26.

The family knew she was a freak. They never said it aloud (okay, Grandma Pencil did) but spoken or not, it was an undeniable fact.

And even if we are politically correct and say she wasn’t a freak, her behavior was freakish, and as we all know, freakish people are scary.

When Audrey’s secret was first revealed to someone other than McKenna, there was no grand revelation, no “Ah ha!” It was a slow unveiling that McKenna tried her best to keep hidden.

Each mastication noise meant the grim, unsettling task of prying open Audrey’s lips to see what was inside. With every discovery—a comb, tape measure, scissors, a handful of quarters that had been set aside for laundry—the family’s anxiety increased. Murray was confused, then angry. He couldn’t commit to a punishment plan—it stressed him to think about punishment, actual punishment. Grandma advocated a three-strike policy, or, barring that, a five-or six-strike policy. She wanted a policy, any kind of policy. But Murray and Misty could do nothing more than shake their heads and say to Audrey, “Why would you try to eat a Lego? Use your head, sweetie!” and then remind McKenna and Toby not to encourage her.

Grandma Pencil insisted it was Misty’s fault. The girl wasn’t eating enough at mealtimes. Grandma Pencil, like many others, mistakenly believed that Audrey received physical satiation from her habit. No. Truth is, she had no bottom. She wasn’t replacing real food as much as seeking real food. She couldn’t find it anywhere.

Still, Misty went along with Grandma’s plan. She gave Audrey incredible portions, but the girl wouldn’t eat any more or less than she’d ever eaten. Meal after meal, Grandma Pencil seethed.

They tried to be diligent and observant. They salvaged what they could from Audrey’s mouth, stuck the remnants in Ziplocs or Mason jars and brought them to the pediatrician.

As the visits progressed, Doctor Burger’s nonchalance was replaced by bemusement, then professional concern, then amazement, then doubt, and then disbelief. He flat-out thought they were lying. The family could sense that each new plastic baggy was a building block to this inevitable response.

He had started out wanting to believe. He trusted people, for the most part. Maybe not in the area of self-diagnosis, but hey, he was willing to give the patient the benefit of the doubt in the initial stages, until he’d amassed suffcient evidence that they were wrong.

Every visit from the Mapeses tested Doctor Burger’s medical prowess in ways he never dreamed possible. For starters, there were no physical signs that Audrey’s health was anything but normal. Her height and weight were average. She bore no wounds, no abrasions, no signs of physical trauma. Her breath smelled fine, even sweet. Despite what Misty claimed her daughter had eaten, the girl passed every reflex test. Exam after exam, Audrey exhibited each developmental milestone Doctor Burger had been trained to seek as evidence of health.

And of course, in Doctor Burger’s mind—a mind dependent first and foremost upon empirical evidence—there was simply no way a four-year-old’s teeth could punch holes in a quarter or pulverize what appeared to be genuine metal screws.

Using tweezers, he plucked half of a mutilated Barbie doll’s head from an empty Jif peanut butter jar. He made a sour face and dropped it back inside with a hollow clink.

He rubbed his eyes. This was the eighth visit in three years, and his patience had thinned to transparency. “If I had my ‘druthers,” he said, clasping his thick hands in front of his chest, his eyes burning with a peculiar excitement, “I’d ask you to eat my stethoscope, pretty lady.”

Audrey stood between her mother’s knees. Her fingers played with a loose thread on the seam of Misty’s yellow skirt. She wouldn’t look up to meet the doctor’s per sis tent stare.

“But if I did that,” Doctor Burger continued, turning his back and walking to the counter as he withdrew a pen from his shirt pocket, “I’d be sued into bankruptcy.” He glanced over his shoulder at McKenna, Misty, and Audrey. He tried to grin but only managed to bare his teeth. “Not that Momma Mapes would ever sue me. She likes me too much.” He winked before facing the counter again. His pen clicked.

Audrey began to drool, a thin string like a spider’s web descending, ever so slowly, to her mother’s bare knee. Misty didn’t seem to notice, even as the saliva made contact.

“If what you have been bringing to me is real—and of course, I’m not doubting you, you know that—then I’ll need hard proof before we can proceed.” There was the sound of scribbling. “I hope you understand. Audrey’s outward appearance, her behavior, her mental capacities . . . there’s no indication that she has consumed the objects you claim.” With a squeak, he spun on his heel and handed Misty a sheet of paper. “The next time Audrey eats an unusual item, call this number. He’s a gastroentologist, a personal friend of mine. His name is Doctor Maboob. Funny name, I know. Indian, I believe. India the country. I’ll call his office and give them a heads-up. As soon as Audrey gets something like this down her throat”—he pointed to the Barbie head in the jar—“you call them and take her to see Doctor Maboob. The address is written there. The sooner you go in after she’s consumed the item, the better. They’ll be able to analyze the stomach contents, and then we’ll know how to proceed.”

With some effort, Doctor Burger squatted in front of Misty and Audrey. He placed his index finger under Audrey’s chin. “Don’t look so sad, pretty lady.”

Audrey reached out and yanked the stethoscope from his neck. She crammed it into her mouth, all except the tubing, which hung from her lips like a giant black noodle. She chewed and slurped. Up and in went the tubing and the round, silver chest-piece. In three seconds, the stethoscope was gone.

Doctor Burger tipped over backwards as if in slow motion. He lay supine on the floor, his face pale. His chest heaved, and he gasped for breath. His eyes, two giant orbs, stared at the ceiling as cigarettes slid out of the pack in his breast pocket and landed willy-nilly about his face and neck.

The Mapeses never called Doctor Maboob.