Kate DiCamillo

But after almost forty days and nights had passed, the weight and the smell of the garbage above and below him clouded Edward’s thoughts, and soon he gave up thinking about revenge and gave in to despair.

It was because he had not loved Abilene enough. And now she was gone from him. And he would never be able to make it right.

And now she was gone from him. And he would never be able to make it right. And Nellie and Lawrence were gone, too. He missed them terribly. He wanted to be with them.

The rabbit wondered if that was love.

“You are some child’s toy, am I right? And you have been separated, somehow, from the child who loves you.”

Edward felt, again, the sharp pain in his chest. He thought of Abilene. He saw the path leading up to the house on Egypt Street. He saw the dusk descending and Abilene running toward him.

Yes, Abilene had loved him.

“Perhaps,” said the man, “you would like to be lost with us. I have found it much more agreeable to be lost in the company of others.

“But in truth,” said Bull, “we are going nowhere. That, my friend, is the irony of our constant movement.”

During the night, while Bull and Lucy slept, Edward, with his ever-open eyes, stared up at the constellations. He said their names, and then he said the names of the people who loved him.

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?