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his parents and felt guilty about it now? But Reynie decided not to press him on the matter — Sticky seemed uncomfortable enough as it was.
    “So where do you live?” he asked, to change the subject.
    This only made Sticky polish all the harder. Perhaps he simply disliked personal questions. “Well,” he began. He cleared his throat. “Well —”
    Just then the door flew wide open, and a girl raced into the room carrying a bucket. She was extremely quick: One moment she was bursting through the door, golden-blond hair flying out behind her like a horse’s mane, and the next she was standing right beside them. Sticky leaped back in alarm.
    “What’s the matter?” he cried.
    “What’s the matter with you?” the girl replied calmly.
    “Well… what were you running from?”
    “From? I wasn’t running
from
anything. I was running
to
this room. Old Yellow Suit told me to come down here and wait with you two, so here I am. My name’s Kate Wetherall.”
    Sticky was breathing hard and casting glances at the door, as if a lion might fly in next, so it fell to Reynie to introduce them. “I’m Reynie Muldoon and this is Sticky Washington,” he said, shaking her hand and immediately regretting it — her grip was so strong it was like getting his fingers caught in a drawer. (Sticky noticed Reynie’s pained expression and quickly thrust his own hands into his pockets.) Rubbing his tender knuckles, Reynie went on, “I think the question is why you were running instead of walking.”
    “Why not? It’s faster. Now I’m here with you boys instead of trudging along the empty hallway, and it’s much better, isn’t it? You seem like nice fellows. So why do they call you Sticky?” She touched Sticky’s arm. “You don’t
feel
sticky.”
    “It’s a long story,” Sticky said, regaining his composure.
    “Let’s have it, then,” Kate said.
    So Sticky told her about his name, and then Kate revealed that she had always wanted a nickname herself. “I’ve tried to get people to call me The Great Kate Weather Machine,” she said, “but nobody ever goes along with it. I don’t suppose you boys would call me that, would you?”
    “It does seem a bit awkward for a nickname,” Reynie said mildly. “It takes a long time to say.”
    “I suppose it does,” Kate admitted, “but not if you speak very quickly.”
    “Let us think about it,” said Sticky.
    Kate nodded, agreeing. She seemed pleasant enough. She had very bright, watery blue eyes, a fair complexion, and rosy cheeks, and was unusually tall and broad-shouldered for a twelve-year-old. (She announced her age right away, for children consider their ages every bit as important as their names. In return she learned that the boys were eleven.) But what Reynie was most curious about was her bucket. It was a good, solid metal bucket, painted fire-engine red. As they were talking, Kate unfastened her belt, slipped it through the bucket handle, and fastened the belt again so that the bucket hung at her hip. From the way she did this, it was obvious she’d done it a thousand times. Reynie was fascinated. Finally he asked her what it was for.
    She gave him a quizzical look. “What kind of person doesn’t know what a bucket’s for? It’s for carrying things, silly.”
    “Yes, I know
that
,” Reynie said, “but why do you have one with you? Most people don’t carry buckets around for no particular reason.”
    “That’s true,” Kate reflected. “I’ve often noticed that, but I can’t understand why. I can’t imagine not having a bucket. How else am I to tote my things?”
    “What things?” asked Sticky, who, like Reynie, was trying to sneak a peek at the bucket’s contents.
    “I’ll show you,” Kate said, and began removing things from the bucket. First came a Swiss Army knife, a flashlight, a pen light, and a bottle of extra-strength glue, which Kate examined to be sure its lid was tightly closed. Then she produced a bag of marbles, a slingshot, a