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Zoe eyed her mom with the kind of disdain normally reserved for adultisms about finishing her peas for the sake of straw children starving in Africa.

“Where’s Professor Pierre O. Dactyl,” she asked. “He was right here on the couch waiting for me to finish my homework and now he’s gone.”Anger boiled up inside of her like magma in a volcano, “what did you do with him?”

“I thought he was one that you were donating,” the dismissive reply only stoked the flames anger, “I dropped him off at the thrift store with the rest of the toys you weren’t playing with.”

Zoe screamed for a solid thirty seconds at her mother’s nonchalant admission of betrayal, “he was my favorite,” she bellowed, “I was hunting cavemen with him two hours ago!”

“I’m sorry honey,” the apology fell on deaf ears, “but if you ask me you’re too old to be playing with stuffed animals anyway.”

“Get him back!” Zoe huffed, stomping her foot to show her mother how serious she was, “he wasn’t yours to give away so you have to bring him home.”

Her mother laughed in the condescending way all adults do when they know they’ve screwed up but are to stubborn to cede the moral high-ground.

“The thrift store is only a mile away,” Zoe braced herself for one of her mother’s impossible compromises, “here’s five dollars. If you can get yourself there you can buy him back.”

“I’m only six,” Zoe’s anger had morphed into incredulity, “how am I supposed to do that when you don’t let me go past the corner alone?”

Her mom knelt down looking her in the eye, “well if you hadn’t been such a brat about it and asked nicely I would have taken you myself. Now you’re on your own so figure it out.”

“Urrgh,” Zoe stomped up the stairs plotting her revenge the whole way.

She’d been pacing in her room well past her bed-time before coming to an epiphany.

I can’t go past the corner alone, the word rang in her head like a trumpet heralding her victory.

Alone, she mused, Shouldn’t be too hard to get around that one.

The next morning at school was a flurry of Byzantine deal making the likes of which Fritchie French Emersion had never before played host to.

She’d traded her weekend caring for the class guinea-pig, to Lazy Lizzie Linski for use of her bicycle.

For the meager price of 5 chocolate milk vouchers Zoe convinced Terry Thompson to act as a chaperone. Surely a fourth grader could be trusted to usher Zoe a mile down the road.

The last bit of bartering was the most painful.

Zoe didn’t like Felicia Flores one bit but she was the only person in their grade with a smart-phone. So dire was her need for a GPS that forfeiting ownership of her coveted holographic Dancing Dogs binder to a lousy tattle-tale felt like a bargain.

Having secured everything she needed to achieve the impossible the rest of the day flew by. With borrowed phone in hand and rented bicycle in tow she boarded the bus home ready to return Pierre to his rightful place at her side. Neither of her parents were home before she arrived. Terry needed fifteen minutes before he would be ready to go so Zoe took the time to leave a note for her Mom; stopping to admire the professional tone and general lack of spelling errors.

Dear Mom,

Going on a high-risk mission to extract a V.I.P. (Very Important Pterodactyl) from hostile forces at Sack’s Thrift Avenue. I’ve conscripted the help of a local (Terry Thompson) as my guide. I’m sorry for being mean, you are nice to me when I make mistakes and I should be nice to you when you make them too.

Be back soon,

Zoe

Terry wasn’t chatty on a good day; apparently less so on company time. The GPS from that no-good snitch’s phone had more personality than he did. The only voice on their trip came in the form of a debonair British gentleman providing turn-by-turn directions. With not a word between them Zoe and her escort arrived at Sack’s.

Sack’s Thrift Avenue was the best. It wasn’t one of those stuffy outlets with boring clothes and sterile playthings lined up on shelves. Toys from the thrift store came complete with battle scars and tragic backstories; everything here was one-of-a-kind.

Zoe approached the extraction of Pierre at a liesurely pace that would be her undoing. Eventually spotting the pterodactyl perched atop a pile of inferior beasts with missing eyes and questionable upbringings. A tiny hand raced her own to the top of the heap. With a triumphant howl Zoe rescued Professor Dactyl from the clutches of a sad little boy with watery eyes and a quivering lip. The boy just sat quietly. His sad eyes followed her as she sauntered triumphantly to the registers.

She swapped the old lady at the counter five dollars for her prize and the warm-fuzzies that came with beating her mother at her own game. The victory would have been much sweeter were it not for the snot-nosed kid eyeing her like she’d kicked his puppy. Zoe pushed the thought of him to the back of her mind as she made for the exit.

The walk to the door wasn’t as triumphant as Zoe had anticpated. Her feet seemed to get heavier with each step, her eyes unable to look at anything other than the toy she had worked so hard to save.

“He didn’t even cry when I snatched you…”

She looked Pierre for guidance, then to the boy, and again to Pierre.

“Fine… traitor…”

With huff and a groan she turned back to the checkouts.

“What’s your name?”

“Wawltur.”

“Well Walter this…” the child’s eyes flashed bright on seeing the stuffed pterosaur, “is Pierre O. Dactyl. Can you say that?”

“Pair o daddle.”

“Close enough,” She held Pierre in her open palm like some priceless artifact; taking a moment to admire the stains and stitches incurred in the grizzly Unicorn Revolt of ‘02.

“He is a professor of scientology that loves hunting cavemen.”

Walter blinked in amazement.

“Not historically accurate, I know... but it makes for good drama.”

Unsure of what was unfolding Walter’s dumbfounded stare turned to Zoe.

“Anyway he’s yours now,” Zoe shoved Pierre into the welcoming arms of his new keeper, “take care of him because he’s taken care of me.”

Satisfied at the enthusiasm with which Walter hugged Pierre she turned to leave.

“Oh poo poo,” Zoe covered her mouth. Shocked by the sight of her mother standing over her and at having cursed within earshot of her.

“I’ll overlook that one,” her mother’s voice rang with pride, “but only because that was a very nice thing you did.”

“I know,” Zoe muttered to her shoelaces, “It still sucks.”

“Well I’m proud of you,” Zoe’s mother hefted her up onto her shoulders, “let’s go to the bookstore... You can pick out whatever you want.”

Zoe met her mother’s offer with cautious optimism.

“Really?”

“Yep,” her mother looked up, “you’re going to want something something to read while you’re grounded.”