Because of his uncle’s job, Adam spent his time either at school or at the bakery. Adam didn’t mind. He didn’t have too many friends. Adam was, by all accounts, a peculiar boy. But we shall get to that later.
“Sure, Uncle Henry,” Adam answered. He closed the pages of Self-Guide to Caring for Mice he was reading and collected the unsold pastries from that day into a large paper bag. He lugged the bag outside.
The stars were hidden in the cloudy night sky, the moon barely visible. Adam cautiously made his way down the sidewalk, taking care to stay in the parts lit by streetlights as he approached the Hole.
Most things don’t belong in holes. Holes are damp and dark, and ideal for dog bones, trash, and pesky night critters that dig up people’s vegetable gardens. In the same way, the Hole was what most people called the local homeless shelter and, with it, the city’s unwanted inhabitants.
As usual, the Hole’s tired brick walls and murky windows greeted Adam. Several disheveled folks stood outside the scratched door, their worn faces half-hidden in the shadows, their hands stuffed in their pockets. None of them seemed to have smiled in a long time. Adam sometimes wondered if they’d forgotten how.
He passed them silently and went inside the battered building to the kitchen. A skinny, elderly man in a wheelchair sat stirring a large pot of what smelled like cabbage stew. Upon hearing Adam’s footsteps, he turned his tanned and weathered face to the boy and broke into a nearly toothless grin.
“Hello, fellow!” said the old man.
“Hi, Victor. Special delivery,” Adam murmured. He placed the bag of muffins and croissants in the man’s outstretched hands. “Extras from today.”
Victor was a resident of the homeless shelter. He spent his mornings on the streets, chatting with the other homeless folks or telling entertaining tales to children. He spent his evenings cooking for the hungry. Victor was one of the few people Adam didn’t mind talking to. The old man never made fun of Adam for his eyes or size.
Victor gratefully took the pastries and held the bag close to his scruffy beard. “They smell wonderful,” he sighed, and put the crinkled bag in the basket attached to his wheelchair. Rumor had it that he lost his leg in a street fight against a bulldog. Or was it an alligator? Victor changed the story every time he told it.
Adam mumbled something in reply. Victor leaned forward with his ear cupped. “Sorry, sonny, my hearing isn’t as good as it once was.”
The twelve-year-old said louder, “There’s a blueberry muffin in there. Your favorite.”
“Excellent. I’ll make sure to save that for myself. Did you know, just this morning, I met a lady who grows blueberries for a living? Right in a little garden on the roof of her apartment building. Just imagine the mathematical probability of a blueberry patch’s existence on a rooftop like that…”
Normally, Adam would stay longer to listen to Victor recount his day’s adventures and conversations. The old man had a way of telling stories that instantly captivated listeners, even if the story was about something as simple as going to the grocery store for milk.
But that evening, something particular was weighing on Adam’s mind, and he itched to return home as soon as possible.
Victor seemed to read his thoughts. “How is Speedy?” the old man asked.
Speedy was Adam’s pet mouse, rescued from the confines of the Biscuit Basket’s kitchen cabinet one fateful evening two months ago. Uncle Henry had been preparing a batch of vanilla cupcakes and was searching the cabinet for a box of rainbow sprinkles when the white mouse peeked out from behind a jar of flour. Before Uncle Henry could react, the mouse had zoomed down the baker’s outstretched arm onto the counter. Uncle Henry, who liked rodents as much as he liked moldy cupcakes, didn’t hesitate to grab his bread knife. It was Adam’s dismayed “Wait, don’t hurt it!” that stopped what would have been a disastrous evening for Speedy.
Speedy was a big reason Adam didn’t need friends at school. The mouse did what any boy could do: eat, run, sleep, listen. What’s more, Speedy could do tricks. He could climb onto Adam’s hand when his name was called, and wiggle his pink nose and soft whiskers against Adam’s fingers. He could stand up on his tiny hind legs when directed. He had once even crawled across a pencil Adam held in midair. Adam was very fond of the dear mouse, though he wisely avoided letting Uncle Henry know he’d adopted it.
“Speedy’s fine.” Adam avoided Victor’s eyes and cleared the catch in his throat. “I have to get back home. See you later.”
“Goodbye! Say hello to your uncle for me.”
Adam and his uncle lived in the small apartment above the Biscuit Basket. It had one bedroom the size of a normal closet, a narrow kitchen, a tight bathroom, and a living room that might have been spacious had it not doubled as Uncle Henry’s bedroom and a storage space for baking utensils. The one good thing about a cramped apartment above a bakery was that every nook and cranny smelled of baked goods.
After returning home, Adam raced to his bedroom. He stepped over the animal care brochures and half-finished library books he’d borrowed, and reached under his narrow mattress to retrieve the old shoebox where Speedy slept. He gently prodded the white mouse, but it didn’t budge. The mouse hadn’t moved in a day, and its breaths were faint.
“Come on, buddy,” Adam whispered. “I brought you something.” He placed a smashed blueberry inside the box next to Speedy. Blueberries, according to Self-Guide to Caring for Mice, had “antioxidants”—nutritious energy that supposedly boosted the body. It should make Speedy move again.
Adam waited, but nothing happened.
“Adam?” Uncle Henry peered inside the room.
Adam shoved the box behind him, but not before his uncle had caught a glimpse. His uncle sighed.
“Adam, we’ve talked about this,” he said.
