Pip shoved the heavy bookshelf hard. Behind it, a tiny door appeared—painted blue with gold stars. He gasped. Golden light spilled out.
Pip stepped through. The air smelled of cinnamon and old paper. Inside, books tumbled from the shelves. Their pages flapped like birds. A dragon book puffed smoke rings. They popped against his cheeks. Pip backed away—but the door was gone.
"Pick me! Read me!" hummed a hundred voices. Pip pressed his back to a shelf. His hands trembled.
Pip stomped his foot. "I want to go home!" he declared. A knight book clang-clanged forward. A mermaid book splashed water over his socks. He shook his head. He kicked a pile of dictionaries aside.
One small book began to glow. Its spine trembled. It hopped onto Pip's palm. Then it floated upward, its pages fluttering like a compass needle.
Pip chased the glowing book through the shifting shelves. Past stories that leaped and giggled. The book landed on the star-painted door. Click. It swung open—his rainy street.
Pip stepped out. The glowing book tucked under his arm. He walked home.
On his doorstep, Pip opened the cover. The pictures wiggled. A little boy with messy hair climbed out and waved.
