Nonplussed, Dalziel ate the hula hoop. She’d had worse.
Hopeful, Emily reached out with a crooked right index finger—log-lumpy and cozy, campfire-evoking sturdiness—and touched the “POST” button on her status update.
Irritated, Annabelle tipped the coffee cup to look inside. Sure enough, that stupid ceramic cat peeked back at her, unbroken, coffee to its neck.
A hard vinyl lip edges the backseat and digs into Darian’s ankles, leaving a ridge where they hit, small legs sticking out from his best shorts and pasted to the seat from heat and nervous sweat. Ripping them off was going to hurt.
Frightened, Lucy watched the tablespoon bend itself into an arrow, the sides of the bowl folding in on themselves to point directly at her brother.
“But I love it,” Malia cried, kicking wildly and wedging the gem further up into her nostril.
Please don’t, thunk the fern as Max nudged it with one finger off the window ledge in a fit of violent ennui.
“Your Dogness,” joked Blake to the ancient hound parked outside, “these are certainly exciting times.”
Slipping the Colonel Mustard into his pocket on the way out, John finally felt his anger give way to something else. “Good luck winning with the next chump, Alice,” he thought, then grabbed the candlestick for good measure.
With elation, Eli beat himself about the head and neck, positive they wouldn’t make a bleeder wear an elf hat.