Fleegle stares at the baking pizza through the little window on the oven door. “It’s done, Raud, you can take it out now.”

“It’s not done. I just put it in.” I glance at the digital timer. “It still has twelve minutes and eight seconds, seven, six to go before it’s done baking.”

Fleegle looks skeptically at the timer. “That timer runs on batteries, doesn’t it? I don’t trust batteries.”

“It’s working. I can see the milliseconds flash by.”

“When it comes to baking pizza, milliseconds don’t flash by, they crawl, they slither, they creep, they don’t move at all. Is it done yet?”

“Thinking about it like that will only make it seem like it’s taking longer than it is. Why don’t you go outside and check for squirrels.”

“Squirrels, you said squirrels,” he says and bolts for the open patio door, but slides to a stop halfway there and looks over his shoulder at me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t start without you,” I say and glance at the timer. “You have eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds to chase squirrels.”

“If I catch one, can we have squirrel pizza?”

“Maybe on your half,” I say, hoping this won’t be the one and only time he actually catches one.