Sixty days was not much time. Certainly not enough time to make thousands of dollars—unless you were a mogul, of course. Or unless you were Dougie, but we all know where making money got him.

Because it seemed impossible, I decided it would be best not to dwell on it at all. Instead, I should take my cue from Wile E.'s biggest lesson. (No, not "If you and a piano are falling from a great height, climb onto the piano," although that's probably a good rule of thumb.) Wile E.'s greatest lesson was this: When chasing your impossible dream—no matter where it takes you—you have to keep on going, and never, ever look down to see if you've run out of cliff and are only running on clouds.

But then I thought, maybe . . . just in case . . . I should write to Gladys, and see if I could live with her for a while, in California. If it came to that. I was certain my nephews would like the squirrels. (If not quite as certain the squirrels would like their cat.)

And, I supposed, if things really got bad, maybe I could write to Mama, and see about getting my old job back.

For just a second, I thought I felt the ground beneath me falling away.

Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down.