not-tag


I pull out Not-Tag’s stuffing. Carefully I fill her with my paintings, hiding them so Mack won’t sell them. She’s large, bigger than Bob, but I still have to crumple a few of them.


Bob tries to settle on her for a nap. “You’ve killed her,” he complains.


“I had to,” I say.


“I miss your stomach,” Bob admits. “It’s so … spacious.”


When Julia arrives, she notices that I’ve used up my paints and paper. “Wow.” Julia shakes her head. “You are one serious artist, Ivan.”

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