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checked his wristwatch. “Garbled Greens! We’re late. Sing! Quentin!”
    “We’re ready, Uncle!” a voice called from down the hallway.
    “Ah, good,” Grandpa Smedry said. “Come, my boy. Let me introduce you to your cousins!”

Chapter 4
    Hushlanders, I’d like to take this opportunity to commend you for reading this book. I realize the difficulty you must have gone through to obtain it – after all, no Librarian is likely to recommend it, considering the secrets it exposes about their kind.
    Actually, my experience has been that people generally don’t recommend this kind of book at all. It is far too interesting. Perhaps you have had other kinds of books recommended to you. Perhaps, even, you have been given books by friends, parents, or teachers, then told that these books are the type you “have to read.” Those books are invariably described as “important” – which, in my experience, pretty much means that they’re boring. (Words like meaningful and thoughtful are other good clues.)
    If there is a boy in these kinds of books, he will not go on an adventure to fight against Librarians, paper monsters, and one-eyed Dark Oculators. In fact, the lad will not go on an adventure or fight against anything at all. Instead, his dog will die. Or, in some cases, his mother will die. If it’s a really meaningful book, both his dog and his mother will die. (Apparently, most writers have something against dogs and mothers.)
    Neither my mother nor my dog dies in this book. I’m rather tired of those types of stories. In my opinion, such fantastical, unrealistic books – books in which boys live on mountains, families work on farms, or anyone has anything to do with the Great Depression – have a tendency to rot the brain. To combat such silliness, I’ve written the volume you now hold – a solid, true account. Hopefully, it will help anchor you in reality.
    So, when people try to give you some book with a shiny round award on the cover, be kind and gracious, but tell them that you don’t read “fantasy,” because you prefer stories that are real. Then come back here and continue your research on the cult of evil Librarians who secretly rule the world.
    “This,” Grandpa Smedry proclaimed, pointing to Sing, “is your cousin Sing Sing Smedry. He’s a specialist in ancient weapons.”
    Sing nodded modestly. He had exchanged his tunic for what appeared to be a formal kimono – though he still wore his dark sunglasses. The kimono was of a very rich dark blue silk and, though it fit him quite well, there was something… wrong about the entire presentation. More than just the fact that the kimono itself wasn’t something a regular person in America wore. Sing’s chest parted the front of the silk, and the loose garment hung tied about the waist with a large sash tucked beneath his massive stomach.
    “Uh, nice to meet you Sing… Sing,” I said.
    “You can just call my Sing,” the large man replied.
    “Ask him what his Talent is,” Grandpa whispered.
    “Oh,” I said. “Um, what’s your Talent, Sing?”
    “I can trip and fall to the ground,” Sing said.
    I blinked. “ That’s a Talent?”
    “It’s not as grand as some, I know,” Sing said, “but it serves me well.”
    “And the kimono?” I asked
    “I come from a different kingdom than your grandfather,” Sing said. “I am from Mokia, while your grandfather and Quentin are from Melerand.”
    “Okay,” I said. “But what difference does that make?”
    “It means I have to wear a different disguise from the rest of you,” Sing explained. “That way, I won’t stand out as much. If I look like a foreigner to America, people will ignore me.”
    I paused. “Whatever,” I finally said.
    “It makes perfect sense,” Grandpa Smedry said. “Trust me. We’ve researched this.” He turned and pointed to the other man. “Now, this is your cousin Quentin Smedry.” Short and wiry, Quentin wore a sharp tuxedo like that of Grandpa Smedry,