A toad leaps from the bank of the pond to a log that’s half-submerged under water. I quickly sketch each of them, as fast as my hand will let me. I don’t want to miss any detail.

“Dewey, are you doing this?” I ask as I watch, mesmerized.

Wait for it . . . here it comes again!

She looks at the water and barks at the exact moment another fish bursts out of the surface and splashes back under again. Animals surround us—they chatter and twitch and sniff, inspecting us. A tiny chipmunk scrambles onto the blanket and sniffs Dewey’s tail.

“This is like magic,” I whisper.

Dewey seems to smile as she raises her head to look at me. I draw a thought bubble over the scene and record her words: It’s not magic. This is how things always are.

Just then, my phone rings in my pocket, and all the animals scatter away from us like leaves in the wind.

It rings again.

“H-hello?” I answer.

It’s Mom. “Sadie, you should’ve been home almost twenty minutes ago.” I pull my phone away from my face to look at the time—I don’t know how it went by so fast. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Everything’s fine; we’ll head home soon.”

I hang up and look around.

“Gramps, you saw all of that too, right?” I ask, because I’m honestly not sure if my imagination was running wild or not.

“I did,” he says, nodding. “It’s pretty amazing what can happen when you take the time to sit still and just pay attention to what’s around you.”

“Yeah,” I agree, rubbing the soft part behind Dewey’s ears. It’s as soft as the real Dango’s fur.

“Like I always say, inspiration’s everywhere when you look for it.” Gramps begins to maneuver to his knees, and Dewey leaps up to position herself beside him as he finds his balance. “Now, let’s get me home before I turn into a pumpkin.”

Chapter 24

THIS IS NOT A FIRE DRILL

Lying in bed, I think about what Gramps said earlier in the woods about my graphic novel: Great stuff. Maybe I let Bailey’s stunt on the bus at the beginning of the year make me feel like my story, my drawings, were dumb and babyish. But today, when I was drawing with Dewey and Gramps there, inspiration just flowing in from all around us—it didn’t feel dumb. It felt . . . important.

I drift off into a dream of S. Hawkins, and her journey across the mountain with her loving sidekick, who she keeps calling Earthling.

That’s not my name, you know, is the last thing I remember thinking before I fall completely asleep.