“Do you think he can hear us?”
Yellow’s eyes rolled. Sometimes, she wished she had the strength to tip off the wooden shelf and end all this. “Red. How many times are going to keep asking that? And how many times am I going to tell you the same answer? He can’t hear us. And even if he could, he’s sixty-nine. We’ve been watching him for all his life. He’s not going to open us.”
“But…” Red sniffled. “But what if he does?”
“He won’t. Now be quiet.”
“But why do we have to be quiet if he can’t hear us?”
“No, I mean… I mean that you should be quiet. I’m trying to sleep.”
“But how can we sleep? We’re made of wood.”
“Because we’re enchanted.”
“But who made us enchanted and think and talk to each other?”
“He did — Arthur did. The one you’re always raving about.”
“But why would he do it? That’s such a mean thing to do.”
Yellow sighed. She looked at Arthur across the living room, rocking in his chair and reading his Sunday column.
His eyes gently rose from the pages.
And ever so gently, they crinkled in sadistic delight.
“Well…” Yellow said, “be glad you don’t remember what he did to me.”