Ira Glass

See you later, Timothy, I said.

He didn't answer me.

He had started to growl again.

As I followed the secretary out of the office, I looked back and saw Mr. Buderbaugh and Mrs. Gladfelter and poor old Mrs. Stokes standing in a hopeless circle around Timothy.

I thought for a second, and then I turned back toward them and raised an imaginary rifle to my shoulder.

"'This is a dart gun,' I announced."

Everyone looked at me, but I was talking to Timothy now.

I was almost, but not quite, embarrassed.

It's filled with darts of my special antidote, and I made it stronger than it used to be, and it's going to work this time.

And also there's a tranquilizer mixed in.

Timothy looked up and bared his teeth at me, and I took aim right between his eyes.

I jerked my hands twice and went...

Timothy's head snapped back, and his eyelids fluttered.

He shook himself all over.

He swallowed once.

Then he held his hands out before him, as if wondering at their hairless pallor.

It seems to have worked, he said, his voice cool and reasonable and fine.

Anyone could see he was still playing his endless game, but all the grown-ups, Mr. Buterbaugh in particular, looked very pleased with both of us.

Thank you very much, Paul, he said.

I'm not Paul, I said.