Dags crapper is cleaner than any crapper I ever saw. Sink, floor, counter, all of it gleaming. I do need to take a leak but its like I got hypnotized. I get the puffy seat up and my wiener out but I cant make pee. Even the inside a the can is clean. And the water smells good. Like flowers. Just doesnt seem right putting pee in that. I think about the bathroom wall in Robbies crib and how its got this yellow crust of pee splatters thats been building up since his parents left so I squat real close so my pee wont make any splatters. I pee a little bit and after I flush I think about washing my hands in that sparkly sink and drying my hands on them fuzzy towels but nah. Id just mess them up.

* * *

When Im done theres piano playing coming from somewhere but the house is a maze. I discover a whole other humongous ass TV and this wall rig with a speaker so you can radio other rooms. The strangest thing is this sound like a blender coming from behind a door. It gets me thinking about supermilk so I open the door and theres this little robot shaped like a pizza zooming across the carpet. Its a vacuum. Freaks me out. If Dags fam has robot vacuums they probably also have security cams so I haul ass out a there and bust through some rooms and theres Dag sitting at a piano longside Piano Lady.

* * *

Piano Ladys like <Well, hello there> so I say some polite garbage and she laughs and for a minute both a us are cool. Dag though looks panicked. I guess that means her George Clooney and Sandra Bullocks folks dont know about me and if they come home and find a kid like me in their crib Dags gonna be in a fix. Its all right. I aint offended or nothing. House is too clean anyway. I dont even say bye, I just run out the door so fast Im past the flowers and down the drive and at the mailbox before I notice Im footing around in socks but I cant make myself go back and thats why today, and every single other day since, the only thing Ive got for shoes are these nice blue and silver striped snowboots.

Dear Lotte,

Ding-dong, mail call. Can you feel the difference? It’s the absence of prying eyes. Papa declared I was old enough to write you without him and Mama peeking. Uh, yeah? I stuffed Clara Bear McGrumpy in the trash over a year ago? It’s not like I couldn’t have gotten the Clinic’s address online if I wanted. Anyway, you better believe I’m using my own hot little hand to drop this in a mailbox. Mama’s the world’s worst snoop. As you know.