Little bits of wood and sawdust flew out from under the seat. Brian stomped again and again, until the anthill was flattened, the seat was jammed into the ground, and he was panting and sweating.
He stayed out of the backyard for a week.
When he finally went to check, the seat was gone. So was one whole leg of the swing set. Ants swarmed over the three remaining legs. The anthill was back, taller than ever.
âNo! Die!â Brian kicked the anthill. Then he stamped on the nearest mass of ants. He raised his foot, hoping to see a smeared mess of dead insects.
Instead, he saw living ants.
He stomped again. He screamed. He kept stomping until his sneaker fell apart.
âWhat?â
Brian raised his leg and stared at the laced-together pieces that dangled from his foot. The sneaker was shredded. As the sun moved out from behind a cloud, a flash of light caught Brianâs attention. He bent over.
The ants shone like steel, reflecting the sun.
As he stood there, they swarmed up his legs.
Brian brushed at them. Their sharp edges cut his fingers. They clung to his pants. He brushed harder. More ants swarmed.
Brian turned to run. He couldnât. The weight of the metal ants pulled him to the ground.
He fell, screaming, as hundreds more ants swarmed over him.
The screams didnât last long.
The sun moved back behind a cloud. Right before it disappeared, some of the ants flashed and glistened. Others seemed to grow duller, colored almost like flesh. The metallic ants returned to the remains of the swing set, hungry for more metal. The flesh ants milled toward the rear door of the house. They were hungry, too.
Â
CAT GOT YOUR NOSE?
âCan I have a cat?â Emily asked.
âNo, sweetie,â her mom said. âIâm sorry.â
âNo way,â her dad said. âCats stink.â
Most kids would have worked on Mom, since she was the softer of the two parents. But Emily was stunningly clever, and knew it was much easier to hit a target you could see. Mom hadnât given any real objection. Dad had lobbed a softball right over the plate.
âCats donât stink,â Emily said.
âSure they do,â Dad said. âYou know what itâs like at Miss Reakerâs house.â
Miss Reaker lived on the next block. She loved animals, and was always happy to take in stray cats. And though Miss Reakerâs house did smell a bit catty, this was exactly the answer Emily was hoping for, because it allowed her to keep her argument going.
âThat doesnât count. Miss Reaker has fifteen cats. I just want one. It wonât stink.â
âIt will stink less,â Dad said. âBut it will still stink. A big stink divided by fifteen is still a stink.â
Emily opened her mouth. Her dad held up his hand. âCats stink. End of discussion.â
End of discussion, perhaps, but the beginning of Emilyâs quest. She went to the library to read every book and magazine article she could find about smells, odors, aromas, and scents. It took her five months to learn what she needed, and another two months to perfect her anti-stink formula.
During that whole agonizing time, she never even uttered the word cat in the presence of either of her parents. But now the time had come.
âDad, if cats didnât stink, could I have one?â she asked after sheâd put the final version of the formula into a small squirt bottle.
He laughed. âSure.â
âPromise?â
âAbsolutely. I think itâs a safe promise, because cats stink. And thereâs nothing you can do about it.â
âCan we go visit Miss Reaker?â Emily asked.
Dad wrinkled his nose, but then said, âOkay. But just a quick visit.â
Emily liked visiting Miss Reaker. She made wonderful cookies, as long as you didnât mind a bit of cat hair among the chocolate chips, and the occasional little crunchy thing that was better left unidentified.
When they reached