The first thought that came to George after he had reached the ground was: "I'm 10 years old and I'm a fugitive from the law!" The second was: "Where on earth can I find someone gullible enough to buy his Boomerang?"
The answer to this question presented itself much sooner than George had expected. A nearby park featured a convenient screen of foliage in which George took hasty refuge to exchange his skimpy, polka-dotted hospital gown for more decent attire.
"Ah." said George to himself. "That's better."
"Shiny." said a voice behind him. George jumped and turned around.
In front of him was a little girl with black, braided pig-tails in a pink and white jumper. She was perhaps 4, maybe 5.
"Aw, get out of here, I hate kids." said George crossly. Besides being annoyed at the distinct possibility that this little girl may have seen that he was wearing "Batman" underoos, George knew from his experiences with his little girl-cousin, that this was exactly the age and type of child that does nothing but put their fingers in their nose and say "mine" to everything they see.
"Mine." said the little girl. George followed her finger. She was pointing at the Boomerang, laying innocently in the grass, posturing itself as a safe and delightful play-thing for small children.
"Oh, I see." he said slowly. "You like the shiny?"
"Mine shiny." elaborated the little girl. She reached for it, but George picked it up first.
"No, no, it's my shiny. But maybe we could trade."
The little girl creased her eyebrows, thinking this over, but at last she seemed to understand. She reached into her jumper pocket, and presented a grubby nickel for George's consideration.
George knew it was wrong to sell the deadly, magical gadget even to an annoying 4-year-old, but the opportunity was too perfect, and it might never come again. He reached out to take the nickel and set himself free from the infernal horror of the plastic menace.
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