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Desperate to talk to her dad, she had banged a few times on the basement door, timidly at first and then loudly. But he either couldn't hear her or chose not to. He didn't respond.

Casey didn't come downstairs until ten-thirty. Before his arrival, Margaret had made herself breakfast, managed to pull on jeans and a T-shirt, had talked to Diane on the phone for half an hour, and had spent the rest of the time pacing back and forth in the living room, trying to decide what to do.

When Casey finally emerged, she poured him a tall glass of orange juice and led him out to the backyard to talk. It was a hazy day, the sky mostly yellow, the air already stifling hot even though the sun was still hovering low over the hills.

Walking toward the block of green shade cast by the hedges, she told her brother about their dad's green blood and about the insect-filled dirt in his bed.

Casey stood open-mouthed, holding the glass of orange juice in front of him, untouched. He stared at Margaret, and didn't say anything for a very long time.

"It's so scary," Casey said. "I mean, he's our dad. We've known him our whole lives. I mean --"

Casey nodded, but didn't reply.

"Maybe he can explain it all," Casey said thoughtfully. "Maybe there's a good reason for everything. You know. Like the leaves on his head."

"We asked him about that," Margaret reminded her brother. "He just said it was a side effect. Not much of an explanation."

"Huh?" Casey shook his head. "Dad hasn't done anything wrong -- has he? What would the police do?"

"I know," Margaret said. "But he's not the same. He's --"

Margaret shrugged. "I wish Mom would call."

"Would you tell her everything?" Casey asked, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his baggy shorts.

"I told some of it to Diane," Margaret admitted.

Casey looked up at her in surprise.

"I guess," Margaret said. "I don't know if she'd believe it, but --"

"Well, I had to tell somebody," she snapped edgily. "Diane thought I should call the police."

Finally, he set the orange juice down on the lawn and said, "What should we do?" in a voice just above a whisper.

"Afraid I don't have much time," he said, avoiding her stare. "Sit down. Try this new dish. I want to see if you like it."

"Huh? You made lunch?" Casey exclaimed, unable to conceal his astonishment.

"Dad isn't a mad scientist," Casey said angrily. "That's stupid. He's just -- He's just --"

Margaret and Casey obediently took their places at the table. "What is this stuff?" Casey cried.

"Maybe we can talk to him," Casey said.

They both raced into the kitchen. Dr. Brewer, his Dodgers cap in place, flashed them a smile as he set two soup bowls down on the table. "Hi," he said brightly. "Lunchtime."

Margaret looked at Casey in surprise. "I don't believe it. He came upstairs."

"Dad, we've got to talk," Margaret said seriously.

A few hours later, they were still in the backyard, trying to figure out what to do, when the kitchen door opened and their father called them to come in.

"I know," Margaret replied. "That's what I told Diane. But she said there's got to be some kind of law against being a mad scientist."

Just what? Margaret thought. What is he?

"What did she say?" Casey asked, staring down at the bowl in front of him.

"Just a short while ago. I guess you were outside and didn't hear the phone ring."

"It's something different," Dr. Brewer said mysteriously, standing over them at the head of the table. "Go ahead. Taste it. I'll bet you'll be surprised."

"When?" Margaret asked eagerly.

The two bowls were filled with a green, pulpy substance. "It looks like green mashed potatoes," Casey said, making a face.

"I just wanted you to try this," he said, his smile fading. "You're my guinea pigs."

"Dad -- you've never made lunch for us before," Margaret said, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

"We have some things we want to ask you," Margaret said, lifting her spoon, but not eating the green mess.

"Your mother called this morning," their father said.

"Aunt Eleanor's doing better. She's been moved out of intensive care. Your mom may be able to come home soon."

"Great!" Margaret and Casey cried in unison.

"Eat," Dr. Brewer instructed, pointing to the bowls.

"Dad, last night --" she started.

He stared at them, urging them to eat the green stuff.

"I think you'll like the taste," Dr. Brewer insisted impatiently. "It should taste very sweet."

And why won't he tell us what it is?

Is Dad trying to do something to us? Is this green stuff going to change us, or hurt us… or make us grow leaves, too?

"But what is it?" Casey demanded, whining. "It doesn't smell too good."

"No," their father replied quickly. "I already ate." He leaned with both hands against the tabletop. Margaret saw that his cut hand was freshly bandaged.

He's too desperate.

Staring into the bowl at the mysterious substance, Margaret was suddenly frozen with fear. He's too eager for us to eat this, she thought, glancing up at her brother.

What's going on here? she wondered. And Casey's expression revealed that he was wondering the same thing.

But he cut her off. "Eat, will you? Try it."

"Uh… aren't you going to have some?" Casey asked, rolling his spoon around in his fingers.

He's never made lunch before. Why did he make this?

But she also realized that she was terrified of whatever this stuff was he was trying to feed them.

"What's the matter with you two?" their father cried impatiently. He raised his hand in an eating gesture. "Pick up your spoons. Come on. What are you waiting for?"

What crazy thoughts, Margaret realized.

Margaret and Casey raised their spoons and dropped them into the soft, green substance. But they didn't raise the spoons to their mouths.

They couldn't.

"Eat! Eat!" Dr. Brewer screamed, pounding the table with his good hand. "What are you waiting for? Eat your lunch. Go ahead. Eat it!"

He's giving us no choice, Margaret thought.

Her hand was trembling as she reluctantly raised the spoon to her mouth.