Milo pokes the Saturday square on his wall calendar. "Come on," he whispers. The calendar does not move. The clock on his desk ticks: tick, tick, tick.
Milo draws a big yellow star over Saturday. Then another. Then a third. He stacks three toy blocks beside the calendar like a countdown tower. Each morning he knocks one block down. Clatter. One block less.
On Friday evening, Milo sits cross-legged on his rug and counts every second. 11:59. He holds his breath. The clock beeps midnight. Saturday appears! Milo throws his arms up and does a happy jump — then remembers it is late and shushes himself.
The next morning, Milo's dad walks into his room holding a big black box. Milo's eyes go wide as saucers. "Happy Saturday, Milo," his dad says.
Milo's mom follows behind holding two controllers. "We figured you might want a co-pilot," she says, grinning. Milo looks at the controller, then at his mom, then at his dad. He pats the space on the bed beside him.
His dad sits down. His mom sits down. Three thumbs press buttons at the same time.
The TV flashes to life with bright colors and a loud fanfare. Milo laughs — a real, snorty laugh.
Milo's dad laughs too. The bright television glow paints their faces in shifting colors.