Anaya and the Rustling Road to Page Forty-One

The whole story

Anaya whispered to books. “Good morning, maps.” “Sleep well, moon.” But she whispered most to the dinosaur on page forty-one. Every afternoon, in the library’s window nook, she read his page again. On returns day, she whispered, “I wish you could come out.” One green paper foot lifted. Then another. “About time,” said the dinosaur. “My tail has been sitting on the same fern for weeks.” He stepped onto her bookmark and bowed. “Call me Forty-One.”

Forty-One slid down a paper leaflet dangling from the table. “Such enormous everything!” he cried. He hurried across a newspaper beside the cool radiator. The newspaper curled behind it. Forty-One followed—and disappeared. “Small difficulty,” came a papery voice. “My nose has arrived somewhere my tail dislikes.” Anaya knelt beside the radiator. Two green toes poked out. “Can you step onto the floor?” “I’m trying.” His toes fluttered. “The floor won’t let me!”

Anaya offered her bookmark. Forty-One put one foot on it. Then two. “Aha!” she whispered. “You can only travel through paper.” “Excellent discovery. Rather inconvenient feet.” His laugh sounded like someone shaking a tiny bag of crisps. Across the library, the librarian wheeled out the returns trolley. Anaya glanced at the book’s date slip. Today. She couldn’t return a dinosaur book without its dinosaur. “Stay there,” she said. Forty-One looked at his trapped tail. “An easy request.”

From the drawing basket, Anaya chose scrap paper: blue, pink, and one sheet sprinkled with somebody’s practice letter B. She folded steps and little zigzag bridges. She tucked each end beneath the next, making a road from the newspaper to her book on the floor. Forty-One shuffled free. “A road full of butterflies!” he said, admiring the Bs. At the last fold, he stopped. “Will the fern still be there?” Anaya opened page forty-one. “I saved your place.”

Forty-One stepped into his picture and curled beside the fern—not on it this time. Anaya returned the book with a whisper. “See you next week.” The pages gave one small, happy rustle. Next week, she borrowed it again and settled into the window nook. Inside her pocket waited a folded paper picnic blanket. On page forty-one, Forty-One had one foot lifted. “Any plans?” he asked. “Some,” whispered Anaya. “None involving radiators.”