No love is so certain and pure as a mother's love!

— Barley Beard

Ben turned away from Amber in fear, sprang under his bedroom door, and waddled downstairs.

His stubby legs couldn't carry him down to his mom fast enough. Nothing on his body moved right. He felt like he was wearing clown shoes. It took all of his concentration just to walk, and every few paces he had to leap thirty feet down to the next stair step. His tail thumped each time he landed, until finally he whirled and yelled at it, "Quit following me. You give me the creeps."

Ben wheezed. He was amazed at the smells on the carpet. His powerful mouse nose picked up the strong odors of spilled grape juice and a crumb of a peanut butter sandwich he'd sneaked to his room last month.

Amber raced nimbly beside him, hopping on her back legs and landing on her front paws. "What are you doing? Where are you going? You won't leave me will you?" She sounded frightened. "I've never been out of my cage before."

Ben ignored her. He felt glad she was scared. It served her right!

He stumbled past the Christmas tree, still petrifying in the corner, and limped beneath wads of wrapping paper as large as buses.

By the time he reached the kitchen, a hike of at least a mile, he felt as if he'd collapse. His heart raced hundreds of beats a minute, and his mouth had begun to foam.

He passed a line of black ants, marching across the kitchen floor. As they marched, they sang:

All us bugs up in the cupboard,

love to work the whole night long.

We aren't lazy, we aren't crazy.

We are bold and cruel and strong.

Just as butterflies like sunshine,

Just as slugs love driving rain,

Us bugs love to sing and dance—

Kick your mama in the pants!

Us bugs love to sing and dance

Around the kitchen

Ben watched the ants caper, feeling as if he'd just taken a wrong turn into the Twilight Zone.

He scampered onto the kitchen floor and found his feet sliding on the linoleum with each step. It was almost like being in an ice-skating rink. He passed the fridge and saw a dark alley between it and the wall.

Dust bunnies the size of tumbleweeds lurked in the corners.

A cockroach careened giddily across the kitchen floor, like a remote control car that's gone berserk, barreled into Ben, and shouted, "Everyone to the pantry! Someone left the Cap'n Crunch open, and we're having a luau!"

Ben stared at the cockroach, dumbfounded.

Then he ducked under the kitchen counter and peered up at his mother. There she towered, bigger than the Statue of Liberty. She was staring mournfully from a mountain of moldy dishes to the ceiling and mumbling under her breath, "Please, Heavenly Father, bless me with a maid. . . . "

"Mom!" Ben squeaked. "Down here. Help!"

But with the rumble of the TV in the other room since Dad was watching Pokemon, she couldn't hear him.

Ben studied her pant leg. She wore khaki Dockers. He wondered if he could hook his little claws into the fabric and scurry up like a cat.

He leapt clumsily into the air, rising at least two feet, grabbed her knee, and started to climb. With only four fingers on each front paw, it was a truly heroic task.

The results were astonishing.

His mom must have felt something on her knee. She glanced down and screamed.

She fell backward, knocking over the moldy dishes, then leaped about five feet and kicked with all her might. Ben hurtled through the air, slammed into the refrigerator, slid down, and thudded to the floor. Dishes crashed, like flying saucers shot out of the sky, and shattered on the linoleum. Huge chunks of crockery skidded everywhere, and Ben leaped out of the way as a jagged piece slid under him.

"Help," his mom screamed. "A mouse!"

Ben struggled to his feet, dodging a shattered cup as it went rolling past. "Mom," he squeaked. "It's me!" He limped toward her, and squatted on the floor, peering up. White foam dribbled from his mouth, and he wiped it off with the back of one paw.

"Help," Mom screamed louder, "A rabid mouse!"

"Mom," Ben said, "it's me!"

Amber scurried to the fridge just behind Ben's back, and hid under the door.

"No," Mom shouted in a panic. "There are two of them!"

Dad peered down at him. His eyes grew fearful. He studied Ben with growing alarm. "You're right," he told Mom. "It is a rabid mouse! Call 911, while I hold him off." He raised the spatula protectively.

Mom rushed to the living room.

"Dad," Ben called. "It's just me!"

"Mona," Dad shouted, "it's squeaking really strangely."

"It's no use," Amber called to Ben. "You're a mouse now. Humans can't understand us—just like we can't understand them."

Ben's mind did a little flip. "What do you mean, you can't understand humans?" Ben asked Amber. "I understand them just fine."

"Maybe because you used to be human!"

Ben's dad crouched. Suddenly, it seemed that he had heard enough of Ben's odd squeaking. Dad cocked his arm and swung.

Ben tried to leap away, but was too slow. His dad whacked him with the spatula. Ben splattered onto the floor. Stars whirled in his vision. He tried to climb to his feet, .

His mom thundered back into the kitchen. The floor shook as if a herd of rhinos were charging.

"Did you call the cops?" Dad asked.

"No," she said. "I got a better idea."

Ben heard the electric whine of a motor.

From under the fridge, Amber shouted in terror, "Snake! She's got a snake!"

Ben peered up weakly. He saw a huge gaping tunnel with a silver rim. A powerful wind raced around him. He realized that he was staring straight up into the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner.

It does kind of look like a snake, he thought groggily.

"Ben," Amber yelled. "Run this way!" From the corner of his eye, Ben spotted Amber lunge around the corner into the living room. In desperation, he hurried after her, kicking with both rear feet, trying to land on his hands the way that Amber did.

He careened into the living room and peered around. A big-screen TV squatted amid walls of garish lava lamps, each a different size and color. Overhead hovered his mom's mirror ball. On really bad days, she'd ingest half a cup of sugar and just sit in the easy chair, watching the mirror ball whirl in circles, as she listened to her

Ben spotted Amber climbing up the brass chains of Dad's cuckoo clock.

"Up here," Amber shouted as she neared the top. "I see a dark hole!"

Ben trudged to the clock, leaped as high as he could, and caught the chains. Kicking and clawing, he boosted himself up the chain by sheer willpower until he collapsed safely inside the hole.

For a moment, he lay next to Amber, heart pounding. He could smell the powerful odors of lacquer, glue, and wood. The clock was the size of his bedroom, except that huge gears with notched teeth lined every wall. Afraid that a gear would catch his tail, he climbed higher and perched on a slab next to the carved figure of a little cuckoo bird with blue wings, white head, and yellow beak.

Mom called, "Where did they go? Look under the couch!" The vacuum cleaner whirred louder as it drew close.

"Mona," Ben's dad said, half-astonished and half as a compliment. "When did you learn to use a vacuum cleaner?"

"Last month," Mom said with great pride. "I took a night class at the university."

They began rustling around in the living room.

"Where are we?" Amber whispered to Ben. "Are they trying to eat us? Does this always happen when you get out of your cage?"

"Quiet!" Ben hissed. "They'll hear us."

"Ben?" his dad shouted. "Ben, where are you?"

For half a second, Ben wondered if his dad had somehow recognized his voice. Or maybe he'd realized that Ben had turned into a mouse.

Maybe he'll even know how to fix me, Ben thought.

He began to squeak a reply, when his dad added, "Come down here and help us catch these mice!"

Ben's heart sank. A clicking noise startled Ben, and the clock began to chime.

Gong!

The slab beneath Ben slid forward, and a little pair of wooden doors flung open. Cuckoo! The clock sounded from a whistle behind Ben's head.

Ben's parents turned to stare. His father was lifting the piano so that his mom could look under it. But now they gasped as Ben quivered on the wooden perch, a hundred yards above the floor.

The plank slid back, and the doors closed.

"Let's get out of here," Ben shrieked.

Amber began to race down the chain, head first, but Ben doubted that he could manage such a feat.

Gong! went the clock again. The plank slid forward.

Suddenly Ben was out in space, like a swimmer on a high-dive board, only he didn't have any water to jump into and all of the spectators wanted him dead.

Cuckoo! sounded the clock.

Mom headed for Ben, vacuum cleaner aimed like a cannon.

Ben tried to tell his legs to jump, but they went as limp as yarn.

In seconds, the wind grabbed him, and sucked him down. He clung to the lip of the vacuum and hung on for dear life.

"Mom, help," he cried.

But his mother said, "Oh, no you don't," reached down, and pried his fingers loose.

The vacuum slurped him through a long tunnel, as if he were on a water slide; his chin slammed painfully against the ribs of the vacuum hose. "Heeeeelp!" he screamed.

Then he thudded into a dark chamber amid a pile of dust, lint, hair, and dead bugs. Through the plastic housing of the vacuum, he could see distorted images of his mom and dad as they chased Amber. The vacuum's motor whined deafeningly, and dust swirled. It lodged in his fur, wedged into his lips, stung his eyes, clogged his ears and nostrils.

Ben gasped. There was too much dust in the air. Every time he drew a breath, he felt as if he'd cough his lungs out. He covered his snout with his little paws and hunched over, struggling to breathe.

After several painful seconds, he and fell. It seemed that he was falling, falling, for long minutes. Then everything went black.