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paint to cover what Mr. Zwerger had done on the cottage, and then covered the black with a rusty brown, and then some gray, and blended it all together so the cottage looked like it had been standing against the mountain winds for a long time. Then he decided that the goat looked ridiculous too. He wasn’t moving at all. Tommy dipped his brush into the gray again and took some of the white and then he redrew the goat until the goat was chewing and looking kind of thoughtful as goats do. Tommy adjusted the goat’s beard to make him look a little, oh, jaunty.
    Then he turned to the mountain, which looked ridiculous too. No one would build a cottage here if the mountain looked like that. He dipped the brush into the dark green and tinged it with some umber and he repainted the mountain so the peaks were low and round and the grass green and bowing under a brisk breeze.
    Then he drew in the suns, and he got the light, light blue of the sky right. He stepped back, then painted in the short shadows of the cottage and the goat, and was stepping back again to see if the angles worked when Mr. Zwerger came into his office.
    There were more than a few moments of absolute silence.
    Tommy Pepper watched Mr. Zwerger’s face.
    He figured that Mr. Zwerger would be pretty happy. After all, the painting had been so rucca. So rucca it was almost fah. And now—if Tommy did say so himself—it was about as illil as any painting could get. Anyone could see that.
    Except, apparently, Mr. Zwerger.
    “What did you do?” he said.
    “I finished it,” said Tommy.
    “I’ve been working on that painting for two years,” said Mr. Zwerger.
    “And now it’s done,” said Tommy.
    “What happened to the mountain?”
    “It needed—”
    “And the cottage? Do you have any idea how long it took me to paint the curlicues on that cottage?”
    “But they were—”
    “Months!” said Mr. Zwerger.
    Tommy decided that he would not point out how ridiculous the cottage had looked.
    “And what is the goat doing?”
    “He’s chewing the grass.”
    Mr. Zwerger leaned in closer. “It looks like he’s really chewing it.”
    Of course, Tommy thought.
    Mr. Zwerger took off his glasses.
    “He really is chewing it.”
    Tommy nodded.
    “His mouth is moving.”
    Tommy nodded again.
    Mr. Zwerger turned from the painting and looked at him. “How do you make his mouth move?”
    Tommy was stunned. Wasn’t it obvious? “You paint thrimble,” he said.
    “Thrimble?”
    “Thrimble,” Tommy said again. Everyone in the world knew this. Why didn’t Mr. Zwerger?
    Mr. Zwerger looked back at the painting. “How did you do this all so quickly?”
    Tommy shrugged. He had no idea.
    He wished that Mr. Zwerger could be glad the painting wasn’t rucca anymore. But he wasn’t sure that Mr. Zwerger was glad.
    “Thrimble?” Mr. Zwerger said again.
    Tommy nodded.
    Mr. Zwerger walked over to his desk, still looking at the painting. He bumped into the corner and didn’t notice the papers that fluttered down. Tommy picked them up and put them back on the desk while Mr. Zwerger sat down.
    “I suppose you use some sort of computer chip,” he said.
    “For what?” Tommy said.
    “For the thrimble thing.”
    Tommy decided to nod. It seemed easier.
    Mr. Zwerger looked at Tommy, then at the painting, then back at Tommy. He coughed once. “I understand there was some trouble on the bus today.”
    Tommy nodded.
    “Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin fell down the aisle of the bus?”
    Tommy nodded again.
    Mr. Zwerger looked at the painting. Then he turned back to Tommy.
    “Cheryl Lynn Lumpkin fell down the aisle of the bus?”
    More nodding.
    “Did you push her?”
    “I didn’t...”
    Mr. Zwerger turned back to the painting.
    “...push her.”
    Mr. Zwerger stood up and walked to the painting. “It really does look as if that goat is chewing something,” he said.
    “Grass,” said Tommy.
    “It must be grass,” said Mr. Zwerger.
    “I didn’t push Cheryl Lynn,” said