Pippa squints at the picture book. The words jiggle, slide, and scatter off the page like gray tadpoles.
"Ugh!" she hisses. Tick-tick-tick. She drops the book and points toward the back of the library.
Dust motes drift through the slanting light. The tallest shelf swallows the back wall whole.
Pippa pokes behind the top of the tallest shelf. Her knuckles bump a tiny book, no bigger than a sparrow.
The tiny book rustles and whispers, "Read me." She tucks it under her chin and opens the first page.
Pippa sits cross-legged and turns each tiny page. The swimming words wobble, slow, and spread across the whole library.
Scratch-scratch. Hum. Scratch-scratch. The words land flat like little boats. She reads the last page. The whisper stops.
Pippa tucks the tiny book back on the shelf and looks up. Every word on every page is still and clear.
She taps one letter. It stays. A wide grin cracks her face. She grabs her backpack and bolts for the door.
Pippa marches into her sunlit classroom, golden stripes on the tile. BRRRING. She scribbles "Next: the book behind the map cabinet," stamps the page with a muddy thumbprint, slides into her chair—still grinning.