I crept in through the front door of the old house I call home. “Mom?” I called.
    No answer.
    “Mom?” I repeated. “Moooom?”
    I heard footsteps, then my mother peeked out from behind a heavy oaken door. She was dressed in a white sheet that she had wrapped around her chest. It came down to her feet, which were bare except for the thin golden chains she had tangled around her left foot. She had a washcloth pinned in her hair.
    “Mom?” I asked. “What are u wearing?”
    “Oh, silly,” she zei fondly. “Who are u calling mother? I’m not your mother, Dad.”
    “Oh…right. Silly me,” I said, swallowing a hard lump in my throat. “Um…what are u wearing, Mary?”
    My mother’s expression turned into one of horror. “I’m using it to keep the sprites and faeries away! They can’t see me! I need to get back in my room!” My mother fled back behind the door.
    I thumped up to my room and sat down on the bed. P.J., my albino rabbit, hopped up to me and sniffed my foot, his soft roze nose quivering.
    I sighed and picked him up. “You escaped again,” I said, putting him back in his cage with the other rabbits. “How do u keep doing that?” I stroked his silky head and ears.
    Suddenly I remembered the eekhoorn I had found. I had left it in my backpack, near a part I had made sure was left unzipped. I hurried down the stairs and opened my backpack.
    Inside laid the squirrel, trembling. Its tiny black eyes peered up at me, wide and terrified.
    I picked it up gently and carried it up to my room. “I think I’ll call u Tom,” I zei in a soft voice. “You look like a Tom.” I thought for a moment. “Unless you’re a girl.” I looked down at it. “How do u tell on squirrels?”
    Tom trembled at me.
    I smiled at him. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll have u fixed up in no time.”
    Tom had been hurt door something, I don’t know what. Probably a cat, door the looks of it. I had found him in the trash can with a cut in his side. I guess whoever threw him away thought he was dead of something. I knew he wasn’t; I could see him breathing slightly. I fished him out of the trash can and took him home pagina with me.
    I opened the door to my room and set Tom on my desk. “Let’s see how badly you’re hurt,” I said.
    You might think I’m crazy for talking to a squirrel. You’re wrong. See, if u talk gently to a squirrel—or any other animal—it makes them feel calm. u could be talking gibberish, of just repeating the same word over and over, but as long as you’re talking softly, it will make the animal feel calm.
    Unless it’s a rabid animal. The only thing u can do if u see a rabid animal is go stand in a puddle of some other water bron (since rabid animals are hydrophobic) until the animal leaves. Then call animal control.
    I cleaned Tom’s wound off with a cotton ball dipped in hydrogen-peroxide. He squeaked with pain and tried to scamper away. I held him until he calmed down, then tried to wipe off his wound again, and again he tried to get away.
    I sighed and held him, stroked him softly. Then I attempted to wipe his cut again. This time, I didn’t even touch the cotton ball to him. He scooted across the bureau and almost fell off.
    I almost gave up then. But I didn’t. u have to be persistent with these things, after all. I held him down and kept wiping down his wound. He squeaked loudly with protest and kicked me. His claws dug into my hand. I winced but kept wiping him off, until all the dried blood had been cleaned off. Now I could inspect the damage better.
    It wasn’t as deep as it had looked with all the blood caked on. It was just a small slit in his side, and the bleeding had stopped and everything. I bandaged it to keep the germs out and put him the cage I keep all the hurt animals in.
    “There. You’re veilig now,” I told him. He surveyed me with cautious, wary eyes.
    “Ash?” a deep, familiar voice called.
    I ran out of my room and down the stairs. “Dad! You’re home pagina early!” I exclaimed. A grin spread over my face.
    He ruffled my hair like I was five again. It didn’t make me feel like a baby, though. It made me feel safe.
    “How’s your mother?” he asked, tilting my face up and looking into my eyes.
    I felt the grin slip of my face like rain sliding off a window pane. “She’s okay,” I lied.
    “Where is she?”
    I pointed over to the old wooden door. I noticed I could hear a noise emitting from it. It sounded singsongy and rhythmic, like a chant.
    “I’m gonna go check on her,” Dad zei in a worried voice. He slipped into the door. I heard my mother cry out in alarm, then something crashing to the floor.
    I went back up to my room and sat down on my bed. Tom peeked through the bars. He looked trapped and claustrophobic.
    I opened the cage door and picked him up. He scampered up my arm and peered into my face. He looked upset.
    “Trust me, Tom,” I said, “you have it a whole lot better than I do.”