20

Abbie poured the last cup of lemonade and handed it to Mr. Norris, a wrinkly old man in a shiny blue tracksuit. “There you go, Mr. N,” she said. “My last cup.”

He gulped it down, crushed the paper cup, and slammed it onto the counter. “Mm-mm! That’s some good sarsaparilla!” he exclaimed. He turned and skated off on Rollerblades toward some elderly neighbors setting up a pair of roller-hockey nets.

In the yard next door, another group of retirees was playing a vigorous game of volleyball. Mrs. DeMartelli leaped four vertical feet and spiked the ball, sending it bouncing over a hedge. Mrs. DeMartelli was at least eighty-six years old.

Across the street a half dozen old folk pulled folding chairs out onto the lawn, joining Mr. Hirschberg, who was sitting quietly. “That’s more like it,” Abbie said to herself. “That’s what old people do.” Suddenly, they began to somersault, one by one catapulting themselves into the air, landing in handstands on their chairs, stacking themselves on Mr. Hirschberg’s shoulders like circus acrobats.

Abbie’s customers were all involved in some feat of strength or dexterity. She looked down at the empty pitcher in her hand. “Must be something in the water.”

“You look like him, too, y’know,” an old woman’s voice croaked from behind.

Abbie spun around to find the old woman with the bunny slippers standing behind her. “Mrs. Fritzler! Don’t sneak up on me in those rat slippers of yours!”

“Got more of a sassy mouth than him, though.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Your grandfather. George.” She scowled. “You are George Grimsley’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, all right, then,” she said, picking up a rag and bumping Abbie out of the way. “Don’t make me explain everything to you like you’re a brainless guppy.” Abbie smiled as Mrs. Fritzler wiped the counter. Brainless guppy, she thought. She’d have to remember to use that one on Jordan.

The sky-blue bus rumbled across the scorching desert, straight toward the bunny-shaped rock. The Bulgarian tourists bounced in their seats, snapping pictures of nothing much out the window, looking a bit confused as to where they were being taken, or when they might get lunch.

“Y’see?” Bertha yelled into the ear of a large, bearded man in the driver’s seat. “Y’see those tracks, Milo? I told ya! A giant bunny rabbit stole our balloons!”

“Bertha, sit back down and stop talkin’ crazy,” Milo said. “There ain’t no such thing as a giant desert bunny. And besides, if our balloons was dragged out here, we’d see ’em by now. Them balloons are huge.”

“I told you, this ain’t no ordinary giant desert bunny! He’s got antlers, Milo. Big ol’ antlers! I bet he used ’em to pop our balloons! Makes total sense!” She turned to the tourists. “Am I right?” They nodded, more out of polite confusion than agreement.

“Antlers? All right, I’ve heard enough. I’m turnin’ around and headin’ back—”

Bertha suddenly gasped. “MILO! DEVIL BUNNY, TWELVE O’CLOCK!” Milo looked up and slammed the brakes, sending the Bulgarians into the seatbacks in front of them.

The tourists scrambled off the bus to find Bertha grinning as Milo stared at the odd-shaped rock in the distance. Something stirred behind it. Something big. And white. And puffy.

“What in the name of heckfire?” Milo mumbled.

“I told ya,” Bertha whispered back. “Now you’ll see. You’ll see I ain’t crazy. . . .”

The large, whitish blob moved slowly out from behind the bunny-shaped rock. It looked to have big, floppy ears, a sort of round, puffy face, and a big, blobby belly. It was still too far away to make out much detail, but it was definitely huge, definitely bunnylike in shape—and most definitely on the move away from the bunny-shaped rock.

“Well, I’ll be an armadillo’s uncle,” said Milo.

“I told ya.” Bertha grinned.

Click-click-whir-zzzt-click-click, went all the Bulgarian tourists’ cameras.

“EVERYBODY BACK ONNO EL BUSSO!” Milo suddenly shouted. “EL NOW-O!” They all piled back on and Milo gunned the engine, roaring in hot pursuit across the desert.

Bertha was screaming at her husband as the white bunny-blob disappeared inside a steep, rocky ravine. “Faster, Milo! He’s gonna get away!”

“Relax, honey,” Milo said. “We got him. That ravine dead-ends. There’s no way out ’cept the way he hopped in.” He gunned the engine. The Bulgarian tourists grinned nervously at one another, hoping they were racing toward lunch.

The bus rolled into the ravine and stopped, blocking the entrance. A few hundred yards in front of them sat the huge, white bunny, bobbing gently with its enormous back to them. They all slowly piled off the bus and began sneaking up on it. The creature had a blobby butt that drooped over brown feet; a big, white back; oddly shaped lumps for ears atop a lumpy, featureless head; but—

“Hey,” Milo whispered to his wife. “Didn’t you say he had big ol’ antlers?”

Bertha looked up at the top of the devil-bunny’s head, bobbing and swaying high above the desert floor. “Wait a cottontail-pickin’ minute,” she said.

Click-click-whir-zzzt-click-click! went the Bulgarian tourists’ cameras.

Bertha and Milo waved the tourists back and approached on their own. As they got closer, the bunny’s blobby butt bobbed up and down, exposing its feet to be wooden, or wicker—like a basket—and a good six feet off the ground. They reached up under the great bunny’s butt to grab a wicker foot, and two heads popped out.

“Bombs away!” Jordan yelled. They both unloaded the huge Peggy turds, which hit the ground with a stinky SPLORT! They just missed Milo and Bertha, who dived to take cover behind a rock.

Click-click-whir-zzzt-click-click! The Bulgarian tourists snapped wildly, turning their cameras upward as the basket began to rise. SPLORT-SPLORT! SPLORT! Jordan and Eldon dropped a few more giant pellets. With each turd-bomb, they rose higher into the air, lifting skyward, up, up, and out of the ravine.

When it was safe, Milo and Bertha crawled out from the rock they were hiding behind and looked up at their hot-air balloon, which had been expertly roped into the shape of a giant devil-bunny, thanks to some good ol’-fashioned First-Class Badger Ranger knot-tying know-how.

Click-click-whir-zzzt-click-click!

As the lumpy dirigible drifted eastward, Milo noticed Bertha staring off with a crazed, empty expression on her face. “Bertha, I think we need to get outta the desert for a spell. Whaddya say we go on a nice, long cruise together?”

“Yeah . . . ,” she faintly whispered, “I think I’d like that.”