HERITAGE JOURNALS: STORIES COLLECTED BY 6TH GRADE STUDENTS OF JAQUI EICHER, 2002

“This is a story Veron Goin told many times: Jesse Looney was the first to settle South of Salem in 1843. He had many kids and later each son had a farm on the old 99E Highway South of Salem and just North of Jefferson. The Goin Farm was on the same road. The mail boxes read–Looney Farm, Looney, Looney, Looney, Looney, Goin, Looney.”

–Smith Cox

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Silent Boy

IMG_8568_2After leaving my two-week teaching assignment in Cambodia (which is after I left my 17 year teaching assignment in Oregon), I neglected to write about The Silent Boy,  though his story continues to weave itself through my own being ever since meeting him. Just yesterday, at the fragile point of tears, I thought of him again and his immense strength; I wished then that I could have borrowed some of it.

In January of 2016, our small team of 5 adults taught English at a Cambodian public school for almost a week before we travelled to an orphanage in the Southwestern part of Cambodia. We were thrust into this day and tasked with “making the students speak English as much as possible.” I jumped into this task with as much enthusiasm as any introvert could and found myself at the outskirts of conversation as my team members, who knew more about the orphanage than I did, tried their hardest to dive into conversation with everyone.

The January climate in Cambodia is mild, if you are from Cambodia. If you’re from the Willamette Valley of Oregon however, it’s quite  hot–90 degrees F with killer humidity. As initial  bursts of conversations died down, we gathered under the gazebo in the center of the lawn. I found myself watching a very young boy (5 or 6 years old) who was walking by himself out in the lawn. “Who is that little one,” I asked. An older boy answered, “We call him Silent Boy. He doesn’t talk.”

Maybe because it appealed to the teacher in me, maybe just because I love challenges, I went to him with the intent to strike up a conversation with this ‘Silent Boy’ immediately. When we first met, he was near a little flower garden, observing something. It turned out to be a giant seed of some kind. “What is that?” I asked, not sure how much English he understood. This Silent Boy looked up at me and smiled. I continued, encouraged, “Is this a seed?” He pointed across the lawn to a tree growing along the edge. “Is this from that tree?” This was enough encouragement for him to begin walking toward the tree, pausing to look back at me; inviting me to join him.

We stood near the large tree and the Silent Boy looked up, pointing to the large fruit growing high above our heads. “Is that where this seed came from?” I asked. My new friend was busy looking for a stick, which he found and was already using to try to knock the fruit down. Clearly, the lower hanging fruit had already been knocked down and he would not reach the remaining fruit without help. I asked to borrow the stick and easily knocked the fruit to the ground, which the Silent Boy immediately collected, biting into it with the clear purpose of showing me the seed inside. The same seed I observed earlier.

We walked back across the hot lawn to the cooler gazebo, and the crowd gathered there. I showed everyone the seed and the fruit, which I learned is called Jack Fruit and is delicious when ripe. My friend and I had just happened to knock down an unripe fruit, but he continued to nibble on it. The American adults in the crowd informed me of Silent Boy’s traumatic past and I marveled that he had any smile left to offer anyone. He continued to stand near me and to offer up his toys for the crying babies, held by adults who didn’t know them.

The tenderness in my heart recognized the tenderness in his and I continue to be moved to tears by his kindness and compassion. He was a child and had already learned that the world is not a kind or easy place to be, and yet he offered kindness and tenderness back. I wondered at which point in his young life he had become silent, or if he had ever been able to express his voice at all.

As our van load of adults prepared to leave, I found an excuse to go back group of children now in the cafeteria for their lunch. I wanted to say goodbye to my new friend, Silent Boy. I tried to communicate this to the servers, but I didn’t know his name. “I want to say goodbye to the one they call Silent Boy,” I said. Finally, someone realized who I was looking for and went over to the line to get him. He looked startled as he walked over, but smiled as soon as he drew closer. I said goodbye the best way I could and offered a brief and gentle hug.

I walked back to the van, full of love and I wasn’t sure why. This tender sprout of a boy had spent time communicating with me and I enjoyed every listening moment. Our tender hearts had spoken.

Often, my tender heart only wants to communicate like this, silently; words get in my way at times, but silence can be hard to understand for some.

There’s so much more to say on this subject of silence–this is all for now.

Story

Story Water
A story is like water
That you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire and your skin. It lets them meet,
and it cleans you!

Very few can sit down
in the middle of the fire itself,
like a salamander, or Abraham.
We need intermediaries.

A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread
to bring it.

Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking
in a garden to know it.

The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal
the light that’s blazing
inside your presence.

Water, stories, the body,
all the things we do, are mediums
that hide and show what’s hidden.

Study them,
and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not.

– by Jelaluddin Rumi, taken from The Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks

When I left my 17 year-long teaching experience of the public schools, I realized a part of my problem was that I had experienced a closing off of who I am: someone who believes in God. Some at my school were vocal about those who believed in God, or who went to church, or who talked about Christ. . . they had derogatory names for us. Some even put down anyone who had ever attended a Christian school. So I grew accustomed to closing the door to that part of my life while I was at work.

Then I began teaching at my current school: a small private school to prepare adult students for the American University experience. My first class included five students–one from Samoa, two from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, one from Ethiopia and one from Brazil. In a discussion about persuasive essays and how to approach them, I mentioned hearing the Socratic Debate at Oregon State University. The topic was, “Is there a God and does it matter?” After talking for awhile amongst themselves, one student asked me, “Teacher, do you believe there is a god?”

I looked tentatively at them and said, “Hmmm, I’m not sure I can tell you.” When they asked me why not, I explained that in a public school setting it’s not a topic we can talk about because we want everyone to feel included. They all agreed they thought I was able to at this school. A wonderful moment of freedom and relief followed after I said, “Yes I do.” The students nodded and we moved on. A cloud lifted, a weight that I had been carrying for a very long time was suddenly not there. These students accepted me as a believer in god, religion had nothing to do with it. Two of these students follow Islam’s teaching, two are Mormon and one an Orthodox Christian. I felt welcomed by them in a way I hadn’t ever before.

After this experience, our class discussed many different topics and views, including their wonderful question: why are there so many different Christian churches teacher?” This question prompted a lot of interior dialogue for me. I answered their question at the time by saying just a few sentences about his each denomination holds slightly different views on certain ideas but that they are united by Christ.

Then I wondered if the different Christian groups are just reflections of preferences in worship practices which then led me to wonder: just what is the unifying message? For a long time before this, I thought I knew the answer but to be honest, recent politics in the larger church has me currently wondering whether we are united by a whole Christ, or just see different parts of him. Right now my faith in many things is shattered, including God, in a way it never has been before. My belief in a higher power remains strong, but what I thought I understood about God is constantly shifting.

The TED Talk entitled, “The Danger of a Single Story” by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie shows how one individual’s world can be shaped (or misshapen) by a narrow view of the world or any one particular idea. Chimamanda’s own view of the world was broadened by hearing and knowing different views, especially in literature. I feel as if by teaching English to my incredible students my view of God has been strengthened and broadened. My students have given me multiple stories about God instead of my single story.

Nothing To Lose

According to Oscar Ogg in his book, The 26 Letters (to which” an entire chapter has been added” since its original publication in 1948), Z comes at the end of our alphabet because the Romans realized they couldn’t get along without it. In the Greek alphabet, Z had been in sixth place and at first the Romans got rid of it altogether. But when they missed it so much and added it back to their alphabet, the best they could do was tack Z on at the end. And that’s where it stayed, which is better than not having a Z at all. Think of all the zippers left wide open, the zebras left standing in their field.

Perhaps we can understand then, the great sense of loss each business owner of a small Midwestern town felt when awakened one morning to find the Rs missing from all the reader boards in town. “Get elief f om the heat with ou  ai  conditione s and heat pumps?” declared the sign at the local hardware/variety store. ” odeo bu ge  fo only $1,” the deluxe lighted Burger King sign shouted emphatically, unaware of its senseless babble. As one business owner drove through town after finding his own 18th letter missing from each word, he began to realize the extent of the town’s loss. Obviously the first thing that must be done in an abduction case like this was to call the local constabulary. And that is what he did. “Like all good police forces,” he reported, “they were concerned and tried to find the culprit.” This didn’t take long, and before a 24-hour period had passed, all the local read board Rs were assembled on the large table in the center of the police station.

“These little letters were tricky to round up,” one policeman admitted, “mostly because they’re such thin letters. Rs aren’t real easy to spot.” Before local business owners were allowed to collect their Rs, they were asked to bring a sample of their alphabets to the station so that the police could be sure the letters were being returned to their rightful owners.

How tragic to think that one day, I might wake up, the modern casual speaking American that I am, only to find that all the Gs have been removed from print. “We’re not goin’ to need them in the future. We are just fine speakin’ without them,” someone might try to argue. And I would not be able to find a suitable argument because there would be no Gs to argue with. I wouldn’t even be able to disagree.

I think we have much to lose by not carefully attending our alphabet and treasuring each tall straight stick of certain letters and each rounded curve of others. We must teach our children the value and need for each letter in our historic collection. None should become dusty with mis-use or worn from dis-use. Nothing to lose? We have everything to lose, including our Rs. Then we have our Gs to consider. I urge you to watch your Ps and Qs with passion.

Out Of Print

(a short story as this week’s offering)

Dora rose to the bright morning sun of the first Fall day—one of Willamette Valley’s best seasons.Mist still clung, low to the ground, covering everything but the colors in the trees along the hills. Light comes so late on Autumn mornings; she knew she was starting the day behind, but still she couldn’t help but pause at the kitchen window, steaming coffee in hand, a barrier against the new chill of the old farmhouse. Tonight might be the night for the celebratory first fire of the year in the old brick fireplace.

Built by her grandfather when he lived here, Dora always celebrated the Fall weather by baking her favorite pizza dough, topping it with mozzarella and arugula, and eating the masterpiece in front of the carefully built fire. Sometimes she invited friends to join the celebration, sometimes she soaked up the fire alone, reviewing her own memories quietly. Tonight, she thought, is a personal pizza night. After the week at work that she’d had, a night alone near a cozy fire sounded like her idea of relaxing.

First though, Dora needed to get through the Friday ahead of her, which meant getting in gear and out the door in time for her lengthy commute across town to the office where two days’ worth of work waited for her and her attempt to get it done in one seemed very unlikely. She knew even before she got out of bed that day that she’d be working from home on Saturday to get all the work done, but when she saw the beautiful Fall day outside, nothing could dampen her spirit. Spinach, banana and kefir milk in the blender made breakfast and she gulped down h!er coffee before walking out the door.

Work filled the day and it seemed she was walking out the door of the office, weekend work in hand, after just turning around. It was as if the promise of the fire kindled a spark in her heart that burned warm all day long and now that she was heading home, it came to life, lighting up her face as she drove. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and was surprised by a glow she had never noticed before. As it turns out, it was the Autumn sun, low on the horizon and filtered by the farm dust in the air, turned by the many farm implements nearby. Dora felt, though, as if bathed in gold and how could she not own some of that light as part of her own self; as originating from within? She felt the flame of happiness in her spine flicker, as if fanned brighter by her spirit as she turned into her driveway. Charlie, her faithful four legged companion, rose from his post at the front door, stretched: his back arched and forepaws down. Then he bounded out to greet her at the car door. Even his eyes registered an awe at her golden appearance and searched her eyes for an explanation. “It’s just the sun Charlie Boy! Isn’t it beautiful?” His muzzle against her leg was his reply and it was enough. Together they walked up the sidewalk, poured by her grandfather, and opened the front entry door—the one no one else ever used. Dora felt a formal entry needed to be used; it was the grand gesture of a house. . . an ‘entres voux’, so she always entered through it (even with a load of groceries, though it meant a longer walk to the big kitchen). This was her homage to the house and its builders. It meant the first view she saw as she entered the house was always the brick fireplace, with the inviting hearth.
Charlie, a sprightly terrier, knew the routine and led the way inside, settling quickly on his braided rug near the fireplace. He seemed to be aware that tonight promised special events; he seemed to sense the chill and appeared content to wait for the warmth surely to come. “First the pizza dough,” Dora told him as she walked through the old house to the kitchen. Charlie rested his head on his forepaws as his eyes followed her. Once she was out of sight though, he quickly jumped up to join her. Kitchen was nearly as good as warm living room.

Dora loved the smell of yeast as the dough activated and rose; the way it filled the kitchen with its vintage flavor reminded her of her grandmother, an expert baker. As the dough rose in the red pyrex bowl (actually first owned by her grandmother) covered in the aqua linen cloth (the color of the canning cellar after Grandma went after it with a paintbrush in her hand), Dora felt the fireplace calling. Maybe it was the cool air coming through the floorboards and wallboards. Charlie gave a short ‘yip’ and led her back to the living room, commencing to direct her every m!otion.

Once the fire thrived all on its own, Dora settled comfortably on the couch, drawing her knees up and her feet under her—Charlie’s signal to join her, where he fit perfectly nestled along her shins. “Oh Charlie Boy—all we need now is a good story! Can you believeI let myself run out of reading material?” Dora questioned, looking from the bright flames to Charlie’s dark brown eyes. He replied by heaving a sigh and resting his trim head on the curve of her knee. The happy crackling of the fire and the rhythmic sensation of Charlie’s breathing next to her nearly lulled Dora to sleep, a habit she heartily tried to curb so early in the evening, when suddenly a loud POP! escaped the brick fireplace and a coal escaped to the hearth. As her eyes popped open, one thought remained in her mind: a story from The Wonder Book read to her when she was a child. Before she remembered that the fireplace in that story played such an important role—as the gathering place for Eustace Bright and all his young cousins—Dora wondered why that story landed in her semi-conscious mind.
Alert, Charlie looked intently into her eyes, as if asking what she would do about her book-less state. . . and when the pizza might be put together and baked. While looking back at Charlie, the image of the tiny attic beside the upstairs bathroom flashed momentarily, like a flash bulb atop a vintage camera. As children Dora and her sisters had accepted the job of organizing and cleaning out the old, unfinished, mouse-ridden space under the eaves of the farm house; the hard to reach place where all of her father’s and grandfather’s books and magazines ended up once the words had been devoured. Unable to purge any printed material, both her dad and her grandfather valued the printed word nearly above all else. So the books and magazined and newspapers had been stashed in every tiny crevice of the raw beamed attic and though light rarely touched their pages, Dora had known they rested there, like artifacts under a shallow depth of soil. Now, she remembered her initial rapture when her mother had assigned her the job. Her sisters had gladly allowed her to take charge of the project since they had no interest in the small, cramped space and remained content outside the small door as Dora handed out s!tacks and stacks of old volumes.

The smell of musty print had escaped as well and the smell reached Dora now, through the haze of time and memory. It tugged her eyes open; Charlie’s a half-second later, seeking a reason for the disruption of his couch time. He gazed again into her eyes as she processed her train of thought. Dora couldn’t think why the wafting scent of old books might have reached her there on the couch. Now. Print—anything actually printed on paper—had been banned ten years avon in the attempt to break society of the bad habit of using the natural resources so frivolously. She remembered days of using recycled print to start fires long ago. Now she wouldn’t even consider such a lavish act with paper—a precious commodity used for. . . well, it just wasn’t used anymore. Since paper isn’t used anymore, the post consumer recycling game had changed too. Napkins and cardboard were all made of recycled clothing these days. Clothes and plastic—now these are two things Dora thought her society still had too much of. She’d often thought the ban should be on new fashion and that a limit be placed on how much of one’s disposable income could be spent on the new fashions promoted each year. Most people ended up throwing away last year’s clothes for the silly reason that they were, “last year”. Dora didn’t. she wore clothes that her friends threw away and saved her income for art supplies. “And dog food, right Charlie?” At his name, Charlie sat up, poised for whatever might come next. Hoping for some pizza, he turned on his sparkle eyes. Distracted, Dora didn’t notice. She gazed into the fire, mesmerized by memories creeping in on her.

Soon, Dora realized there was nothing for it but to visit the attic at the top of the stairs, inside the bathroom door. Checking in on the dough and punching it down on her way through the kitchen, she smiled back at Charlie on the way up the small red staircase, “Well come on Charlie Boy! We’re going to look at the books.” An air of celebration, even more than the typical Friday night pizza and the first Fall fire day, swirled through the house, affecting everyone inside. Charlie took the stairs two at a time—a rare feat for his ten year old body.

If you didn’t know the attic was there, in the corner of the bathroom, you would never notice it. Unassuming, with its tiny hinges and latch, it blended in. Dora knew it well though and she paused in front of it, taking it all in. Long ago, Dora and her sisters pledged to never tell anyone else about the attic of books (a promise she broke when Charlie began accompanying her. She felt certain about his trustworthiness). They, at first, had wanted the pleasure of reading all to themselves. Later, the pledge became more vital when print was banned from society. They were all expected to turn in any printed material in their possession in order to completely rely on the newest digital technology. Though her sisters pleaded with Dora to comply, she refused, being the sole owner of the farm house. “No one but us knows about the attic,” she had exclaimed in exasperation.

“Don’t forget Charlie!” returned her sister. All eyes turned to Charlie, who look up innocently.

“Oh Charlie’s not going to give us up! look at him,” In the world of terriers, there never had been, nor never will be again as sweet of a display of submission as Charlie performed then. He rolled onto his back and sweetly smiled up at Dora, thus sealing the pact successfully.

So now, as Dora and Charlie paused in front of the small attic door, she recited the old pledge:  This tiny, ageless nook, Wherein we keep our books, Will forever be, Secret for three, Whenever we take a look.

After her sisters had been reassigned to other locations, she changed the words to, “secret for two—she and Charlie—though it ruined the rhyme. Charlie sat appropriately reverent as Dora opened the small door. Once the latch released, the door popped open, as if on a spring, revealing the old bed spread ‘wall paper’ she had hung in her teens. Books of all sized and volumes neatly lined the walls, arranged by size of book (a system that made perfect sense to her in her youth). Now, the job of finding The Wonder Book seemed impossibly daunting in the dim light. Dora felt completely ready for the task. Walking the “stacks” of the attic library (a term she remembered from her grandfather) needed to be done on knees, so Dara carried a pillow with her. In her heart, despite her 65 years, she was still a young girl, whose sisters waited outside—a bit of coaching on her knees wasn’t a problem for her. Charlie, poised as if on guard, watched every move with interest.

Dora had developed a rhythm for this work of secret admiration. First, all the doors had been locked downstairs, not that there was any real danger of anyone attempting to enter; no neighbors were closer than a mile and she wasn’t expecting company. Once she entered the small attic door on her knees—such a prayerful position—she repeated the rhyme of her childhood as if a prayer to the books themselves. The books were in fact characters from the t!heater of her childhood and they were, each one, well loved.

Once inside the attic of books, Dora forgot time and lost herself in a barrage of ideas, pinned in their respective boxes like butterflies, forever preserved albeit illegally in the current world. As she perused the makeshift shelving, so carefully installed by her childhood self, she re-imagined a world in which it was still acceptable to hold in your hand the literal ideas of others, made solid by the act of printing on paper. In her younger days, Dora had studied the history of print; from the invention of paper to the printing press, both incredible leaps in world communication and the spread of ideas. She remembered feeling slightly dangerous as she discussed the events leading up to the practice of printing common stories, imagined by the ordinary citizen, with her p!eers and their professors.

“But why did they take so long to ban the practice of using trees to print when the capability of digitizing the publishing world existed so long ago?” She vividly remembered asking her professor of Antiquity and Ruins one day when she felt her most brave self drawn out by the topic. Just as vivid was the professor’s answer, of course in the form of another question aimed at her.

“Which do you think is the easiest to control or censor—print or digital publishing of information?” The question had stumped her, and sometimes still stumped her. She would have become lost in the archive of her own mind’s stacks on the topic of censorship had she not h!eard Charlie whimper pathetically.

“You’re right Charlie, the fire needs tending I’m sure. Let’s check on the dough too.” With a slight hop of his front legs, Charlie willingly turned around and headed down the well-worn stairs of the old farmhouse, painted red by a loving hand ages ago. Dora let the child-sized door of the attic swing mostly closed, the small latch not quite closing completely; a tiny thread of light from the old “energy efficient” bulb (from the first quarter of the 21st century) leaking through the sliver of space and converging with the more consistent modern light of the retrofitted house. Normally Dora was a stickler about latching and camouflaging the attic door, though who would even care or have cause to inspect her old bathroom so carefully, she couldn’t imagine. Tonight, she followed Charlie to the comforts of the fire and yeasty bread, both blossoming, without a second thought about unnecessary precautions.

Downstairs the warm smell of yeast rose to meet her eager nose; Dora inhaled deeply and Charlie, standing on two legs, enjoyed the air equally, sniffing short exploratory breaths as his nose led him closer to the old fashioned glass bowl on the counter. “Charlie Boy, don’t even think about it. You’ll just have to wait until it’s out of the oven like the rest of us.” After a brief check on the fire, once it was alive fully and casting large shadows on the walls of the living room, Dora revisited the kitchen to assemble the “pizza pie” as her east coast friends were fond of calling it. She sang as she worked. Charlie skittered along the old linoleum, following Dora at every turn. “When the moon hosts your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!” Dance-like, Dora and Charlie worked like this, so familiar with each others’ company that seldom did they fluster or miss a step. Dora wondered if life could get better than this moment, right now.

After sharing the pizza, Dora nestled into the warm room, under her favorite cotton (oh the luxury of cotton!) blanket, with Charlie curled in behind the curve of her knees, head rested on her calf. She found her mind couldn’t rest though; still thinking about books upstairs and the difference between print and digital text, Dora turned to look at the fire and noticed the book sitting on the side table. “Oh!” she gasped audibly, startling Charlie, who raised his head, on alert. How long had it been since she had seen a book in three dimensions out in the “wild” of the public? Maybe never, unless you counted those on display at the Museum of Non- Compliance.

She realized then that she must have inadvertently brought it down from the attic when she checked on the fire last. Looking around shyly (who would be observing?) Dora reached slowly for that book, caressing it with both hands as she lifted it close. The Wonder Book by Nathaniel Hawthorne. She inhaled its fragrance, such a mix of unfamiliar and vintage scents. For a moment, she was lost to joy as she opened the frail copy of text: the pages could only be turned carefully to avoid crumbling or breaking. She admired the type face—an art form all its own. It seemed to match Hawthorne’s writing style perfectly.

And cousin Eustace Bright’s return to Tanglewood placed her so immediately on her own farm— in front of her fire. She had already read, “The Gorgon’s Head” before she realized the dwindling fire and Charlie’s snores. Not willing to disrupt his sleep, she snuggled deeper into her blanket and tucked The Wonder Book under her arm. She fell asleep immediately.

Even as Dora opened her eyes, she knew someone or something was in the house aside from Charlie, who was sounding an alarm of short and insistent barks in the kitchen. Thinking quickly, she pushed The Wonder Book between the back of the old couch and its fusions; as she rose, she dropped the blanket and it fell conveniently over the hiding spot. Quietly she crept to the hall to see what might be happening in the other room.

Charlie appeared to be barking at nothing, but she knew this could not be. After watching him, she began to see that he followed a path, that of a 2 foot tall small and agile robot. . . the kind designed for “searches and seizures for the safety of all”. . . as it smoothly rounded corners and gathered digital information. Dora had heard of these “Safety Bots” and had always considered them innocuous. Now she had a different opinion. She wanted a safe society as much as anyone, but now that one roamed her home uninvited (why hadn’t she locked the door?), the hair on the back of her neck stood on end and she could feel sweat droplets trailing down her back.

The smoke from the chimney must have alerted the Safety Bot—citizens were allowed four fires per year, if non-paper was used to start it. Safety Bots had been know to check for compliance, but Dora had never experienced one before. She knew, though, that anything out of compliance would be called in. Then the Safety Commission Officers would be sent to deal with the situation. That would be the end. Of everything.

Charlie’s barks brought her back from her own thinking to the present: he was barking incessantly—not his usual behavior. And his nose pointed at the door to the utility area where she kept her stash of old college books—a habit frowned upon by the Safety Commission, but not technically a safety breach; the lines were blurred. Charlie surprised her—she had considered him one of the smartest dogs and most loyal. She hadn’t questioned his loyalty.

It was then that Dora noticed the Safety Bot had been headed up the stairs until it turned and followed Charlie’s pointing. It reached up with its robotic arm extension, opened the door and began exploring. Charlie trotted over to Dora and sat obediently, looking up at her with sparkling eyes. “Good boy, Charlie,” she whispered.

After 10 minutes of waiting, the Safety Bot returned to the kitchen, issuing Dora a printed ticket and exiting through the front door, as it entered.

Out of Compliance: Paper, 8 textbooks

Return to the Museum of Non-Compliance within 2 days.
Fee: $218

Immediately, Dora picked up Charlie and covered him with kisses. “Oh you smart, smart dog! You sent the ‘Bot on a wild goose chase, didn’t you? What a good dog!” Charlie basked in the attention.