He woke with a single, giant watery eye staring at him.

He blinked. His head hurt. The gigantic eye was mesmerizing and beautiful. It was like staring at a small planet, a whole sad and lonely world.

Ulysses found it hard to look away.

He stared at the eye, and the eye stared back.

Was he dead? Had he been hit over the head with a shovel?

He could hear someone singing. He knew he should be afraid, but he didn’t feel afraid. So much had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours that somewhere along the way, he had stopped worrying. Everything had become interesting, as opposed to worrisome.

If he was dead, well, that was interesting, too.

“My eyesight is not what it was,” said a voice. “When I was a girl in Blundermeecen, I could read the sign before anyone else even saw the sign. Not that it helped me, seeing things clearly. Sometimes, it is safer not to see. In Blundermeecen, the words on the sign were often not the truth. And I ask you: What good does it do you to read the words of a lie? But that is a different story. I will tell that story later. I find this magnifying glass to be of great assistance. Yes. Yes. I see him. He is very much alive.”

“I know he’s alive,” said another voice. “I can tell that.”

Flora! Flora was here with him. How comforting.

“Hmmm, yes. I see. He is a squirrel.”

“For the love of Pete!” said Flora. “I know he’s a squirrel.”

“He is missing much fur,” said the voice.

“What kind of doctor are you?” said Flora.

The voices in the room kept singing. They were full of sadness and love and desperation. The voice belonging to the giant eye hummed along with them.

Ulysses tried to get to his feet.

A gentle hand pushed him back.

“I am the Dr. Meescham who is the doctor of philosophy,” said the voice. “My husband, the other Dr. Meescham, was the medical doctor. But he has passed away. This is a euphemism, of course. I mean to say that he is dead. He is departed from this world. He is elsewhere and singing with the angels. Ha, there is another euphemism: singing with the angels. I ask you, why is it so hard to stay away from the euphemisms? They creep in, always, and attempt to make the difficult things more pleasing. So. Let me try again. He is dead, the other Dr. Meescham, the medical one. And I hope that he is somewhere singing. Perhaps singing something from Mozart. But who knows where he is and what he is doing?”

“For the love of Pete!” said Flora again. “I need a medical doctor. Ulysses might have a concussion.”

“Shhh, shhh, calm, calm. Why are you so agitated? There is no need to worry. You are worried about what? You will tell me what happened that makes you think concussion.”

“He hit a door,” said Flora. “With his head.”

“Hmmm, yes. This could give a concussion. When I was a girl in Blundermeecen, people were often getting concussions — gifts from the trolls, you understand.”

“Gifts from the trolls?” said Flora. “What are you talking about? Look at him. Does he look like he has a concussion?”

The gigantic eye of Dr. Meescham came closer, much closer. It studied him. The beautiful voices sang. Dr. Meescham hummed. Ulysses felt strangely peaceful. If he spent the rest of his life being stared at by a giant eye and hummed over, things could be worse.

“The pupils of his little eyes are not dilated,” said Dr. Meescham.

“Dilated pupils,” said Flora. “I couldn’t remember that one.”

“So, this is good. This is a hopeful sign. Next we will see if he remembers what happened. We will check for amnesia.”

Flora’s face came into view. He was glad to see her and her round head. “Ulysses,” she said, “do you remember what happened? Do you remember being in the Giant Do-Nut?”

Did he remember being in Rita’s hair? Did he remember Rita screaming? Did he remember the man with the knife? Did he remember flying? Did he remember hitting his head very hard? Did he remember not getting to eat a giant donut? Let’s see: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. And yes.

He nodded.

“Oh,” said Dr. Meescham. “He nods his head. He communicates with you.”

“He’s, um, different. Special,” said Flora. “A special kind of squirrel.”

“Excellent! Good! I believe this!”

“Something happened to him.”

“Yes, he hit a door with his head.”

“No,” said Flora, “before that. He was vacuumed. You know, sucked up in a vacuum cleaner.”

There was a small silence. And then there was more humming from Dr. Meescham. Ulysses tried again to get to his feet and was again pushed gently back.

“You are speaking euphemistically?” said Dr. Meescham.

“I’m not,” said Flora. “I’m speaking literally. He was vacuumed. It changed him.”

“Certainly it did!” said Dr. Meescham. “Absolutely, it changed him to be vacuumed.” She raised her magnifying glass to her eye and leaned in close, studying him. She lowered the magnifying glass. “How did it change him, please?”

Ulysses stood on all fours, and no one pushed him back.

“You will speak without euphemisms,” said Dr. Meescham.

“He has powers,” said Flora. “He’s strong. And he can fly.” She paused. “Also, he types. He writes, um, poetry.”

“A typewriter! Poetry! Flight!” said Dr. Meescham. She sounded delighted.

“His name is Ulysses.”

“This,” said Dr. Meescham, “is an important name.”

“Well,” said Flora, “it was the name of the vacuum cleaner that almost killed him.”

Dr. Meescham looked Ulysses in the eye.

It was rare for someone to look a squirrel in the eye.

Ulysses pulled himself up straighter. He looked back at Dr. Meescham. He met her gaze.

“You must also list among his powers the ability to understand. This is no small thing, to understand,” Dr. Meescham said to Flora. And then she turned back to Ulysses. “You are feeling maybe a little sick to the stomach?”

Ulysses shook his head.

“Good,” said Dr. Meescham. She clapped her hands together. “I am thinking that Ulysses is not concussed. There is only this little cut on his head, other than that: fine, good, great! I am thinking that maybe the squirrel is hungry.”

Ulysses nodded.

Yes, yes! He was very hungry. He would like eggs sunny-side up.

He would like a donut. With sprinkles.