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asks, doing that angel smile of hers. She rubs her cheek against the kitten she’s holding.
    “It’s different,” I say, trying to decide if this is the real Kat.
    “Thanks! I like different.”
    “Me too.” I reach out to pet her kitten, but it squirms to get away.
    “Don’t take it personally,” Kat says. “Kitten’s shy. I’m going to write Catman about her.” She runs her finger along the kitten’s gray-white head. “Better hurry. You missed Mom, but Dad made breakfast.” She dips out, closing the door after her.
    “Morning, Dakota!” Popeye calls when I come downstairs.
    “Morning . . . Popeye,” I answer, trying the name out loud. He doesn’t flinch.
    “Sad, sad, sad that you missed Miami. She looked radiant today. I tell you, that woman gets more beautiful every day! Don’t you agree, Wes?”
    “Whatever.” Wes is working through a stack of pancakes that appear to be dog shaped. Rex is at his feet.
    I pour myself a glass of juice. Dogs are barking somewhere. “Is that coming from upstairs?”
    “Yeah.” Wes says this like I’ve challenged him to a duel. “So?”
    Popeye smiles at both of us. “You’ll have to get Wes to tell you about his dog business. He’s placed over two dozen dogs, and none have been returned.”
    “Cool. Mind if I check e-mail?” I ask.
    “Be my guest.” Popeye stabs a bacon strip and slaps it into the frying pan. “Never quite took to the e-mail. Give me real junk mail, the kind that shows up in the mailbox out front. And love letters! What would have become of all my love letters to Miami if they’d been love e-mails? Which reminds me . . .” He grabs a handful of letters from the counter and hands them to Wes. “Wes, would you run these out to the mailbox and put the flag up so the postman will take them? He’ll be here any minute.”
    Wes sighs, but he does it.
    I move to the computer. When the screen pops on, I’m in someone’s in-box. “Okay if I close out of this account and go to mine?”
    “Go right ahead,” Popeye says, still frying up bacon. “Miami forgets when she’s in a hurry, which she always is. Now, she’s a different story when it comes to e-mail. Uses it all the time. Why, I remember one time when . . .”
    I’m only half listening as I log in to my account.
    Yes! Neil’s written me back already. Right below my question “How am I supposed to get up to Chicago?” Neil’s written one word: Drive.
    This is so Neil. Just because he never worries about anything and always finds a way to get what he wants, he thinks everybody should be like that. I check when he sent the e-mail. Three minutes ago. I don’t see instant messenger on this computer, but there’s a chance I can catch Neil while he’s still online.
    As fast as I can, I type a reply:
    Neil, how am I going to drive to Chicago?
    A. I don’t have a car.
    B. I don’t know how to drive!
    I hit Send and wait.
    “Dakota, would you like a short stack of pancakes?” Popeye asks.
    “No thanks,” I answer, staring at the screen, willing an e-mail to appear.
    “We must eat to keep up our strength,” Popeye insists.
    “Okay.”
    Ding. New mail.
    It’s from Neil. He’s actually there, at the other end of cyberspace. Neil has typed in answers to my twofold question:
    Dakota says: I don’t have a car.
    Neil says: GET ONE.
    Dakota says: I don’t know how to drive.
    Neil says: LEARN.
    Thanks a lot, Neil.
    I log off, knowing that’s as far as I can take this with Neil. What he’s saying between the lines is: Dakota, grow up. If I can get you from Chicago to California, the least you can do is get to Chicago.
    And he’s right. It’s up to me.
    As soon as I sit at the table, Popeye sets down a plate of horse-head pancakes. “Would you prefer cats or dogs?” he offers.
    “Horses are good,” I assure him.
    Wes comes back from the mailbox, snaps a leash on Rex, and leaves without a word. This kid really doesn’t like me.
    Kat walks through the kitchen, carrying four