One moment Biscuit and I were walking along the northern path toward Blockville, the morning sun trying its absolute best to push through the gray sky above us. The next moment — whomp — we were inside a cloud that had apparently decided to live on the ground instead of up where clouds belong. I could barely see my own hand in front of my face, which was a problem because my hand was holding a very important map.
“Biscuit,” I said carefully. “The map is wet.”
“The map is dissolving, Ollie.”
“That’s what I said.”
She made the noise she makes when she’s trying very hard not to say something. I’ve heard it a lot since Sproutville.
