A small, clear voice spoke into my ear. “Information.”
“I hurt my fingerrr—” I said. The tears came, now that somebody was listening.
“Isn’t your mother home?” came the voice.
“No, I’m alone,” I cried.
“Are you bleeding?”
“No. I hit it with the hammer, and it hurts.”
“Do you have any ice?” she asked. I said we did.
“Then cut off a little piece of ice and hold it on your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be careful when you use the ice pick,” she said. “And don’t cry. You’ll be all right.”
After that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help with my homework, and she told me about Philadelphia and the Orinoco—the romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. I found a chipmunk one day and asked her about the food for my new pet.
