My bad time started one morning

when my parents sat down in my room.

“We have some difficult news,” they said.

I hate it when they say that.

It means they have terrible news.

Just rotten.

The last time they had difficult news,

they had lost my hamster.

Her name was Dr. Biggles.

My dad had left her cage open.

We went from door to door

in our Brooklyn apartment building.

We asked all the neighbors,

“Have you seen Dr. Biggles?”

But we never found her.

I tried to think what news could be as difficult as that.

“Did Grandma Sadie die?” I asked.

“Of course not!”

said my mother.

“Grandma Sadie is in excellent health,”

said my father.

“Why would you ask such a question?”

said my mother.

“She is the oldest person I know,” I said.

“I thought she might have died.

That would be difficult news.”

My mother shivered.

“Yes,” she said.

“That would be very difficult news.”

“Nobody died,”

my father said.