Free Hungry by H. A. Swain Page A

frown Grandma wore earlier. “I keep getting the exact calibration for her Synthamil formula even though obviously it’s not working correctly for her.”
    “Me, too,” Grandma admits. “So either we’re making the same error or there’s something we’re overlooking.”
    “She’s hungry,” Papa Peter says. Mom and Grandma Grace exchange a quick worried glance.
    “But that would mean…” Mom starts to say, then she trails off, bewildered. For half a second I think about telling her I’m not the only one, but I keep my mouth shut. “Do you think I should take her to a specialist?” she asks Grandma Grace.
    “No way,” I say from the couch.
    Grandma and Mom both turn, put one hand on a hip, and stare at me. “And why not?” they ask me at the same time.
    I think of what Basil said about the others who tried to get help. “Because they’ll probably say it’s all in my mind and drug me up.…”
    “So you’re a doctor now?” Grandma asks me.
    “She’s probably right,” Papa Peter says. Grandma gives him a look that could wilt hologram daisies, but he’s not deterred. “If I were her, I wouldn’t want some stranger poking around me either. Especially when she’s got two of the smartest medical minds in the world right here in the living room.” He grins at both of them and I know what he’s doing. Papa Peter’s favorite saying is “you can catch more flies with honey,” which I think means that you get farther with people if you’re nice, although I have no idea what flies and honey have to do with it. And it seems an odd choice for Grandma Grace, since she uses the exact opposite approach. She only believes in bossing people around. Maybe that’s why they work well together. Opposites attract after all.
    “Just give her some extra Synthamil, a little at a time, until her tummy’s not growling anymore,” Papa Peter suggests. I look to my mom hopefully as she considers Papa Peter’s advice. “Sometimes trial and error works just fine,” he adds.
    “I suppose we could try it for a few days,” Mom says, but she doesn’t seem convinced.
    I sit back, relieved and mouth “Thanks” to Papa Peter.
    “But,” Mom adds, “if that doesn’t work, then we have to see someone.”
    *   *   *
    The next morning, I head off to One World, Happy World for my monthly Interpersonal Communication Meeting. As I walk into the enclosed glass atrium (where all the toy and game design is done), a hologram of a giant pink, banjo-playing animal that has spines all over its back and a little snout sings, “Happy time. Fun time. One World loves us all! Welcome to our happy home. Welcome to our mall!” I stop and stare at it. Not out of amazement or adoration, but out of sheer loathing. Really? Do people really feel inspired to buy toys and games if a giant pink, banjo-playing extinct spiny, piglike creature sings some inane song? Most people push right on by and head straight for the shops, but a few slow down or stop, especially the little kids.
    A girl, probably five or six, stands across from me, looking up with her mouth hanging open. She’s dressed head to toe in purple Silkese and Cottynelle with ruffles and sequins. She watches in awe as an animated Synthamil bottle with big eyes and chubby hands floats down. “Remember, always drink your Synthamil!” it says, then giggles when the pink animal grabs it, pops off its lid, and chugs its contents. Creepy, if you ask me.
    “Can we get one, Mommy, please?” the little girl begs the woman who’s busy snapping pix with her Gizmo because the spiny pink creature has floated down and positioned itself right beside the kid. When the weird animal and the bottle begin to dance and sing around her, the girl squeals with delight.
    Someone smacks me on the arm and says, “Can we get one, too, Mommy?” I turn to see Yaz, grinning stupidly at me. Today she’s wearing navy blue trousers and a three-button jacket. Her hair is parted neatly to the side and