Flora & Ulysses

He sat in front of the machine. It was different from Flora’s mother’s typewriter. There was a blank screen instead of paper, and the whole contraption glowed, emitting a warm but not entirely friendly smell.

The keyboard was familiar, though. Each of the letters was there, each of them in the same place.

Flora and Tootie stood behind him, and William Spiver, the boy with dark glasses, stood behind him, too.

This was an important moment. Ulysses understood that very well. Everything depended on him typing something. He had to do it for Flora.

His whiskers trembled. He could feel them trembling. He could see them trembling.

What could he do?

He turned and sniffed his tail.

There was nothing he could do except to be himself, to try to make the letters on the keyboard speak the truth of his heart, to work to make them reveal the essence of the squirrel he was.

But what was the truth?

And what kind of squirrel was he?

He looked around the room. There was a tall window, and outside the window was the green, green world and the blue sky. Inside, there were shelves and shelves of books. And on the wall above the keyboard was a picture of a man and woman floating over a city. They were suspended in a golden light. The man was holding the woman, and she had one arm flung out in front of her as if she were pointing the way home. Ulysses liked the woman’s face. She reminded him of Flora.

Looking at the painting made the squirrel feel warm inside, certain of something. Whoever had painted the picture loved the floating man and the floating woman. He loved the city they floated above. He loved the golden light.

Just as Ulysses loved the green world outside. And the blue sky. And Flora’s round head.

His whiskers stopped trembling.

“What’s happening?” asked William Spiver.

“Nothing,” said Flora.

“He’s gone into some kind of trance,” said Tootie.

“Shhh,” said Flora.

Ulysses inched closer to the keyboard.