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eyes.
    â€œDo you want to hear them?”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œFirst, look at people and try to find the truth within them. You need to understand people, really understand them, if you’re going to be a hero, Oyster. Do you follow?”
    He nodded. He wasn’t sure that he followed, but he was trying.
    â€œSecond, beware of things that shine and glitter and make promises, especially promises that play on your weaknesses. Do you have weaknesses?”
    â€œYes,” Oyster said. “I’ve got plenty.”
    â€œBeware, then,” the Mapkeeper said. “Third, you have to have a strong imagination.”
    â€œOh,” Oyster said.
    â€œI know you don’t have a strong one now, but you have to be willing to work on your imagination so that you can become something.”
    â€œI guess so,” Oyster said. He felt defeated already.
    â€œWell,” the Mapkeeper said. “Do you want to see your map?”
    â€œI guess,” Oyster said.
    â€œOkay, then, quickly,” she said. “I have work to do.” She handed it to Oyster.
    It fit nicely in his hand. He opened it quickly. There it was: a colored map of a yard, a house, a swing set. It was small and lacked detail—it was just a crayon square with a labeled X for the swing set.
    â€œDo you recognize it?”
    â€œYes,” Oyster said. “I do.” Oyster felt hungry for it. He wanted to have the map, to keep it. He wondered if it would satisfy him—just to have the map, to carry it around in his pocket.
    The phone rang at that moment, a loud jangle from the office. It startled Oyster. He dropped his map. It hit the ground and curled up like a pill bug and rolled under the shelves.
    â€œI’ve got to get that phone,” the Mapkeeper said. “Collectors! Always after their piece of the pie!” She started down the row, then looked back at Oyster. “Reach under there and get that map,” she said. “I can’t bend so well anymore. Leave it on the counter, and I’ll put it up later.”
    Oyster did. He reached down and pulled out his puny map. He looked at the Mapkeeper sitting in her office chair talking to someone in a heated way.
    And this is the moment when he realized that he was going to steal the map, of course. It had been donebefore—like the boy and girl had stolen theirs those many years ago. It’s my map, Oyster thought. It’s my map, after all, not hers. You can’t steal what already belongs to you.
    So he turned, put the map in his pocket, and walked quickly to the door. The bells—he’d forgotten—jingled loudly.
    The Mapkeeper yelled out, “What’s that now?”
    Oyster stood in the open doorway. He looked back at her. She was standing in her office, staring at Oyster down one of the rows. Her hand was cupped over the phone’s mouthpiece.
    â€œI’ve got to go!” Oyster said. “I forgot that there’s an emergency! Someone with a bloody nose who needs a doctor!” And then, without waiting for her answer, he stepped out onto the sidewalk, letting the door shut, and took off running back past the bank with its velvet ropes. He rounded the edge of Artie’s Arcade.
    And there was the nunnery van and Leatherbelly and Mrs. Fishback with a plug of tissue stuffed up each of her nostrils.
    She saw Oyster and scowled viciously. “You left me here!” she said. Oyster had never seen Mrs. Fishback so afraid—not even earlier when she’d thought they were being attacked in the van by the broom. “Why would you do that?”
    â€œYou told me to get help!” Oyster said.
    â€œI don’t like being left,” said Mrs. Fishback, her voice shaking. She lifted Leatherbelly and nuzzled him under her chin. “ You would never do that! You love me!”
    Oyster remembered what the Mapkeeper had said—that some people had gone rotten with wanting. Mrs. Fishback wanted to be