Flora Belle Buckman! Get down here right now!”

“Don’t call me Flora Belle,” Flora muttered. She opened her eyes.

The room was bright with sunlight. She had been dreaming something wonderful. What was it?

She had been dreaming about a squirrel. In her dream, he was flying with his legs straight out in front of him and his tail straight out behind him. He was a squirrel on his way to save someone! He looked supremely, magnificently heroic.

Flora sat up and looked down at her feet. There was Ulysses, sleeping on the pillow. And he did look heroic. In fact, he was glowing. Just like Incandesto! Except oranger. He was extremely orange.

“What the heck?” said Flora.

She leaned over Ulysses and reached out a finger to touch his ear. She held the finger up to the light. Cheese. He was covered in cheese dust.

“Uh-oh,” said Flora.

“Flora!” her mother shouted. “I’m not kidding. Get down here right now!”

Flora went down the stairs and past Mary Ann, whose cheeks were glowing a healthy and disgusting pink.

“You stupid lamp,” said Flora.

“Now!” shouted Flora’s mother.

Flora broke into a trot.

She found her mother standing in the kitchen in her bathrobe, staring at the typewriter.

“What’s this?” her mother said. She pointed at the typewriter.

“That’s your typewriter,” said Flora.

She knew that her mother was absentminded and preoccupied, but this was ridiculous. How could she not recognize her own typewriter?

“I know it’s my typewriter,” said her mother. “I’m talking about the piece of paper in it. I’m talking about the words on the paper.”

Flora leaned forward. She squinted. She tried to make sense of the word typed at the top of the page.

Squirtel!

“Squirtel!” said Flora out loud; she felt a surge of delight at the zippy idiocy of the word. It was almost as good a word as Tootie.

“Keep reading,” said her mother.

“‘Squirtel!’” said Flora again. “‘I am. Ulysses. Born anew.’”

“Do you think that’s funny?” said her mother.

“Not really,” said Flora. Her heart was beating very fast in her chest. She felt dizzy.

“I have told you and told you to leave this typewriter alone,” said her mother.

“I didn’t . . .” said Flora.

“What goes on here is a serious business,” said her mother. “I am a professional writer. I am under deadline for this novel. This is no time for high jinks. Plus, you ate a whole bag of cheese puffs.”

“I did not,” said Flora.

Her mother pointed at an empty Cheese-o-mania bag on the counter. And then she pointed at the typewriter.

Flora’s mother liked to point at things.

“You left cheese dust all over the typewriter. That’s disrespectful. And you simply cannot eat a whole bag of cheese puffs. It’s not healthy. You’ll become stout.”

“I didn’t . . .” said Flora.

But then another wave of dizziness came over her.

The squirrel could type!

Holy unanticipated occurrences!

“I’m sorry,” said Flora in a small voice.

“Well,” said her mother. She raised her finger. She was obviously getting ready to point at something again.

Fortunately, the doorbell rang.