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He walked to the bed and picked up one of the boxes. This one had his name scrawled on top in thick black ink. “What do you think they are?”
    “Well, I would have said jars of tacks or sticks of glue, but now I don’t know,” Camille said. “The story she told us …”
    “It seemed like it was true,” Truman said.
    “But it couldn’t have been,” Camille said, shaking her head. “She may not like the term
grandmother
, but she is one. And grandmothers
invented
fairy tales, didn’t they? You know, to stop kids from taking shortcuts through the woods and eating apples offered by strangers.” She sat down in the wing-back. “But when I asked about her homeland, she didn’t answer me. Did you notice that?”
    “I want to know where she imported all that food from. I ate everything and I feel fine.”
    “Yeah,” Camille said. “I was sure you’d turn into a Macy’s Parade balloon.”
    Truman turned the box in his hands. He wanted it to be something special. Something
truly
special. He was tired of disappointment. Every morning when he woke up, he hoped that that day would be the one when his father came home. But each day passed with no Dad.
    “I’m opening my gift,” he said.
    “No, wait. We’ll open them together,” Camille said.Because they were twins, they were used to opening presents at the same time.
    Camille got up, went to the other bed, and picked up her box. Then she and Truman sat across from each other and said, in unison, “One, two, three!”
    They popped open the lids.
    Inside each of the boxes, a little note sat on top of tissue paper.
    Truman unfolded his and read aloud:
    “‘There are only three true seeing globes in the worlds. This one once belonged to my sister Ickbee. And now it is yours. Let it guide you. Love, Swelda.’”
    He looked at Camille. “A
seeing
globe?”
    Camille pulled out her note and read it:
    “‘This once was mine. It is one of three in the worlds enchanted for seeing. It now belongs to you—with all the power and all the responsibility that come with it. Love, Swelda.’”
    Camille rubbed her forehead. “Enchanted!” she said. “Does she think we’re second-graders?”
    “I don’t know, but I hope this isn’t more crackers or Chap-Stick.” Truman reached past the crinkly white tissue paper and felt something cool and smooth and round and heavy.
    He lifted it from the box.
    It was a glass snow globe, as big as a baby’s head.
    Camille pulled out a snow globe of her own.
    They both shook their globes, and the snow swirled up.
    “Look at this,” Camille said, holding hers to the light. “A little mud hut that seems to be covered with roots and vines.” The little house was situated in a dense forest, with treescrowding around it. “And look,” she said, “there’s an old woman peeking out of one of the windows.” They could see only half of the woman’s face; the other half was hidden behind a yellow curtain. Camille squinted. “It looks like she has two cats sitting on her shoulders.” She paused. “No,” she said, “three cats. Maybe four.”
    Truman held up his globe. The snow had settled. He and Camille peered at the miniature landscape inside. There was a large tent, its flaps billowing in the watery wind.
    There was a young man in a blue hat who seemed to have stumbled backward and fallen on the ground beside a round cage that held a straggly dog. A woman with dark skin—dry and cracked, as if mud-caked—stood over him. She was dressed in a hooded cloak. On the ground between, there lay a knife, its hilt in the shape of a snake’s head with the flared feathers of a parrot.
    “It’s like Grossbeak’s head, but on a snake,” Truman said.
    “And look at his hat,” Camille said.
    It was wooly, much like their grandmother’s hat. “That’s strange,” Truman said.
    They both inched even closer to the globe. The man on the ground was wearing a white shirt, but it was turning red—a bright spot of blood was spreading