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that the car she’s staring at, the car directly behind us, has a pink tassel tied to the aerial.
    We’re being followed by Slouchy and Skinny. And maybe the crabby old lady, but I’m not too worried about her.
    I don’t care about the luggage either. This is much more important. I thought all the bad stuff was over. I feel like crying. I don’t know what to do. Fortunately, Norbert is decisive.
    –
We must find a way to lose the car. k.d. lang’s driver used to turn three times really fast to discourage pepperonis
.
    “Pepperonis?” I say.
    –
think she said “pepperonis.” I hope our driver is as good as Mario. Hey, up front! Hey, there!
    The cabdriver frowns, turns right around so that one arm is along the front seat. The car sails across a lane of traffic. “You talking to me?” he says. His eyes dance in his head.
    –
Yes
, says Norbert.
    “Are you,” he pauses, staring at the dog, “talking to me?”
    –
Yes. Are you listening?
    “Me?” he says. “You’re talking to me?”
    The bridge is behind us on our left. Buildings tower over us. The cab swoops across the road. As we approach the next intersection, the driver turns around even farther to stare at us. This movement puts the wheel down. I shut my eyes. When I open them again, we’re on a different street, with the sun behind us. Somehow, we made the turn.
    We haven’t hit anyone yet, partly because we are incredibly lucky, and partly because New York drivers seem to be very alert to odd behavior on the part of other drivers.
    –
Yes
, says Norbert.
Yes, I’m talking to you
. Dog and driver stare at each other. We’re driving down a one-way street, but the arrow is pointing towards us. We’re going the wrong way. Fortunately, no one else is on the street. The driver shakes his head, causing the cab to make another unexpected turn down another street. I breathe a sign of relief. I have no idea where we’re headed, but at least we’re going in the same direction as everyone else.
    –
What part of “yes” don’t you understand?
Norbert asks. The driver shudders all over, then turns back around, grabbing the steering wheel just in time to avoid a truck in the lane next to ours. “That’s it,” he says, in his grating voice. “Talking spiders, talking toilets. Now talking dogs. I’ve got to get away.” He speeds up.
    I look around for the car with the pink tassel, but I can’t find it. I guess the skinny government man can’t keep up with our driver’s traffic antics. That’s one piece of good news.
    Frieda’s giggling. She seems a lot younger when she giggles.
    “What’s funny?” I ask her.
    “Talking toilets,” she sputters.
    The cabdriver pulls over suddenly, the way he does everything else. “Where’s my money?” he says.
    Frieda stops giggling. She peers out the window. “Wait a minute,” she says. She still has the bill in her hand.
    The cabdriver reaches back and takes it.
    “But we’re not home,” she says. “This is Rockefeller Center. We’re way too far downtown.”
    The driver ignores her. He points a forefinger at Sally. “We’ll meet again,” he says.
    –
Not if I can help it
.
    The driver gets out of the car.
    “Hey, my change!” cries Frieda. “Stop, thief! Stop him, Alan!”
    I unroll the window. “Hey, Emile!” That’s the name on the cab licence displayed on the back of the front seat. Emile Rodomar. He walks past a tall thin tower. He doesn’t look back. The meter ticks on.
    “Great job of stopping him,” Frieda says. “What are we going to do now? I don’t have any more money.” She checks her purse. “A dollar bill, three quarters, a dime, and some pennies. That’s about enough to buy a glass of water.”
    Sally barks. Frieda pats her absently. “Hey, look here. It’s not even him.” Frieda points to the picture of Émile on the cab licence – it doesn’t look anything like our driver.
    “We’re in a stolen cab,” says Frieda.
    Sally keeps barking.
    –
She wants