THE EIGHTH OCTOPUS

“I hope it’s not another octopus,” Adam said as he opened the birthday present from his great-aunt Sophie. He spoke quietly so she wouldn’t hear.

Every year, Great-aunt Sophie brought Adam an octopus. She was an oceanographer, and had set up a special saltwater tank when she’d brought the first octopus. Adam had been too young to remember that first birthday, but his parents had taken plenty of photos.

This was his eighth birthday, so he already had seven of these unusual presents, which seemed like at least six more than anyone would need. Seven octopi occupied the tank in Adam’s bedroom. Fourteen eyes blinked at him each morning. Fifty-six tentacles rippled in the water, waving at him each day as he went out to play.

Seven octopi.

Now, it was October eighth, and Adam unwrapped his unsurprising eighth octopi.

“Oh, this one’s very pretty,” Adam’s mother said with barely a shudder in her voice as she leaned over his shoulder and stared down at the half-open package. “What do we say?” she asked, nudging Adam in the back.

“Thank you very much, Great-aunt Sophie,” Adam said as the octopus helped unwrap itself.

“My pleasure,” Great-aunt Sophie said. “A child can never have too many octopi.”

“Guess I’ll put it in the tank with the others.” Adam carried the plastic bowl up the steps and into his room.

“Join your friends,” Adam said as he tipped the octopus into the tank.

Now eight octopi occupied the tank in Adam’s room.

Sixteen eyes blinked at him.

Sixty-four tentacles rippled in the water.

Each tentacle touched every other tentacle one at a time, creating more tentacle touches than Adam could count. The water bubbled and frothed. The octopi moved closer together.

And closer.

Adam gasped. The air flared and glared with a giant octopossible flash. Adam staggered back and blinked. He blinked again, but what he saw wouldn’t blink away. When he looked into the tank after the last of the frothy bubbles had burst, he found a single amazing octopus with sixty-four octotangled tentacles, sixteen octoblinkable eyes, and eight octo-openable octoclosable mouths, all on one octo-impossible slightly octagonal head.

Unlike the seven uncoupled octopi that had each seemed content to lie at the bottom of the tank, Adam’s newest octopus—an octoproduct of all the previous octopi—appeared to want to wander.

It hoisted its octoriffic body from the depths of the tank and flipped over the edge, bouncing to the floor with a gentle octosplat not unlike the landing a wet bath sponge might make on a bathroom floor.

“I think I’ll call you Armando,” Adam said, liking the way Armando started with an A just like Adam, and even better yet, the way Armando started with an Arm.

Armando waved a half-dozen tentacles in agreement, then octowaddled toward the door, slipping and sliding, rippling and rolling, twitching and tumbling as he mastered the art of traveling on land.

“Wait for me,” Adam called. He pumped his two legs to catch up with Armando, who was already octorolling down the steps like a Slinky made of spaghetti. As Adam reached the bottom of the stairs, Armando extended a tentacle and took Adam’s hand. Together, they strolled outside.

Adam pushed Armando on the swing set. Then Armando pushed Adam, and several of his friends, all at once. They took turns on the slide, going faster each time thanks to the slight smears of octoslime, which made the metal slick and slippery. After that, Adam grabbed his baseball glove from the house and they played catch, followed by badminton, hopscotch, and jacks.

They played until it was time for dinner. And when dinner was done, Armando octocut the cake.

With Armando’s help, Adam got ready for bed in record time.

“What an octoperfect birthday,” Adam said as he crawled under the covers. “Good night,” he called to Armando.

Armando waved back, sixty-four times. Adam shut two eyes. Armando shut sixteen. But as they slept, they shared a single dream of octodays ahead.