Sofia and Paul turned in unison to look at the door one last time.

“Wonder what he’s doing now,” Paul said.

Sofia touched Paul’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” she whispered, barely audible. “Master George’ll help us find him.” She nodded, then ran off toward Sally.

Paul followed; every step felt like a sledgehammer against his forearm. My only hope now is a tiny, fat dude named Rutger. Great.

They probably walked half a mile before Sally stopped and turned to face the kids behind him. “Right chere seems ’bout right. Scoot yer buns on over here.”

Paul cradled his arm tightly against his body and stepped as close to Sally as he could. Sofia pressed in from the right until they were all squished together in a small circle.

“Great balls of turtle scat!” Sally bellowed. “You ain’t gotta get so close I can smell yer pits, now do ya!”

Despite the pain, Paul snickered as he backed away a couple of steps. Sofia did the same, but her eyes kept flickering back to the wooden building.

Sally reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, digging for a few seconds before he pulled it back out again with nothing in his hand. “Ol’ George’ll be winkin’ us right directly.”

“What did you just do?” Paul asked.

Sally scrunched up his forehead like Paul had just asked him what the color green looked like. “Triggered the nanobobbamajig, boy, what else?”

Before Paul could ask another question, he felt a quick chill flash across his shoulders and down his spine. The drab world around him vanished, replaced instantly by a room filled with leather couches and chairs, a warm fire crackling and spitting in a small brick fireplace. Master George stood in front of it, the Barrier Wand clasped in his hands and Muffintops the cat purring at his heels. Rutger perched on a floor pillow, leaning back against one of the sofas, his hands folded and resting on top of his huge belly.

“Quickly,” Master George sputtered, throwing all greetings and formalities out the window. “Have a seat and tell us everything, and I mean everything!”

“My arm,” Paul said, his voice breaking on the last word. “My arm,” he repeated. Now that help was so close, the pain seemed to intensify, flaring through his whole body as if more than one bone had been broken.

Master George looked down and noticed the ballooned arm, the skin stretched taut, bruised and bulging. “My goodness, man! Your arm is hurt!”

Paul said nothing, feebly attempting a smile.

“Rutger,” Master George snapped. “Take Paul to the infirmary this instant. Then wink in Doctor Hillenstat from the Second and tell him to deaden the pain, set the bone, cast it—what have you. We’ll follow you and have our discussion there. Chop-chop!”