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the Museum of Natural History. Three rooms, lined with jars! These are only a few damaged specimens, bits and pieces, and also my son’s eyeball collection. My son is, well, he likes eyeballs. He doesn’t keep them at home because the octopus opens the jars and eats the eyeballs. But don’t worry! I never pickle anything that isn’t already dead when it got to me. And you’re alive, I think. Although I never saw anything like you before. What kind of monkey are you?”
    She came forward timidly and held out the tag pinned to her ear.
    â€œA colobus!” the red-haired man said, reading the tag. “That would be an African monkey. Obviously a clerical error. If you’re a colobus, then I’m an aardvark. Whoever put you together didn’t know what he was doing. You look more like a cebus monkey to me. South American. You have a prehensile tail, anyway. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Squiggle. Don’t look so surprised! Of course I can tell you’re a Miss. Girl monkeys have bushy whiskers—and yours are exceptionally beautiful.” He winked at her, and she saw that a picture of a frog was tattooed on his eyelid. “Now! Tell me who you are, and where you come from, and how you got here, and why that pack of fools was following you. I love a story. Put your mouth right up against my ear; your voice isn’t too loud.”
    Squiggle didn’t know whether to trust the man, but felt that she didn’t have any choice. He seemed a great deal nicer than he had looked at first.
    She put her mouth up to his hairy ear and began to tell her story. She started from when the Lesser Spotted Pickfloo had appeared on her bed, and went right through to the moment she got chased into the man’s office.
    All through the story, the red-haired man kept grunting and making little noises of amazement. You might think that he didn’t believe the story? That he thought Squiggle was either crazy or lying? Not at all. For one thing, he had the evidence right in front of him: a talking monkey. He had a look of wonder on his tattooed face, and he didn’t interrupt at all.
    When the story was over, he sat back in his chair and said, “That’s one of the stranger stories I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard some very strange ones. The first thing, little monkey, is to get you something to drink!”
    He opened a desk drawer and took out a tin canteen. It looked battered and scratched, as if it had been on safaris all over the world. “I’m sure you can drink water,” he said. “Most animals do.”
    He unscrewed the cap for her and Squiggle took a long drink. It felt like the coolest, cleanest, most wonderful breeze passing through her entire body. That is what happens when you are very thirsty and then get something nice to drink.
    â€œBut I’m so hungry,” she said. Then she said, “Please?” which shows that she had made a great deal of progress, and that being a monkey had done her some good after all.
    â€œFood, yes, that is a good point,” the red-haired man said, combing his stubby fingers through his beard. “I don’t know what to feed you because I’m not certain what species of monkey you are. South American, probably. Folivorous? That means you eat leaves. But what kind of leaves? I have an idea, Squig, that you should come home with me and sniff through my leaf collection.”
    â€œOh! Mr., Mr., um, what is your name?”
    â€œJeremiah Sponge, Ph.D.,” he said, spreading his hand out on his chest and grinning.
    â€œMr. Sponge, can I really go home with you? I…I don’t know where else I can go!”
    And that is why, even though she had just met Dr. Sponge and didn’t know him very well at all, she found herself crouching in his backpack, peering out through the half-opened zipper, while he locked up his office and left.
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11
    Dr. Sponge was full of energy. He slung