The true genius of Chegwin’s milkshake plan was that it appealed to a wide range of potential guests – both young and old. He stood on Lawrence’s back – who was hunched over on all fours like a Friesian cow again – and waved flyers in the air as passengers piled out of a coach at the bus terminal in town.

‘Complimentary milkshake baths for the next twenty bookings at Toffle Towers. Don’t miss out!’

‘Oooh, I’ve always wanted to bathe in milk,’ said an elderly man. ‘They say it does wonders for your skin. Count me in.’

‘Do you get to drink it too?’ asked a girl with glasses.

‘You sure do,’ said Chegwin. ‘You even get to choose the flavour.’

‘Let’s go there, Mamma!’

The shuttle bus made several trips between the terminal and Toffle Towers that morning. While the bookings would only pay back a fraction of the lost milk money, it was a good start. It also meant that visitors were coming through the hotel and word might spread. Plus, the second floor of the left wing would finally be back in use.

When the last of the guests touched down at the hotel, Chegwin met Barry on the driveway and high-fived him for his hard work. ‘The second floor looks great. Thanks for fixing it up, and thanks for flying the shuttle.’

‘No worries, mate,’ said Barry with a wink and a habitual throaty snort. ‘Dean and I haven’t had this much fun since we bulldozed his mother-in-law’s granny flat.’

Chegwin grinned.

‘Oi, you two, get outta here!’ Barry had spotted something over Chegwin’s shoulder.

Chegwin turned to see two dark shapes disappear around the far corner of the hotel.

‘Flamin’ kids,’ huffed the caretaker. ‘I’ll deal with ’em.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ said Chegwin. ‘You’ve done enough this morning. I’ll check it out.’

Toffle Towers’ ten-year-old manager was on his first ever duty as security guard. He dashed across the pebble driveway to the other end of the building and skidded around the corner.

Phunk!

He crashed straight into a skinny red-haired boy and sent him flying – bottom-first – into an empty garden pot.

‘I’m stuck,’ said the boy, struggling to remove himself.

‘How typical of you,’ said a girl about the same age as Chegwin. She poked her tongue out at her clumsy friend, adding, ‘Pot pant.’

The boy wriggled some more, then sighed and sat resting in the bowl.

Chegwin thought the pot looked strangely comfortable. Perhaps it could be a new style of design for the sofas in the lobby. He could source giant garden pots and use the foam from some of the old lounges and –

‘Are you deaf or something?’

The girl was waving her hand in front of Chegwin’s face. ‘I asked if you’re staying here.’

‘Oh, sorry about that,’ said Chegwin. ‘Sometimes I zone out.’

‘Weird,’ said the red-haired boy.

‘So are you staying here or not?’ the girl repeated.

‘You could say that,’ said Chegwin.

‘Either you are or you aren’t.’

‘Well then, yes. I am.’

The girl exchanged a look with the red-haired boy. ‘Should we ask him about it?’

The boy nodded.

‘Is it true the shuttle bus can fly?’ The two friends stared at Chegwin expectantly, waiting for his reply.

‘It sure can.’

‘I told you!’ said the girl. She turned back to Chegwin. ‘Have you been in it?’

‘I sure have.’

‘Is it fun?’

‘It sure is.’

‘How do you get to fly in it?’

‘You could sure ask the manager.’

‘Stop saying “sure”!’

‘Sure.’

‘Who’s the manager?’

‘Me.’

The girl began to laugh. So hard, in fact, Chegwin wondered if her insides would burst out of her nostrils. ‘That’s a good one,’ she chortled. ‘Come on, we need to get going.’ With that, she kicked the side of the garden pot. It shattered and the red-haired boy landed in a pile of rubble.

‘Why didn’t I think of doing that?’ he said, rubbing his bottom.

‘Because you don’t think,’ said the girl. ‘That’s my job, remember? You cause the problems, I fix the problems. Now, where is that runaway goose of yours?’

‘Honk!’

‘Over that way!’

The girl laughed again, then took her friend by the hand and they disappeared into the forest at the edge of the clearing.

Chegwin crunched some more numbers that night. It was becoming a bit of a habit. He stayed up late in his office, adding up booking payments and restaurant profits, then subtracting rocket fuel bills and exuberant milk costs. He had also been hit with a larger than usual electricity bill. Barry’s use of plug-in tools on the rocket project had chewed through a lot of power. Chegwin definitely couldn’t afford to botch up another dairy order, and he’d have to keep a close eye on fuel costs. The latest figures told him the hotel had only three weeks left before the money ran out.

He needed more bookings, fast. He had to save those jobs. The importance of kindness had been drilled into him at a young age, and he was committed to the task.

Chegwin’s train of thought was only interrupted when Dean knocked on the door. ‘Hi, Chegwin.’

‘Come in.’

The assistant caretaker sat opposite Chegwin and fidgeted with his nails. He seemed nervous.

‘Is everything okay?’

Dean wiped his brow. ‘It’s my credit card. I had to pay for an unexpected engine repair on my jetski and I’ve run up a debt.’

The word ‘debt’ stabbed at Chegwin. ‘Oh, that’s not good … How can I help?’

‘I need an advance on my pay. It would mean the world to me.’

The world. Chegwin was off in thought …

Katie had taught him that the world worked by rotating around the sun, speeding through space like a giant baseball.

He liked baseball. He loved the way the batters swung through the ball, hitting it far into the crowd. The home team’s theme song would play on the stadium organ.

Organs. They were like pianos but bigger and louder. Though he wasn’t sure if their keys were made out of ivory or plastic. He hoped it wasn’t ivory, because he had heard some horrible stories about poaching. Elephants were endangered and –

‘Thanks, Chegwin,’ said Dean. ‘I really appreciate it.’

The assistant caretaker picked up a small piece of paper and left the office.

Chegwin stared down at his desk. There was a cheque book open and he could see his signature scribbled on the latest page.

‘What have I done?’

It was more a case of what the boy hadn’t done – listen. While Dean was opening up to the young manager, telling him all about the major repairs on his jetski and the deposit he needed for an overseas holiday, Chegwin had given in to the imaginative side of his brain. He had unwittingly signed an advance pay cheque for three-thousand dollars.

Chegwin tried to be positive. ‘I would have signed it anyway,’ he said to himself. ‘Mum and Dad taught me to always help others.’

But would his parents have told him to use up a large chunk of the budget willy-nilly?

Probably not.

Things were becoming desperate. Chegwin knew he only had one idea left that he could count on. He closed his eyes, unleashed the creative side of his brain once more, and envisioned his dream for the restaurant. It would most definitely eat into the remaining budget, but it was so brilliant it could create local – maybe even national – headlines for Toffle Towers. He was convinced it was worth the risk of using every last dollar. It would guarantee the long-term employment of his staff.

Chegwin walked across the back lawn to his bedroom in the staffing quarters. He noticed the light was on in his parents’ room, which was unusual for this time of night. They were disciplined early risers.

He could hear their voices inside and stopped next to the window.

‘He’s doing such a wonderful job with the hotel,’ said Mr Toffle.

‘Yes, our sweet boy is learning so quickly – even from his mistakes,’ replied Mrs Toffle. ‘The milkshake baths were a tremendous idea.’

Chegwin’s stomach dropped. They had no idea he had burned through almost all of the money already.

‘But we’ll have to tell him sooner or later,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘We can’t keep sneaking into the right wing unnoticed. He’s too clever not to pick up on things eventually.’

Mrs Toffle lowered her voice. ‘Do you think telling him now is a good idea?’

Chegwin’s heart sped up. What was this all about? Why were they sneaking into the right wing? What did they need to tell him?

He crept closer to the window.

‘If I were in his shoes, I’d want to know,’ said Mr Toffle.

There was a pause. Chegwin could just make out his mother’s soft voice. ‘You promised me we wouldn’t tell him until the time was right. I don’t think he’s ready to hear the news. Not yet. Not when running the hotel is taking up so much of his concentration.’

There was another long silence.

‘You’re right,’ said Mr Toffle quietly. ‘I did make that promise. Chegwin doesn’t need to know about his brother.’