Kate DiCamillo

And Edward felt a warm rush of pleasure at being recognized, at being known.

He knew what it was like to miss someone. And so he listened. And in his listening, his heart opened wide and then wider still.

He started to say the names of the constellations, but then he stopped.

“Bull,” his heart said. “Lucy.”

How many times, Edward wondered, would he have to leave without getting the chance to say goodbye?

Something deep inside him ached.

He wished that he could cry.

The terrible ache he had felt the night before had gone away and had been replaced with a different feeling, one of hollowness and despair.

Clyde? Edward felt a weariness so intense wash over him that he thought he might actually be able to sigh aloud. Would the world never tire of calling him by the wrong name?

I have been loved, Edward told the stars.

So? said the stars. What difference does that make when you are all alone now?

Edward could think of no answer to that question.

Too late, thought Edward as Bryce pulled the nails out of his ears. I am only a doll made of china.

But when the last nail was out and he fell forward into Bryce’s arms, the rabbit felt a rush of relief, and the feeling of relief was followed by one of joy.

Perhaps, he thought, it is not too late, after all, for me to be saved.

The coughing was the saddest sound that Edward had ever heard, sadder even than the mournful call of the whippoorwill.

Never in his life had Edward been cradled like a baby. Abilene had not done it. Nor had Nellie. And most certainly Bull had not. It was a singular sensation to be held so gently and yet so fiercely, to be stared down at with so much love. Edward felt the whole of his china body flood with warmth.