“Want Kiki,” he said.

I returned to the crib and checked. No, Kiki wasn’t there. And Timmy hadn’t thrown her on the floor beside the crib.

“Here’s Blanky,” I said, plucking the green blanket from the rest of the covers and toys. “You lie down and try to sleep, and I’ll go look for Kiki. I’m sure he’s just downstairs. I’ll be back in—”

“Want Kiki!” Timmy threw Blanky overboard and howled with such volume that everyone in the house came running to see what was wrong. Dad even brought his medical bag. Once I’d convinced everybody that Timmy was unhurt, I formed them all into a posse to search the house and yard for Kiki.

Who was nowhere to be found.

In between bouts of searching, various members of the family pitched in on the effort to calm Timmy down and lull him to sleep. Rob and Michael gave him endless horsie-horsie rides, all ending up in the crib where Timmy still refused to lie down. Dad brought in an awesome assortment of living creatures for Timmy to inspect and pet—snakes, prairie dogs, iguanas, ducks, small monkeys, bats, and a half-grown skunk that he swore had been de-scented. Rose Noire dabbed lavender and chamomile essential oils on the light bulbs, put Mozart on the portable CD player, and tried to demonstrate yoga breathing exercises. Seth Early—who had heard Timmy’s wails from his lurking post across the street and come running—even offered to bring in some sheep to help calm him down. I wasn’t sure whether Timmy was supposed to count them or cuddle them, but since even the smallest of them weighed at least 150 pounds and none of them had been washed in weeks, we passed.

“In my day, we’d just give the little brat a slug of bourbon in his milk,” Dr. Blake said.

“I think not,” Mother said, in such an icy tone that even Dr. Blake got the message.

I began to suspect that our efforts to calm Timmy were having the opposite effect, so I shooed everyone downstairs to see if he would eventually calm down if left alone.

As an experiment, it was a failure.

“There he goes again,” Michael said, after yet another shriek. By this time, we were all clustered at the foot of the stairs, wincing at every noise from above—except for Mother, who was sitting nearby in the living room, reading one of her decorating magazines and frowning.

“KIKI!” Timmy shrieked. It was a heart-rending wail, slightly hoarse and quivering with pathos. We all flinched when we heard it. Well, all but Mother.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she exclaimed. She slapped her magazine down on the coffee table and began marching up the stairs.

“I thought we were testing Michael’s theory,” I whispered, as I hurried to keep up with her.

“Theory’s a bust,” Michael murmured, from the bottom of the stairs.

“I could try a massage,” Rose Noire suggested. “A drop or two of lavender in some baby oil—it works wonders with Seth’s sheep.”