The rain tapped the windows like wet fingers. The whole house smelled like old toast, and the hallway clock went *tick…tick…tick* like it was bored too.
I was on the living room carpet, building a “castle” out of couch pillows, when my little sister Hannah flopped beside me and groaned so loudly the cat blinked.
“Gloomy Day Level: Thousand,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “Even the cereal looks sad.”
Mom and Dad had left an hour ago for a quick grocery run. They’d pointed at the rules list on the fridge like we were about to launch a spaceship instead of sitting on the couch.
Rule Number One was still written in thick marker: **NO WISHES.**
Last month I’d wished our broccoli would disappear, and it had—right into Dad’s work shoe.
I stared at the note. “Do you think it counts as a wish if you just… hope really hard?”
Hannah sat up. “No wishing! Remember the Broccoli Shoe Incident.”
“Technically, that wasn’t—”
A loud *THUMP* cut me off. Not from the rain. From the ceiling.
Hannah and I froze. The cat vanished under the couch like it had a secret job.
Then came a sound like a sneeze mixed with a trombone.
“AHEM-BRRRROOOO!”
The hallway closet door bulged outward. I scooted backward. “Hannah… we don’t keep trombones in the closet.”
The door burst open. Out toppled… a llama.
Not a normal llama. This llama wore a tiny purple top hat, roller skates, and a scarf covered in silver lightning bolts that crackled like it had its own weather system.
He landed on the rug, rolled three inches, and bowed.
“Good afternoon, indoors humans!” he announced. His voice sounded like a game show host who drank too much fizzy soda. “I am Sir Quibbleton T. Llama, Professional Fun Consultant and Part-Time Thunder Collector!”
