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colors the way they would if he had someone to talk to, or something to eat, or if someone was cooking something nearby. Yipsmix is a world of muted colors—browns and tans and sages and grays. His senses provided the colors, and his senses were dulled by sadness.
    â€œKlingdux,” he said. His pet looked up at him. “Aw, Klingdux, I’m so sorry. Mom says we’ll starve if we don’t get some food. You’re the best freasel ever. I don’t want to sell you, but I have to.” He choked up a little. “I’ll work extra at the farmers’ market. I’ll get you back. I promise I will.”
    Halfway to the marketplace, someone rode up behind him. Jaq braced himself, expecting a Tormy dust assault, butit wasn’t Tormy. When he turned around, he saw an elegantly dressed man riding a deluxe hoverbike that seemed to float on a whisper. Even the bell on his handlebars sounded expensive.
    Ping . . . la-di-da!
    So fancy.
    â€œThat a wipper-slinger?” the man asked. He took off his helmet, and Jaq saw the most perfect hair he’d ever seen in his life. His jaw dropped at the sight of that hair. So wavy and precise, all the hairs in perfect formation.
    Until the wippers had arrived, Jaq had never paid much attention to hair. He knew his hair was a bit scraggly and long, but he’d always liked it that way. He didn’t want to look like Tormy, with his short, neatly parted hair. This guy, though, was something else.
Wow, to have hair like that
.
    Jaq nodded, hypnotized.
    â€œNice,” the man said. “My name’s Davardi, by the way. Are you selling that wipper-slinger?”
    â€œHuh?” Jaq knew the man had asked him something, but he didn’t hear anything after the word “Davardi.” The name filled his mouth with the most magnificent flavor.
    â€œAre you selling that wipper-slinger?” the man asked again, smiling. He had perfect teeth, too.
    â€œYep. My mom says I can get thirty damars.”
    â€œIn your dreams,” the man said with a friendly smile.
    He was right. Jaq’s mom had told him to settle for twenty-five but to start higher.
    â€œListen,” the man said. “How about a trade?”
    â€œNah, I need the money. For food.” Jaq rubbed his belly.
    â€œAnd when the food’s gone, then what? No, what you need is opportunity.” He dismounted and walked over to Jaq. “That’s what I got. I got so much opportunity, it’s busting out of my pockets. Why, look here.”
    He held an old-fashioned key with a long shaft. One side was roundish, filled with curlicues; the other had notches that were square and precise, like mathematics. It was a graceful combination of logic and whimsy, and Jaq thought it was beautiful.
    But it was just a big key.
    Trade my wipper-slinger for an old key? Not likely, Mr. Perfect
.
    â€œIt’s a special key,” the man said. “Opens the market’s VIP pantry. You’ve seen the place, I’m sure. Back behind the restaurant supply depot?”
    â€œRight,” Jaq said. “I’ve seen that place.” He’d always wondered what was in that big building. He pictured stacks of hushware plates and platters, though, like his mom made at the factory. All the best restaurants used hushware, so thatforks and knives didn’t make that clinky-scrapey sound on a plate when people were eating. That kind of sound ruins an otherwise delightful meal.
    â€œThey only give out, like, seven of these keys. It entitles the owner to free access to all that food. The place is never empty. Me? I got all the food I need. This key is worthless to me. But I do have a giant wipper problem. I’m desperate. Pests-B-Gone is all out of freasels. Your mother will be very proud of you when she sees this.”
    Jaq thought about it. If this pantry thing was true, then he could surprise his mom and grandpa with loads of food. They’d be so happy. And