4

Ben and Pearl skidded to a stop outside the tall wrought-iron gate that guarded the old button factory. A heavy padlock hung from the bars, along with a sign that read:

Fortunately, Pearl and Ben had an appointment. Their apprenticeships were scheduled to begin at precisely 8:00 AM.

“We’re two minutes early,” Ben reported.

“Early is better than late,” Pearl said. She didn’t want to give Dr. Woo a reason to fire her. With her hands wrapped around the bars, Pearl peered through the gate, watching for the hospital’s front door to open. Would Mr. Tabby come get them, or would Dr. Woo?

The concrete building, which had once housed the Buttonville Button Factory, stood ten stories high. Many of the windows were broken. The grounds surrounding the structure had been neglected, so weeds grew up to Pearl’s knees. In its glory days, the button factory had been filled with the sounds of machinery grinding, people chatting, and delivery trucks coming and going. Now only an occasional growl escaped through the broken panes. The place looked like a hotel for ghosts.

At eight o’clock precisely, the doorknob turned. Pearl’s heart did a little flutter. This was always an exciting moment, anticipation building like steam in a kettle. The front door opened and out stepped Dr. Woo’s assistant, Mr. Tabby. He always looked like a butler, and today was no different. He wore a pair of perfectly pressed black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a burgundy velveteen vest. His long red hair was tied back in a ribbon, and his mustache was waxed into individual strands. As he strode down the driveway, gravel crunched beneath his polished black shoes.

“What’s he carrying?” Pearl asked.

“Looks like a suitcase,” Ben said.

Indeed, while one of Mr. Tabby’s hands held a ring of keys, the other pulled a wheeled plaid bag. Pearl and Ben stepped back while Mr. Tabby unlocked the padlock. The brass key ring reminded Pearl of the kind that bulls wore in their snouts. Then Mr. Tabby swung open the gate. “Good morning,” he said, his nose sniffing the air. A low growl vibrated in his throat. “Do I detect the scent of dachshund?”

“Dach-what?” Pearl asked.

“That’s the official name for wiener dogs,” Ben explained. Then he held his palms up to Mr. Tabby’s nose. “I petted a pair of them.”