“You’re talking about The Resistance.”

“The Resistance, no,” Baker said, his hands waving dismissively in the air. “The Resistance has served its purpose, but we need more.”

“More?”

“Yes, we need a Revolution!” Baker’s arms shot into the air like he was conducting an out-of-synch orchestra. “And that, my child, is where you come in.”

“Me? You have the wrong mouse,” Emmon said, backing away. “Nothing against your resistance or revolution, but it’s not for me.”

“Oh, but it is!” exclaimed Baker. Stepping closer, his eyes ablaze, he said, “It’s for all of us.”

He brings the car to a dust-filled stop in front of an old farmhouse. White-peeled paint, broken shudders, and rotted stairs are evidence that no one has cared for this place in a while. Farm equipment, rusted and grown through with weeds, litters the side yard. An old porch swing lists to one side, screaking and bumping rhythmically against the house as it sways in the breeze.
 

“Come on,” he says. “It’s time to meet the family.”
 

I don’t know why that statement unsettles me. Maybe it’s the setting. This place is creepy. My rigid body refuses to move.
 

“Your family still lives here?” I ask, echoing my thoughts.
 

“Of course, silly,” he replies, smiling. “Come on. They’ll love you.”
 

“You think so?” is my lame reply. Something doesn’t smell right about this.

​

“I do,” he says.

 

What? Did he just say he loved me? What is going on?

In a cozy little hole, in a cozy little house,

lived a little brown mouse. 

 

The mouse had a pink nose and large ears,

with which he could hear.

 

One day the mouse smelled something

delightful,

So he went out to check,

he was not frightful

 

There is the kitchen of the cozy little house

Sat a giant piece of cheese,

And the little mouse was pleased. 

 

The mouse sniffed,

And he looked, 

And he sniffed some more,

Then he scurried across the kitchen floor.