his arms. It does no good. He misjudged the distance and miscalculated his speed. He plops face-first into the stuff. Pleh. He really is off his game today. Maybe he did get a concussion.

A fuzzy crackle in the sky signals the Narrator, totally invisible, settling above a nearby pine as though he's riding on a cloud. The branches rustle like he sat on them, or maybe that's the sound of rustling wings. "Could it be? After four months of breathless anticipation, are we finally about to see the inside of Kid Math's secret spaceship hideout?"

Rex lifts his head from the snow, wiping flakes from his nose and mouth. It feels like frosty maggots are crawling across his skin. Get up. Get up. "Didn't you already know where I live?"

"Not specifically," says the Narrator, backpedaling in a modest sort of way. "You've made offhand mentions of the area, but this is the first time we've cut to this location since you arrived on this planet. I may be able to pick up on strong thoughts in your head, but I have to wait for scene changes to see the visuals just like the viewers at home."

"Huh. Well… Then you're about to be surprised." Rex pushes himself back to his feet. He scrapes snow from each arm, then kicks it from his boots. "Are you drinking hot cocoa?"

This is accented by a soft slurping noise. "Maybe. What? I get cold outdoors too, you know."

Fair enough. Rex isn't sure where you even go to buy non-existent hot cocoa, but unless that's a crime, it's not really his business. These "narrating" types may as well be in a class of their own. Rex floats over to his wounded scooter craft, pulling his fingers through his hair. His brown curls are all out of place. He's covered in soot and snow.

Looking back with what he knows now, his attempts to land his full-sized spaceship all those Earth weeks ago weren't too well calculated. He really should have tried the scooter first instead of risking his entire cruiser. He just hadn't anticipated the sheer amount of trees on this planet, nor the uneven ground. It wasn't like this on Hexagon. Back home, the land beyond the safety bubble had been flattened a long time ago, so take-offs and landings had been a piece of pi.

Rex solves the security equation for the scooter with a few finger taps. The cockpit dome unclicks. It retracts halfway, and Rex leans over to dig through the glove compartment. He needs a new pair of glasses… plus his keys, obviously. He keeps several copies of both in here, just in case. It never hurts to be prepared. It's pretty lucky, actually, that he managed to touch down on a planet that had already invented glasses. WordGirl even told him the eye doctors are used to testing "charmed kids" (that's the current term here on Earth) for all kinds of supervision too, which is probably a blessing.

"Hang in there," Rex mutters to the scooter craft. He grabs the handle and swings its cockpit dome shut again. It locks. The headlights don't blink on and off like they're supposed to. Not good.

He'd really like to fix the scooter. Hopefully before he turns 53, though 52 would be ideal. When he first arrived on Earth, it worked for a few days, but he ran out of fuel mid-flight and broke one of the four hover pads. Maybe two… the most damaged one throws out yellow sparks, and the second one he wonders about sometimes flickers and blips off. He's still not… really sure how to fix that, because although his scooter is pretty resilient and he brought all the instruction pictures for scooter repair, he didn't anticipate the lack of materials. Where do you even find mandelite on Earth? He tried asking WordGirl and Huggy, but the former just looked perplexed while the latter sighed, covering his own face.

Rex didn't bother asking about the rest of what he needs after that. Without mandelite for the circuits, what's the point? Things aren't looking good… After taking a wrong turn at Lu-Qian (and plowing forward instead of turning back because he only noticed too late), he's now way, way outside the usual Lexiconian scouting range. He's pretty sure he can send a signal vibration once he gets his hands on some pyrite. He can even fly into outer space thanks to his superpowers, but unless he finds a good way to thrust the signal beyond the local planetary system, he's a little bit stuck.

Earth's not a bad place to kill time pretending to be a civilian, but he'll feel a lot safer once his cruiser is working again. Even if he doesn't leave this planet anytime soon, it wouldn't be safe to convert it into a superhero hideout when the heater and air conditioner are both busted. It should be easier to fix his ship than WordGirl's and Huggy's. Though Rex hasn't yet assessed the damage personally, Huggy described it in great detail. Yeah… His two bumpy landings weren't anywhere near as bad as theirs.

He pushes his new glasses into place. The frames are thick black trapezoids, just like his old ones. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Okay. He's good.

Rex tosses his keys between his hands and blasts away again. He doesn't have much farther to go now. The evergreens line a hill, which slopes upward. That's where his spaceship lies like a lonely, sleepy cat.

See? There it is. His cruiser is a long, rectangular vessel with a tapered cone for a nose. Continuing with the cat metaphor (Metaphor was one of yesterday's featured words), his cruiser resembles a big, silver tabby basking in the shade of a large, speckled boulder. The extendable roof awning isn't in good shape, having collapsed under the weight of today's snow, but it doesn't look damaged other than that. At least the snow is good for one thing… From up here, you wouldn't be able to identify it as a spaceship. It looks like a long, luxury truck. Like something you could camp in. He's not sure if there's a specific word to describe it, but there it is.

Home sweet home, I guess.

It's a double decker. His bedroom's on the upper floor, and he has it all to himself. It's comfy, well-lit, and way better than the group home… Rex swishes down to the passenger's side door. That's the only "real" way into the vehicle now, seeing as the driver's side is pinned shut by the giant boulder. He rubs a circle on the windshield with his fist and peers inside. There aren't any villains squatting upfront. Not as far as he can tell. And the door is still locked when he tests it. That's good.

Rex turns his key in the lock. Immediately, two orange screens unfold from hidden compartments, demanding passwords. Licking the cracks in his lips, Rex pulls off his gloves. The lock is child's play. He rattles out the keypad code with his left hand, then flicks a finger across the right screen to trace a parabola in response to the randomly generated equation. The pad's bright light blinks from a harsh shade of "denial orange" to a welcoming, peaceful cyan. The passenger door slides upward, folding itself away. Rex takes one step inside and immediately stiffens like the dead.

Cold. He can still see his billowing breath. WordGirl's right. He was never going to survive winter in a ship like this.

"Wait a second," says the Narrator, finally swallowing a big gulp of hot cocoa. Rex can hear him wincing as it scalds his throat. "THIS is your secret spaceship hideout?"

Uh… Rex glances up at the sky, adjusting his glasses by the arm. "You didn't think I lived in my scooter, right? That's just a scouting vessel."

"No, that makes sense," says the Narrator, his voice turning thoughtful. His breath escapes him in a coil. It winds through the air like WordGirl's cursive signature. "It's just that I didn't realize you were also a talented pilot."

Rex… doesn't have an answer for that, and stands in the doorway. He blinks into the dark. The emergency lights line the floor and a couple monitors are beeping. His ship was home for two Hexagonian years while he traveled, but it feels strange to return to it now after a week and a half in the group home. And what's up with the Narrator? Why would he say that? Should be be offended?

"Yes, I can fly the ship. It's mine. I'm 51."

"Um. Really? You're in 3rd grade."

"Ah. Right." He smacks his forehead lightly with the heel of his hand. "Yes, I suppose on this planet, it is more believable that an adult monkey can fly a spaceship than a well-trained superhero kid…" Who knows? Maybe someday, Earthlings will wake up and realize how much they could accomplish in life if they weren't being kept in school to practice reading. Rex drifts inside the ship, clapping his hands to stir it into wakefulness. Rainbow lights zoom from the floor and up one of the walls. With a crackle of energy, the ship hums to life. It glows in here like the sun itself. Not literally.

The lower floor of his cruiser is divided in three sections, all of them coated in corkboard walls and divided by sliding, lockable doors. Right now he's in the kitchen area, which also features the sofa, some finished cross stitch displays from his aunts, a few heirlooms (cookie jar included) his graduation certificate (framed, as it should be), and a large screen on the wall called a plasma box. If WordGirl asks about that last one, he'll probably just tell her it's a TV. It's basically the same thing, plus it has a few abilities she's likely more familiar seeing on the library computers. He passed out of range of live sports games a long time ago, but he still has some of his favorites recorded. Maybe she'd like to see star-swat. He's pretty sure at least one of the matches he watched involved Lexiconian participants, even if they are playing in a Hexagonian stadium. She might still find it interesting.

He had the chance to see a match in person once. Even now, Rex can remember the first steps he ever took on Lexiconian soil… or rather, the first he hadn't taken. He was pretty young back then, maybe in his mid to late 30s. You see, it's a well-documented fact (Well, on the planet Hexagon, anyway) that a local from the Erudite solar system - once physically removed from their planet of origin and relocated a minimum of 117.4 huitbits away in space (That's 289 Earth kilometers, also known as 179.576 Earth miles), will always come into possession of supernatural abilities. Super strength. Super-hearing. Flight. The list goes on and on, logical and predictable in every way. Hexagonians have known all of this for six decades- ever since they lifted their first spaceships off the ground back in the year MMMCXLVII. Their planet has the best superhero certification program in the galaxy for good goshdarn reason.

Levitation had felt so natural, so freeing. His first trip to Lexicon had been with Uncle Al and Uncle Perry to watch a star-swat match, but levitating for the very first time? Yeah, that was way more fun than watching sports. Even though he'd loved star-swat as a kid. One of his friends, May Trix, was actually on the sports path in the learning facility last time he saw her. Rex doesn't have a way to contact her now, but… he hopes she's having fun. Playing pro had never been his passion, but she was on his youth team when they were First Dozens together.

Ah, the old days before homework. They feel so long ago now. And thank goodness for that.

"You're not going to do a flashback, are you?" the Narrator asked, his voice twinging. "They make me dizzy."

"I don't think it's needed yet. Maybe later."

"Ugh. The longer you delay, the farther back we have to go, and that does weird things to my insides."

Rex shrugs. He can deal. It's kind of his job.

He needs to focus. This mind control belt won't disable itself. He's still heaving breaths that billow up in clouds. Cold. Far too cold. Especially with all this metal creaking around him. He shouldn't stay here long.

All his travel-safe dishes are still neatly waiting by the sink where he left them. Rex takes a long, sour look at the freezer unit and sighs. Yeah… That went down with the rest of the cooling system. He lost out on some of the tastiest ice cream in the galaxy because of that. He technically has a backup generator, but he'd prefer not to boot it up unless he really, really needs it. You never know when a planet could fall into a crisis and he might need a quick jolt of power to jump-start the emergency weapons. Or at least get himself, WordGirl, Huggy, and their Earth family out of the atmosphere. If there's absolutely nothing he can do to save Fair City, of course.

He doesn't have running water, but he does have several bottles of fresh drinking water he always keeps around. Rex twists open one of the caps and takes a long, soothing sip. Ah… That helps. He's still hungry, but at least his mouth doesn't taste like the city streets. Blech.

From a tall, narrow cabinet, he pulls out a handful of raisins and a second snack- one of his authentic Hexagon favorites. It's called a wafer spread. It's sort of a cross between a granola bar and cheesy spreadable sandwich crackers, but it's more of a vanilla cream than actual cheese. Maybe. Honestly, not sure. He used to eat wafer spreads all the time, right up into his high 40s, but as he's gotten older, some of his snacks have started making his stomach hurt. He can usually eat one wafer spread without a problem, but if he gets greedy and eats a few more, he ends up curled on the floor moaning every time. He is lactose intolerant, so maybe there's something in the cream he can't handle. Which is weird, because although he can't read most words, he can identify the words for lactose products in 30 languages. None of those words is on the shiny silver wafer spread label.

Anyway, he'll just take one. That'll tide him over until he meets WordGirl by the food trucks. Rex eyeballs the metal snack basket on the bottom shelf. He stockpiled lots of Lexiconian goodies before he left home. They're not his favorites, but WordGirl would probably like them. He tilts his head first one way, then the other. His heartbeat just keeps thudding. He still has that mind control belt in his hand.

Well. Since WordGirl was excited about getting food from the trucks, he'll leave the snacks where they are. Some other day, perhaps. He's got time.

The Narrator is still breathing on the back of his neck. Does he have a chipped tooth? He's whistling on every exhale. Impossible to ignore. Definitely waiting for his next cue. Rex makes the silent decision to cross the kitchen space again and shut the ship's door. He turns the lock until it clunks, just in case. This does not eliminate the Narrator as a variable in this situation, but it drastically reduces the odds of sudden death. Rex dusts off his hands, then brushes them down the front of his costume.

Okay.

The other rooms on the main floor of his cruiser are the cockpit and the toilet closet, plus there's a ladder that leads upstairs. Rex floats through the gap in the floor and into his office space. This is where he keeps his work desk. There are no books to clutter his space. Just a few tools, a roll of wire, and a black leather bag. Rex runs his gloved fingers along the metal desk. It's funny. He never thought about it until WordGirl showed him around her super secret spaceship hideout, but he really does decorate like he's Hexagonian. Lots of squares. Lots of shiny things. Everything neat and packaged away. It's nice.

Still, Rex sticks his tongue out at the empty display stand on the corner of his desk. He used to have a piece of Lexonite resting there. Lexicon is a pretty planet. He's fascinated by its crisscrossed rings. There's so much oxidized metal on its surface. You know, if Rex hadn't been accepted into the superhero certification course, he might have applied for metal extraction. I mean, why not? He, Vector, May, and Cal used to shove each other and goof off at the observatory, taking turns with the giant telescope and drooling over the star-shaped pattern etched into Lexicon's surface by its massive iron deposits. That's not even an exaggeration. The Iron Star is the most famous landmark on the planet because when the stars align (figuratively speaking) and the planets rotate perfectly, Hexagonians can see it from the other side of the solar system. Sort of. Only if the sunlight falls on it just right. And you can only see it if you use a giant telescope, but it's SO cool.

But Lexiconians don't even USE the star as a prime location for extracting precious metal. It's a "carefully cultivated natural wonder" and is to be "left intact for aesthetic purposes," which is just a frilly and polite way of saying "no Hexagonians allowed." Bleh.

I bet Dad would let me touch the Iron Star.

Anyway, his Lexonite chunk is pretty and red. He loved the way it hummed and freckled his vision with spirals even back before he understood what synesthesia was. It feels warm to the touch. Up until last week, Rex liked lying on his back with the red rock planted on his bare chest, zoning out for hours and just basking in its glow. The milligauss level it radiates doesn't affect him. Not the way it affects her. But since he could never find the energy to run experiments on it, he moved it to a safer compartment under his ship. That way, it won't hurt WordGirl if she comes to visit.

Shame. It was nice to look at, but his friend's health comes first.

So, that's his neatly organized work area. Oh yeah. And his metal desk bears the "stuffie" that Chuck gave him on villain karaoke night. Rex's ship hadn't been built with open shelves, seeing as that was a safety hazard during space travel, and he hadn't gotten around to installing any while grounded. Since he didn't have anywhere to put the plush toy (and he definitely won't bring it to his bed), it's the only thing in the ship that doesn't look like it originated from Hexagon. Because it didn't. Honestly, Chuck crafted a very good replica of him in his Kid Math costume when he made that plush doll. Where did he get the reference photos?

Focus.

His heartbeat swirls inside his chest. His teeth clench like prison bars. Good ones. Not the kind Warden Chalmers keeps investing in. The Narrator reminds him not to fall asleep.

Rex still isn't sure what to think about Chuck's doll yet. Just because he can't find a bug or tracking device on it, that doesn't mean he never will. But… he isn't ready to throw it out. The night he got the doll, he tore it apart with super strength, then asked Mr. Botsford - WordGirl's dad, or rather the father figure in her Earth family - to sew it up for him. You just can't be too careful with villains.

But also, he's totally keeping it. The plush looks just like him, down to the tight curls in his brown hair. It's kind of cute. In a spooky way.

He gets another gentle reminder not to fall asleep. Oh. Is he staring? Maybe he's fallen on the ground. The bed would be softer. But he knows better than to argue with the Narrator.

Rex gets to his feet again and takes a longer sip of water. Ow. Why's his throat hurting this much? His stomach aches. Rex drags himself through another breath. He glances at the largest of all his cross stitch pictures - the one hanging above his desk - and exhales. All three of his aunts collaborated on that one, right before his graduation. None of his aunts has ever been touchy-feely, but in the image, they're hugging him. They even hugged him for real on graduation night, too. Sometimes he can still remember what their arms felt like against his skin. There's nothing else in the image - no fancy backdrop - but he likes it just the way it is. It shows all it really needs to.

Get rid of the mind control.

Right. That's what he came for. Making his way out to the ship took way longer than he'd expected, but now he can finally get to work. Still standing, Rex smears a curl of vanilla cream flavoring across his wafer spread and takes a big bite. Then a second. It prickles at his lips, stinging like pineapple, and he wipes the crumbs on the back of his glove. None of this lessens the burn in his throat, but at least all this water sipping is keeping him hydrated. Hydration is a valuable thing.

Okay. First order of business… No way is he going to leave an active mind control device lying around his spaceship. Right? That sounds like the smart thing to do. So he will. Rex pulls his padded chair closer to the desk with his leg. It squeals when it scoots. He drops into it, slaps his superhero belt on his desk, and attacks the center capsule with a screwdriver. Easy! Within 42 seconds, the capsule pops open… and when it does, he stiffens up.

"Oh."

Well.

Yeah. This makes sense, actually. He should have known. Rex sets aside the screwdriver. He adjusts the way his glasses balance on his nose.

The belt capsule is empty.

The silence ticks by. It's cold and his breath forms clouds every 4.7 seconds. Then the Narrator pipes up from his usual upper corner: "Um… Kid Math? What are we looking at?"

"Uhh. Well… Nothing, I suppose. I came all this way to untangle the mind control device Mr. Big and Leslie clipped onto my belt, but it seems like… WordGirl took care of that already, while I was inca… inca… the word that means I wasn't at my best. She thinks of everything." She's brilliant. She's just fantastic. And too humble to brag to him, even though it would have saved him a flight. Rex leans back in his chair, rubbing the heels of his hands against his tightened eyelids. Why is he even mad? She ripped out that nasty mind control device before it could hurt him any further. Shouldn't he be relieved?

Why does my chest feel dark and heavy inside? I feel like I went out and swallowed a black hole. Though, then it would be his stomach that was aching… and also, he'd probably have been ripped inside out. Black holes aren't something to mess around with. He got a little too close for comfort once. Never again.

On second thought? His stomach does kind of tingle. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten that snack.

Third thought? Everything blows, actually! Rex slams forward, sprawling his arms across the desk, and lets the yellow belt clack from his hand. He gives a groan. Pain. Emotional pain. His fingers find his hair and yank. When's bedtime? Can he take a nap yet?

The Narrator reminds him for a third time not to fall asleep.

A soft fwump sounds beside him then. Huh? Lifting his eyes, Rex finds himself staring at a tipped-over fabric bag… Black, decorated with white mathematical symbols like plus and division signs. Ah. Right.

He's at his work desk. He always keeps his cross stitch bag here. All his threads are authentically sourced from Hexagonian plants and his latest piece is still a work in progress. He doesn't want to bring it to the group home in case some wannabe criminal decides to steal it while his back is turned. Yeah, he might not be so resilient or kindhearted after that. He's not even certain they have cross stitch on Earth. It's better not to take the risk.

Oh yeah. I'm supposed to meet Mrs. Argent around dinner… Mrs. Argent has been working with him so often this week, it feels like she's hovering around the group home every time he flies back from superhero work, or even walks downstairs after brushing his teeth (which is something Earthlings only do twice a day, apparently, or sometimes less). Rex doesn't entirely understand her job. He's not even sure if she lives in the same building he's been staying in or if she leaves after her work is done for the day. That was never really explained to him.

According to WordGirl, Mrs. Argent is trying to get him placed in a private home with experienced foster parents… which maybe means his fidgety nature is more transparent than he'd initially hoped.

But it'll be for the best. For the last 1.5 Earth weeks, Rex has been living across the hall from an older Earthling named Xander (who, even though he has an X at the start of his name like some kind of variable, isn't as fun to be around as Rex had first thought). Yes, he has his own room, but it's not the same as living alone in the spaceship. Sharing this much of his personal space makes him feel like he's in the learning facility again. He doesn't know how to talk to any of the other kids. Besides, anything could happen to them. He has amazing super strength. That's definitely not worth the risk. He's here to save the day. That's why he became a superhero. Not because he likes punching people.

(Well, that's part of it, but that doesn't mean it's okay to punch Xander, even if he's not fun to talk to. Oh, punching Xander will feel REAL good once the guy does something to actually deserve it. Please let him grow up to be a supervillain.)

Okay. Rex reaches into the cross stitch bag and tugs out his current work in progress. He's been picking at this one for… well… a long time. He'd chosen a small, square pattern, but this is the first full coverage piece he's ever done. It's supposed to depict clouds floating across a purple moon. They hover above the raging river, the banks lined with black corkscrew trees. The safety dome gleams against the sky. It's a simplified pattern. The paper instructions that accompany it don't seem like much now, but when it's done… well…

Then he'll be able to hang up an image of his home. He still doesn't have one. Most of his old projects depict colorful equations, because they're easy to stitch and he always feels better when he looks at them. There's also the big portrait above his desk, but… he wasn't the one to make that.

He should fly back and meet WordGirl at the food trucks. She's almost definitely done rounding up Mr. Big and Leslie, and she'll get worried if he isn't there. Plus, she said herself that the food trucks need all the business they can get on snowy days like these. On any other day, WordGirl's constant paranoia for his whereabouts would be a bit insulting. But today… Rex can sort of understand it. He was under mind control. He wrecked the city. And he didn't even help her stop the bad guys.

Maybe because I was the bad guy today. I got tricked again. Buildings got broken. People might've gotten hurt. Stupid, stupid…

His fingers tighten in the cross stitch square. The fabric twists between his hands. These things are tougher than they look, you know. They're not easy to break and they last a surprisingly long time if you store them away from harsh light or liquid. A normal Earthling boy probably wouldn't be able to rip the cloth in half. But for a superhero kid, it would be so easy…

His thumbnail catches in a loose bit of purple thread. It's just a tiny snag. Hh. Rex glowers at it anyway. He'd left this project with a knot to untangle when he got back to it. He knows he shouldn't. It's just SO frustrating to sit and deal with them when he's trying to relax. Maybe he should rip it in half. He's not far into it anyway. And who cares if it turns out there's nothing else like it on Earth? He can find something else to do. He can skip rocks. He can claw his fingers down his face and groan at the sky before flopping on his back. He can play I Spy with the Narrator. He can pretend to be a frog. Maybe a frog in the midst of being dissected so he can lie on the floor, feeling dead with his tongue sticking out. That might be nice, actually.

The Narrator lingers at his shoulder. Rex's fingers twitch around the cross stitch square again. He stares into it for a solid 22 seconds, breathing way too heavily - forming silver clouds - and desperately wishing his ship's air filter system would come back online. It won't. He keeps breathing the thick, dirty Earth air. It's gross.

This jabs him. It really does, even though no literal jabs are taking place. How long has he had this project? Yikes. His progress may as well have been thrown together by a two-year-old on her lunch break. He hasn't stitched the trees yet. Or the rocks. Just the sky. There's so much still waiting for him on this piece, and a real Hexagonian would never abandon a project in the middle. Cal wouldn't. Vector definitely wouldn't. Rex feels behind the cross stitch for the knot he left, wondering if he can tear it out with a single hard yank. It tangles in his fingers. Constrains him. Pulls him in like sticky saltwater taffy.

Keep it together, Rexagon… One sign of a rampage and WordGirl really WILL be breathing down my poor little neck. He doesn't deserve this, you know. She's always on his case. Who is she to boss him around? She doesn't know anything about him.

Deep breath in through the nostrils. Calculating stuff.

Simplified fractions. Distant music. Wiggly parallelograms.

Deep breath out from the mouth. Solving stuff.

Okay.

It'd feel good to rip up his cross stitch. He's sort of sick of it. But he doesn't. Because maybe tomorrow, he won't be.

The Narrator reminds him not to fall asleep.

His fingers loosen. Dangling threads play against his fingertips. Rex slides his eyes around his work area, half wishing he had a radio. He's still new to music. They didn't have anything like it back on Hexagon. Too artsy. It's growing on him, though. Just two weeks ago, on villain karaoke night, WordGirl had helped him process the "white on black" shapes that always flickered across his vision when he heard music. She'd called it synesthesia. Music provided a nice distraction, and he could use one of those right now.

Yeah, he'll catch up with WordGirl later… He'll do his thing, follow orders, and meet her at the food trucks. Now that he's no longer feeling queasy, getting food actually sounds nice. His stomach growls in soft agreement.

He'll go find her soon. But for just a few, blissful minutes… give him this. Give him needles and thread and the silence of his spaceship hideout, accented only by the soft noises of wild animals that haven't bunkered down against the cold. Rex unravels his knot within two minutes, then prods his needle in the underside of his cross stitch. He shouldn't have walked away with the knot still bundled there. That's never a smart move. He'd just been too angry. But now he's fixed it. And after another exhale, he tugs the needle through. The thread is royal purple. He feels like he's painting the moon.

Just give him this for now.

➕ ➖ ✖️ ➗

While Rex takes a moment for himself, let's check up on how the Botsford household is doing…

Sally Botsford is a hugger. Miah Pirakell is also a hugger. But Milo isn't, and Sally doesn't pressure him. He's welcome to his boundaries and she always wants her neighbors to feel comfortable dropping by, whether they're the Pirakells across the street, Mr. Newman next door, or Larry from two houses down.

She won't keep them in her home much longer. Milo's getting fidgety, lingering by the front door, but you know… it's so nice to stand in the kitchen with Miah and catch up again. Miah earned the nickname "Miss M.I.A." back in high school for good reason. She's always running back and forth between Fair City and its neighbors, and it feels like ages since they've had a good hot chocolate and a chat. Well. Sally's sipping apple cider, actually, but Miah said she knew a great custom recipe for hot chocolate and that she'd bring over her favorite toppings this same time next week! They might even start a book club. Tim and Becky would love being a part of that. They might even sway Martha, Claire, and Rachel into joining. And maybe Juniper… Juniper has been cripplingly shy ever since Sally met her. A book club might be the perfect excuse to reconnect.

Milo's not really a book club man, either. He taps his forefingers together, staring at some of the bunched-up threads in the old carpet. Oh!

"You just got your place redecorated, didn't you?" Sally asks, sipping from her #1 District Attorney mug. "Who did you work with? Tim and I are thinking of re-carpeting in here."

"The carpet's nice," mutters Milo, rubbing his arm. Miah leans her elbows on the counter, staring thoughtfully at her reflection in the microwave. She takes a long, careful sip of hot chocolate.

"You know, I forget their name off the top of my head. But I saved the information on a card… They do a lot of renovations and they were booked for weeks before they could take us in, but it's so worth the wait. I'll have to find that for you before game night. Or book club, if our new placement isn't ready for a game night."

Milo snaps up straight then, scooting away from the front door. "Your daughter's home."

Sally pricks her ears. There's no sound of footsteps, nor the expected chatter that usually signals the arrival of Becky and Bob. But you don't doubt Milo's senses, even if he is a twitchy fella. "Is she? Well, I should start on dinner tonight. It's been wonderful to see you two again. I'm so excited for you both. Having new children, no matter how temporary the placement, is always a big event."

"Thank you," Miah says, bouncing on her toes. "We're so excited. My heart feels like it sprouted wings! The first weeks are always so hard, but I can't wait to go shopping with him. I love spoiling the new kids."

"It's good," Milo says, more quietly. "I love not being home alone."

The Narrator clears his throat above them. Milo backpedals in apology for not counting him as a person, and Sally smiles. "Well, don't be a stranger! And that goes for both of you. Any member of the Pirakell household is a friend of ours. If he settles in comfortably, we'll definitely do board games tomorrow. And book club if we can put a list of interested folks together!"

Miah beams. "For sure! You know, it's fun to stop being M.I.A. every now and then. Maybe this time, my good social habits will stick. That's my belated New Year's resolution. I can't wait to hang out this year. Do your kids still like Mouse Trap?"

"Mouse Trap," Sally says, fondly sighing. "They do… Oh, and that apple picking game from when we were kids. Do you remember your 8th grade slumber party?"

"Oh my gosh, yesss… It's been ages since we last pulled that out. The box must have an inch of grime on its lid by now."

Milo shuffles away from the front door, pulling Miah after him by the sleeve of her jacket. Perfect timing. The front door bursts open. Becky catches it by the handle before it can slam into the wall. She's shaken, disheveled, and definitely looks like she ran all the way here. Becky loves walking through the city, even turning down the offer of a drop-off by car. She looks puffy in her pink and purple coat, like a sparkly macaroni noodle. Becky clears her throat. She tucks her headband back into place. She waves a quick greeting, smiles a puzzled smile at the Pirakells, then hurries through the kitchen. Her blue backpack thumps against her spine the whole way. "How was saxophone class?" Sally calls after her.

"Super fun, Mom!" Becky's already halfway up the stairs. Bob scampers on her heels. Sally shakes her head, leaning back against the counter. "Ah, kids," she says. "Well, it's been a pleasure to have you. So when does your new placement arrive?"

Miah's busy slurping her hot chocolate, but glances over at her husband. She tilts her head in a coaxing way. Sally smiles. He's safe here; she doesn't bite. Milo scratches the back of his hand, still staring at the floor. "After dinner," he says. "If not today, then it'll be tomorrow. We should go and call back right away."

"Then I won't keep you any longer." Sally hugs Miah good-bye, then waves at Milo. He waves politely back, flickering his fingers. Then the pair head back into the snow. He slides his arm behind her shoulders and Miah leans her head against him. Sally smiles as she shuts the door. Ah. Walking in a winter wonderland. I think there's a song about that!

Becky inadvertently stomped off big chunks of ice all over the kitchen when she came home in her boots. Sally pulls a threadbare towel down from the closet and mops them up. She hangs it to dry in the laundry room and is just coming back to the kitchen when Becky tumbles down the stairs. She's still wearing the pink and purple coat, but now also clutching a notebook to her chest.

"Are you heading out again already?"

"Just real quick, Mom!" The words gush out of her, her face pink with energy. "Bob and I are running to a friend's house for a few minutes. I totally forgot I loaned her my Pretty Princess pencil case and scissors before school got out, and I need them before class on Monday."

"Which friend is that?"

"Just Katie, and no one else. I'll be quick! I just really want my Pretty Princess stuff before I meet Rose tomorrow."

Ah, Katie. Sally nods. "Do you want me to drop you off, sweetie? It's a long way to walk. You look so tired."

Becky shakes her head, pulling her fingers through her hair again. She's always had such pretty chocolate-brown hair. Sally melts at the way it curls at the tips. "I'm good! TJ said he was about to get in the bath, and he'll be in there forever, so I'm in no rush. I want the water to warm up again by the time I get back."

"Be home in time for dinner, okay? And don't forget that it gets dark out early this time of year. OH! Becky-doodles?"

Becky spins around, nearly knocking Bob over with her leg. The monkey squeaks, rubbing his head. "What?"

"One kiss for the road, a pinch for good luck!"

This earns the expected look of mild irritation from her daughter, but Becky obediently stumbles back to the counter and lets her mother plant a kiss on her forehead. Sally gives her a pat on the back and a playful pinch, then hands Bob the remaining chocolate chip cookies that Miah brought over. His eyes light up like fireworks. He tosses one to Becky and shoves the rest in his mouth.

"Have a great afternoon, pumpkin. And before I forget, we may be going to the Pirakells tomorrow night for board games. They're getting a new foster placement and I'd like you and TJ to be there. It sounds like this one might be staying with them a little longer than most. If we're not home by the time you and Rose finish at the library, check across the street."

Becky nods along like a bobblehead, scooting backwards towards the front door. "Sure thing. I'll do my best. I'm sorry in advance if I end up being late."

"Well, good grades are important too. I'm glad you and Rose are working so hard."

"Ha, working hard is right! We're going to sweep this class presentation. Bye, Mom!" Becky reaches for the door handle again. Then Bob squeaks to her, and Becky's spine snaps ramrod straight. "What?" she mutters. "No way! He would have told us." But Bob prods her again, crossing his little monkey arms. She spins around, suddenly with her back flat to the door. Eyes like fireflies darting inside twin jars. Sally brushes cookie crumbs off the counter and into her cupped hand.

"You look nervous, sweetie. Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. I was just curious…" Her eyes skitter sideways. "Uh, hey. Did Exposition Guy share any details about the kid they're taking in?"

Mild frown. "Becky, you know Milo doesn't like it when you call him that. You can say 'Mr. M. Pirakell' if you prefer."

"Right, right. Sorry. I really am, Mom. It's just a slip of the tongue, I guess. A lot of my classmates and even school faculty still use that nickname; I'll try shutting them down next time I hear it." She coughs into her fist then, glancing down at Bob. He's licking cookie crumbs off his fingertips. "So, um. Any news…?"

"Hm?"

"About the foster kid."

Sally dumps the cookie crumbs into the trash can and dusts off her palms. "He's a boy, TJ's age. They don't know much about him yet, but it sounds like he was recently removed and doesn't have much on him. He's been living in the group home for about ten days while staff were trying to pin down who he is and where he came from. That's really all I should share."

Bob asks a question in monkey talk. Becky's eyelid twitches. "Okay, well… that could be anyone."

"Oh. And they said he's really into math. Plus cross stitch."

"There it is." Becky takes a breath then, tucking her hands in her coat pockets. She rocks back on her heels and smiles wide. "Wow, that's so neat! Uh. Hey, Mom. I might be a little later getting home than you expect, but I'll be back in time for dinner. Now, I could be completely wrong about this, but I think that new foster kid might be my friend Rex. You remember Rex. About this tall" - she holds her hand level with her sternum - "curly brown hair, big square glasses, likes red hoodies… plus we got him an abstract algebra workbook for the holidays? Three inches thick?"

"I remember Rex." Hm. That fidgety little boy who came over for New Year's? He'd shied away for most of the party. An hour into the swing of things, Sally had actually found him in the laundry room, sitting on the floor with his fingers in his ears and his workbook open on the floor in front of him. Lonely? Bored? It hadn't been clear at first. Then she crouched beside him and realized he sat hunched in a ball with tears and sweat dribbling down his face. Sally sent Tim to get him some earplugs after that. They always keep a clean stash around because Becky gets so easily overwhelmed. Sally offered Rex the treehouse so he'd be farther from the party, though Rex shook his head and stayed where he was. Another 40 minutes later, however, he did peek through the doorway and partake in a bit of holiday cheese, healthy snacks, and the New Year's countdown. On his own terms. She and Tim made sure of that. At the Botsford house, Rex was always welcome to hide away, or wander into the backyard. In fact, she even offered to drive him home if he wanted to leave early, though Rex had just mumbled and turned his face away.

Looking back on it now, his reaction to the party makes a lot more sense. He'd definitely been overstimulated and needed his own space, but Sally hadn't even considered a possible history of abuse. He likely didn't want to be touched. The living room and kitchen had been overrun with people. And he'd gaped in wonder at the television, squirming his legs as he watched a replay of the countdown with them later that night. He'd been so swept up in shouting the numbers, he'd bounced on the couch higher and higher until Becky pulled him down.

Very sweet boy. Super polite. But is he really set to be the Pirakells' new foster kid? While familiar faces across the street will be great news for him, Becky, and TJ alike, Sally can't help but scratch her cheek. Hmm… Rex seemed like such a cheerful kid. Bright, smiling, energetic, well-fed. He certainly didn't match the mental picture of abuse that Miah had painted, given the limited information they had available.

To Becky, Sally says, "I thought Rex was living with his aunts?"

Becky shrugs. Her puffy coat makes a squeaky, slippery sound as her sleeves brush her torso. "I guess he wasn't. Or maybe he's not their new foster kid after all. I think I might swing by and visit him after I see Katie; maybe I can figure this out. Won't that just be so great if he moves in across the street?"

Sally searches her daughter's face for any flicker of concern, any sign that she knows more than she's letting on about Rex's history. Becky stays quiet, only smiling. All right, then. Pursing her lips, she says, "Well, be sure to give him plenty of space. Don't put any pressure on him to reveal more than he's comfortable with. How did his speech go, by the way?"

"What?"

"The speech on fridges you were helping him with before the holidays."

"Oh! The fractals? It went great, and I think he'll be fine." Becky starts to inch away, but Sally stops her one more time.

"Miah and I want to start a book club this year. Reconnecting with old friends and meeting new people is part of her New Year's resolution! Would you and Bob like to join us?"

Becky blinks. "Uh…"

Sally raises her hand, palm forward. "There's no pressure if you don't want to. But I know you love reading. Your resolution was to spend more time with us here at home instead of running around all the time, so I thought it might be fun to do something together as mother and daughter. And monkey." She smiles. "But it's up to you. It won't hurt my feelings if you say no. You can take some time to think about it, but let me know if you're interested so we can try to work it around your schedule."

"Right. My schedule."

Bob chirps something in monkey talk and tugs on Becky's arm. Sally looks at him curiously. Bob points at the front door, indicating the Pirakell house across the street. His chatter swells in pitch. Becky's face clears up with understanding.

"That's a great idea! Mom, Bob says that if the Pirakell's new placement really is my friend Rex, starting a book club would be a great way to spend more time with him."

The monkey nods encouragement, making gestures with his arms as though indicating a planet. Or maybe a pizza. It's a circle either way.

"To clarify, he thinks a book club aimed at parents and kids together would be a great way for Rex to make friends with some of our peers. Maybe even TJ could join." Becky taps a finger to her cheek, flicking her eyes to the ceiling. "Hm. Could we read some middle grade books? Or would that be boring?"

"I think Miah would be okay with that. I'll be sure to ask. She loves state award books, and many of those are written for youth. Maybe we'll find something that clicks just right."

"Wait," says Becky. She looks at Bob, holding her curled fingers over her mouth. "Rex can't read."

A beat of awkward silence falls over the kitchen. It lands between them like fingernails tapping on window glass. Sally purses her lips.

"Well, maybe reading young books would be a great way to ease him into it. But we don't want to put him in a situation where he's uncomfortable. Let me think." What's the easiest way to be welcoming without overwhelming? "Okay. How's this, Becky: we won't finalize anything just yet. I'll talk to Miah about reading middle grade books at our book club, encouraging parents to bring their kids along, and we'll also find out if Rex is even interested. You be thinking about whether you'd still like to join our book club even if your friend doesn't join us. If you don't, no hard feelings."

Becky laughs. It bubbles out of her, beautiful and silky, and her snort brings a smile to Sally's own face. "S-sorry," Becky stammers out. "I was just imagining Mrs. Pirakell reading picture books to Rex and then discussing them in book club. I can't wait for the day we overanalyze 'Goodnight Moon.'"

"I'll put it on the list."

That sends Becky into giggles again. But only briefly. Bob squeaks, pulling on her elbow. Becky snaps back to attention. She grabs his arm, yanking him towards the door and into the falling snow. Bob squeals. Becky calls another good-bye, but her words are muffled around her cookie. She hurries down the sidewalk. Bob, as always, keeps faithfully behind. Oh, he adores her. As stressful as it is to have her pre-teen daughter zipping around the city almost every day, Sally's glad she has Bob. Although she, Tim, and TJ can never make sense of his squeaks and gestures, Becky has a gift. She understands every word from the monkey's mouth, and those two have been as thick as oil and water since the day she and Tim found her in the woods.

Wait. Oil and water? Is that the right saying? Then, Who am I talking to?

"'As thick as thieves' is a more common simile," the Narrator whispers in her mind. "You were thinking of the phrase 'blood is thicker than water.'"

That's it! Sally thinks back at him. Thank you, Mr. Narrator!

"Any time. Unless I'm on my lunch break or if I've clocked out for the night."

Becky and Bob are as thick as thieves. But they're not thieves. They're law-abiding citizens. While Bob is no Captain Huggyface - he's not even very active - Sally feels so much safer knowing he's always watching over her little girl. Having the Narrator watching over their fair city is nice and all, but he doesn't have hands. He does whatever he does to keep WordGirl informed when crimes break out, but he can't really interfere.

Sally glances through the window, but girl and monkey are long gone by now. Hm. Becky must have really wanted her school supplies back in a hurry, because she apparently took off in a dead sprint. Maybe she'd be interested in trying out for the track team next year. She's always darting around anyway… though of course, that's because she packs her schedule full of an endless chain of activities. Ah, the joys of being young.

It's been nice, seeing Miah again. And she's been dying to spend more time with Claire. Reaching out to Juniper, Martha, and anyone else they think of might be fun. Sally rinses her mug, dries her hands, and pulls out a recipe book. She'll make dinner today, then a dessert tomorrow if they do get invited to the Pirakell house for game night. Nothing with dairy. The neighbors' new placement is lactose intolerant. What, then? It's been a long time since she's whipped up anything intentionally dairy-free, especially in the sweets department, but there must be something an eight-year-old boy would like. Maybe ants on a log. That's convenient, healthy, and dairy-free. Plus, who doesn't love raisins? It's been far too long since she made a fun snack like that anyway.

Wow! What a crazy, extra-special and exciting weekend this is turning out to be!

---

A/N - Narrator facts! The Narrator has been shown accepting food in several episodes, like "Lunch Lady Chuck" and "Say It Again, Eileen," so I thought he might like some hot chocolate. In "Caper or Plastic?" the Narrator says flashbacks make him dizzy. In "Vocab Bee," we learn the Narrator can hear people's thoughts and speak inside their minds. Quintessential cryptid friend.