SWITCHED
We both wade toward the desk to read his response. “How?” Delilah asks.
Frump starts scratching out a message again.
WISH
“I thought you wanted to be human again,” I say. “What the devil did you wish for?”
Frump rocks back on his haunches, looking up at me with, well, puppy-dog eyes. He tilts up his snout, and distinctly howls, “YOOOOOOOOOUUUU.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“It’s the same principle as you and Edgar,” Delilah explains. “The way you were able to leave the book was by substituting something similar enough to you for the book to tolerate the change. Otherwise, it would correct itself.”
“So Frump is truly here? For good?” I wrap my arms around his neck. This is really too perfect. Now I have everything I want in one place.
Frump starts scratching at the desk again with the pencil.
VOICE?
Delilah and I exchange a glance. “Excuse us just a moment?” I say to Frump. Pulling Delilah aside, I lean closer so that Frump won’t hear. “There must be something we can do for him.”
“Oliver,” she says, “he’s like the Little Mermaid! He traded his voice to be with the prince.”
“He’s not a mermaid. What are youtalkingabout?”
“I’m sorry, Oliver. In this world, dogs don’t talk.” She glances at the desk. “It’s pretty much a miracle that he canwrite.”
“I’ll take him home with me,” I say. “We’ll figure something out.”
“You can’t. He’s not your dog,” Delilah replies. “With any luck my mother will still think he’s Humphrey. It would be immensely helpful if you could convince him to be a little less human until we can figure out how to get him back into the book.”
“Wait,” I say. “Why does he have to go back?”
“He doesn’t belong here.”
I hesitate. “You could argue that neither do I.”
She grabs my wrists, pulling them up between us. “Don’t ever say that. You belong where I am.”
I smooth her hair back from her face and press my lips to hers.
A ringing bark slices between us. Frump sits up on Delilah’s desk chair, his paws balanced on the back, trying to get my attention. His tail wags vigorously.
“Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “Listen, Frump, here’s what we’re going to do.”
Before I can continue there is a knock on the door. Delilahand I freeze. “Just a second!” Delilah calls, and then she turns to me, hissing, “We have to clean this up!”
I look down at the pool of letters flooding Delilah’s bedroom floor. “How?”
Her eyes roam around wildly. “Closet,” she mutters, and she begins scooping up the words. They drip over her arms like tentacles, leaving behind an oily residue.
“I heard Humphrey barking,” Mrs. McPhee says, through the closed door. “Is everything all right?”
I rip the sheet off her bed and start shoveling the letters into a pile in the center. Frump leaps down from his perch, biting one corner and dragging it closer so that I can tie them in a knot.
“He saw a chipmunk,” Delilah says to her mom.
