To assist him in preparing for his new career, and to give him something to do while lying on his back on the couch with his foot propped up on pillows, my father instructed my mother to reinstate our newspaper subscription.
I resumed my ritual dash across the front yard each day to retrieve the paper, lingering in the increasingly bright mornings to read amid daffodils who waved their happy yellow heads at every passerby. But although I examined it closely every day, I found nothing in the paper that I could attribute to Orwell.
School also started up again and, with it, my interest in the science class I attended with the tousle-haired boy from across the street. It was strange how easily things worked out when it came time to choose partners for the science fair. I chose him and he chose me. Nobody laughed. Nobody teased. Nobody complained.
After school, we bounced around a basketball and a few ideas.
"Do you like rockets?" I asked.
"Not much," he said.
"Me neither," I said. "What about an experiment with seeds and plants?"
"Wouldn't that take a long time?" he asked.
"You're right. How about filtration? A filtration experiment wouldn't take very long," I suggested.
"Filtration? Of all the fascinating areas of science there are to choose from, you're interested in filtration?"
"What about weather? It's interesting."
"Too many variables," he responded.
"Maybe we should do something with food," I suggested.
"Now you're talking. Let's go check out your refrigerator."
"Really? You want to do a food experiment?" I asked, happy to have worked things out to his satisfaction.
"Of course not," he replied. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat while we figure out something that's never been done before. That's what I want to do. A scientific breakthrough! With nachos on the side!"
We passed my father sleeping on the couch. The newspaper was laid neatly across his chest. A headline caught my eye: GLOBAL SITUATION CHANGES AGAIN—FUTURE UNCERTAIN. This, I thought, is what the newspaper business is all about. Everything changes every day. The people who work at the newspaper simply write it down.
In the kitchen, we found Orwell leaning against the dishwasher eating lettuce. He looked up eagerly when we arrived.
"That's a cool rabbit," the tousle-haired boy said. "How did you teach him to stand up like that?"
"I don't teach Orwell. Orwell teaches me," I replied, popping some chips and cheese into the microwave oven.
"Huh?"
"Orwell is a very special rabbit," I said proudly.
"Sure," he said. "And your cat is a very special cat and your dog is a very special dog and these nachos, also very special, are soon to be history. Got anything to drink? Juice? Soda? Chocolate milk?"
I poured us each a big glass of orange juice, and with Orwell in the room listening without objection, told the tousle-haired boy everything I knew about the rabbit, his medical history, his language skills, his influence over games of chance. When I had finished, he pushed his empty plate aside and leaned across the table, his face just inches from mine, so close I could smell the lingering fragrance of the soap he'd used that morning.
"Now that's what I mean by scientific breakthrough," he whispered, beaming. Then, quickly standing up straight and combing his fingers through his hair, he added, "Assuming, of course, that what you say is true."
"Don't take my word for it," I said. "There are others around here who can convince you."
From over by the dishwasher came the sound of one paw clapping. Tap-tap-tap-ta-tap!