The drizzle started at the exact minute the PalmPilot said it would.
I lay on my stomach, chin propped on a balled fist, watching fat drops streak down the glass beside my crib. The soft gray light made the mobile above me look tired, its faded felt sun sagging on its thread.
The PalmPilot's interface hovered neatly in my lap, pixelated precision on a rectangle of warm plastic. I flicked past the weather screen to check the Calendar.
The topmost reminder was still there, exactly where it had been for weeks:
> Don't open the window.
The words hadn't changed, but they still made my stomach tighten. I ignored them and scrolled on. Weather accurate, time accurate — nothing to complain about.
---
The quiet broke in the kitchen down the hall. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but voices carry in old wood-and-paper buildings.
Two caretakers — Mrs. Sumi and the tall, sharp-faced one whose name I could never remember — spoke in the kind of low tones people use for bad news.
"…what happened to that poor boy last month," Sumi murmured.
"Mm. Thankfully it was quick."
A pause, heavy and careful. "Better not talk about it where the little ones can hear."
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling beams. A dozen guesses crowded my mind, none of them pleasant. But without details, it was just a question mark to file away. Another piece of a puzzle I didn't have the box for.
---
By mid-morning, Sumi was folding laundry in the common room. I toddled over with a mission.
"Sto-wy," I said, holding onto the edge of her knee for balance.
Her face lit up. "Oh? Which one today?"
"Liddle Wed," I answered.
She set the laundry aside, folding her hands in her lap as I began. I told it straight — no bowdlerized endings, no skipping the part where the wolf swallowed Grandma whole.
Sumi gasped in the right places, chuckled when Little Red complained about the wolf's teeth.
When I reached the end, she clapped lightly. "That was wonderful, Hiro. You know, if you put pictures with it, every child here would be asking for it before bed."
I tilted my head like it was the first I'd heard of such an idea. Inside, I was already slotting the suggestion into my plan like the final piece of a lock.
---
The problem was… art supplies. This was an orphanage, not an art studio. But scavenging has a long and noble tradition.
By afternoon, I'd collected my hoard:
A stub of chalk from the schoolroom bin.
Scrap paper torn from the blank backs of damaged books.
Wrapping paper smoothed flat from the kitchen pantry.
A small piece of charcoal from the fire pit, wrapped in cloth to keep from staining my hands black.
I sat cross-legged in a corner and started sketching.
My baby grip was clumsy, every line wobbling, but I could still make out the shapes:
Little Red's hood, the wolf's sharp grin, the too-big eyes in Grandma's bed.
The PalmPilot stayed closed at my side, only opening when I wanted to jot down new illustration ideas. Drawing on it directly would've been like carving into glass with a spoon. This way, the paper smudged under my hands, smelled faintly of smoke and ink — real.
---
That night, tucked into my crib, I looped the PalmPilot's stylus through the corner of my blanket. The Calendar app still glowed faintly in my mind's eye.
> Don't open the window.
Same as always.
I thought about pressing for more details.
I didn't.
Instead, I closed my eyes and pictured the next page of "Little Red" — the moment the wolf leans closer, all teeth and shadow.