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my futon as Stieglitz whined pathetically at my feet.
    I pulled my fat flannel quilt up to my chin and waited for sleep.
    I counted sheep.
    I counted gorgeous guys.
    I counted Stieglitz’s barks that were about to shatter glass.
    Stieglitz pounced on me. “
What?
” I jumped outof bed. He was running in circles, pawing at the door.
    “
What is it?
” Stieglitz looked at me through dark, hunted eyes. “
All right
”—I yanked on my L. L. Bean arctic slipper socks—“
show me!
”

C HAPTER F OUR
    Stieglitz tore down the hall thrashing his tail and screeched to a halt at the foot of my studio steps, yelping like mad. I raced after him as the clock struck midnight (only figuratively—it was digital). Stieglitz shot up the stairs and rammed his head against my studio door with the sign on it that read DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT ENTERING .
    A weirdness wound its way like smoke into the night. It was creepy, crawly. The wind picked up outside. Stieglitz howled like a wolf in the wilderness.
    “
What is it, boy?
”
    Stieglitz scratched at the door in a fury, taking off paint, trying to shove it open.
    “
Everything
,” I screamed, “
is all right!
”
    My hand clutched the doorknob. I took a massive breath, pushed the door open…
    Stieglitz bolted through it and stopped barking.
    I leaned against the doorway and froze.
    The cupid!
    He was standing there looking at me with fiery black eyes and little rosy cheeks, standing there
breathing
!
    The cupid shook his legs and arms like an aerobics instructor.
    He fluttered his clear, thin wings.
    He rolled his head back and forth and did a couple of quick karate chops on his muscled legs.
    I looked madly around to see if I was dreaming…
    The cupid put his minuscule hands on his equally teeny waist and peered at me.
    I clutched my throat and sank to my knees.
    “Are you”—I gasped—“are you…
real?
”
    A slight smile flickered across his face. He lifted two feet in the air, spun like a twirling top, and landed on my still-life pedestal.
    I started hyperventilating.
    “Are you…” I struggled for words. “
What
are you?”
    He cleared his throat. “Well, now,” he said in a full-sized voice, “shall we begin?”
    “
You talk!
”
    “I do many things.” He brushed off his dinky bow-and-arrow.
    Moments passed.
    Years, maybe.
    The cupid scooped a teeny red apple from his satchel and took a bite.
    I stared at him, awestruck. It was like a million Disney movies rolled into one. I grinned and hugged my knees with delight. I felt five years old.
    I could make him a little bed out of a shoebox.
    I could sew him eensy-weensy clothes and he could go everywhere with me in my pocket!
    I was dying to touch him. I held out my hand. “Come on,” I cooed, “I won’t hurt you.”
    The cupid rose indignantly to his full height, which wasn’t much. “I am,” he informed me, “a master archer!
Not
a plaything!”
    I yanked my hand back. “I’m…sorry…I…”
    He stared at me defiantly. I looked away. The cupid could be an extraterrestrial!
    He marched up to me and stamped his foot. “I am not,” he insisted, “an extraterrestrial!”
    “Did I say that?” I croaked.
    “You were thinking it.”
    “How do you know what I was thinking?”
    The cupid beamed.
    “
What planet are you from?
”
    He shook his head in disbelief. “You must rid your mind of the dowdy American notion that anything you don’t understand comes from outer space.”
    We stared at each other. I grabbed a pair of scissors from a table. “
What kind of trick is this?
”
    “I do not perform tricks.” He zoomed off the pedestal and lighted on the rug. “But I do have many talents.”
    “Name one…”
    The cupid pulled back the string of his bow and aimed his arrow at the Granny Smith apple on my still-life pedestal. He concentrated on his target as his left hand rested at eye level and his right hand, which drew the string, bent above his right shoulder. It shot across the room, hit