“I suppose,” Uncle Herbert said. “But technically if she’s going to play with it, then sort of by definition it’s also a toy. If you think about it.”
Kate’s father stopped and thought about it, which was a tactical error. What he probably should have done, Kate thought, was lose his temper and call the police.
Her mother didn’t have this problem. She came tearing out of the house yelling.
“Herbert, you blazing blockhead, what the blaze do you think you’re doing? Get this thing out of here! Kids, get off the train!”
She said that last part because while all this was going on Kate and Tom had gotten up onto the flatbed truck and were starting to climb up the sides of the train. They couldn’t stop themselves. With all the pipes and knobs and spokes and whatnot it was like rock climbing.
They reluctantly got off it and retreated to a safe distance, but Kate still couldn’t stop looking at it. It was giant and black and complicated, with lots of fiddly little bits that obviously did interesting things, and a cozy little cab that you could sit in. It looked ominous and fascinating, like a sleeping dinosaur. The longer you looked at it, the more interesting it got.
And it was real. It was almost like she’d been waiting for it without knowing it. She kind of loved it.
Stenciled along the side of the tender, in small white capital letters, were the words:
That was its name. They’d written it with a long, thin arrow sticking through the letters.
2
Uncle Herbert Shows No Improvement
“IT’S NOT EVEN SILVER,” KATE’S FATHER SAID. “IT’S black. And what would you do with a silver arrow anyway?”
“Hunt werewolves,” Kate said. “Obviously.”
“And where would we even put it?” said her mother.
“Oh, I figured that out,” Uncle Herbert said. “We’ll set it up on some tracks in the backyard.”
“On some—! In the back—!” Kate’s mom was so angry she couldn’t even finish her sentences. “Herbert, you are such a blockhead!”
“We’re not putting train tracks in our backyard,” Kate’s father said. “That’s where my shade garden is going to go.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do it yourselves,” Uncle Herbert said proudly. “I’ve already done it! I got some workers to do it last night. I had them use muffled hammers so you wouldn’t wake up.”
Kate’s parents stared at Uncle Herbert. Privately Kate thought that for a guy in a banana-yellow suit he was turning out to be a pretty sharp operator. It occurred to her that this was a good practical application of something one of her heroes used to say, which is that sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.
