They knocked on the front door of Ida Nee’s house and rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, Louisiana said, “Maybe she needs help. Maybe the Three Rancheros should come to her rescue.”

“Ha,” said Beverly.

“Maybe you should break and enter,” said Louisiana.

“Now, there’s an idea,” said Beverly. And she got out her pocketknife and picked the lock on Ida Nee’s front door.

“Miss Nee?” shouted Louisiana. “It’s us, the Three Rancheros.”

From somewhere deep inside the house, there came the sound of singing and also the sound of snoring.

Louisiana went around the corner first. Beverly followed her. Raymie followed Beverly.

“She’s asleep,” whispered Louisiana, turning back to them. “Look!” She pointed at Ida Nee, who was stretched out on a plaid couch. One arm was hanging almost to the floor, and with the other arm, she was holding her baton close to her chest. She had on her white boots.

There was a country music song playing on the radio. It was somebody singing about how somebody else was leaving. So many country-western songs seemed to be about people leaving other people.

Ida Nee’s mouth was hanging open.

“She looks just like a sleeping princess in a fairy tale,” said Louisiana.

“She looks like she’s drunk,” said Beverly. She bent over and tickled the top of Ida Nee’s arm.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “Don’t do that. Don’t make her angry.” Louisiana bent down close to Ida Nee’s ear. She said, “Rise and shine, Miss Nee. It’s lesson time.”

Nothing happened.

Raymie looked at Ida Nee and then she looked away. There was something scary about watching an adult sleep. It was as if no one at all were in charge of the world. Raymie stared, instead, at Lake Clara. The lake was blue and sparkling.

Clara Wingtip had sat in front of her cabin for thirty-six straight days, waiting for her husband to return from the Civil War. And then on the thirty-seventh day, she went and drowned herself in the lake. By mistake. Or on purpose. Who could say how it had happened?

On the thirty-eighth day, David Wingtip had returned.

But it was too late. It didn’t matter. Clara was already gone.

How long are you supposed to wait? That was another question that Raymie wished she had asked Mrs. Borkowski. How long should you wait, and when should you stop waiting?

Maybe, thought Raymie, I should go out to the garage and ask the moose head that question.

Tell me, why does the world exist?

“I’m going to take her baton,” said Beverly.

“What?” said Raymie.

“I’m going to take her baton. Watch.”

“No, no, no,” said Louisiana. She put her hands over her eyes. “Don’t do it. I can’t watch.”

Beverly leaned over the sleeping Ida Nee. The world became very quiet. The song on the radio ended. Ida Nee stopped snoring.

“Oh, no,” said Louisiana from behind her hands.

“Please,” said Raymie.

“Don’t be such big babies,” said Beverly. She bent over Ida Nee, and the baton became a silver rope running through Beverly’s fingers. “Ta-da!” said Beverly. She stood up. She held out the baton. It flashed in the light shining off of Lake Clara.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana.

Beverly threw the baton up in the air and caught it. “Sabotage!” she said. “Sabotage, sabotage!”

Another country music song came on the radio. Ida Nee snorted once, twice. And then she started to snore again.

Beverly threw the baton up in the air, higher this time. She twirled it behind her back. She twirled it in front of her, so fast and furious that the baton became almost invisible.

“Oh,” said Louisiana, “you’re a genius at twirling.”

“I’m a genius at everything,” said Beverly. She kept twirling. She smiled, revealing her chipped front tooth. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

And they did.