56

I carry a frog into Agatha’s kitchen a couple of hours later. It squirms so much I keep tightening my fingers around its slender body. It is half the size of the one Bo caught a few days ago. But it is alive and green. I can attest to the fact that it hops as high as my face.

Agatha looks up from the cucumbers she is slicing.

“What happened to you?”

I tell her the story and drip on the floor.

“Maybe you should race it for her,” Agatha says.