Which was about the limit of Alvin's thinking last night, in the snow– wondering about what he could never know. Things like: I wonder what God dreams about if he ever sleeps, and if all his dreams come true, so that every night he makes up a whole new world full of people. Questions that couldn't never get him a speck closer to being a Maker.

So today, slogging through the snow, pushing against the wind toward the roadhouse, he started thinking again about the original question– what an atom would be like. He tried to picture something so tiny that he couldn't cut it. But whenever he imagined something like that– a little box or a little ball or something– why, then he'd just up and imagine it splitting right in half.

The only way he couldn't split something in half was if it was so thin nothing could be thinner. He thought of it squished so flat it was thinner than paper, so thin that in that direction it didn't even exist, if you looked at it edge-on it would just plain not be there. But even then, he might not be able to split it along the edge, but he could still imagine turning it and slicing it across, just like paper.

So– what if it was squished up in another direction, too, so it was all edge, going on like the thinnest thread you ever dreamed of? Nobody could see it, but it would still be there, because it would stretch from here to there. He sure couldn't split that along the edge, and it didn't have any flat surface like paper had. Yet as long as it stretched like invisible, thread from one spot to another, no matter how short the distance was, he could still imagine snipping it right in half, and each half in half again.

No, the only way something could be small enough to be an atom is if it had no size at all in any direction, not length nor breadth nor depth. That would be an atom all right– only it wouldn't even exist, it'd just be nothing. Just a place without anything in it.

He stood on the porch of the roadhouse, stamping snow off his feet, which did better than knocking for telling folks he was there. He could hear Arthur Stuart's feet running to open the door, but all he was thinking about was atoms. Because even though he'd just figured out that there couldn't be no atoms, he was beginning to realize it might be even crazier to imagine there not being atoms, so things could always get cut into smaller bits and those things into smaller bits, and those into even smaller bits, forever and ever. And when you think about it, it's got to be one or the other. Either you get to the bit that can't be split, and it's an atom, or you never do, and so it goes on forever, which is more than Alvin's head could hold.

Alvin found himself in the roadhouse kitchen, with Arthur Stuart piggyback, playing with Alvin's hat and scarf. Horace Guester was out in the barn stuffing straw into new bedticks, so Alvin asked Old Peg for use of the sleigh. It was hot in the kitchen, and Goody Guester didn't look to be in good temper. She allowed as how he could take the sled, but there was a price to pay.

“Save the life of a certain child, Alvin, and take Arthur Stuart with you,” she said, “or I swear he'll do one more thing to rile me and end up in the pudding tonight.”

It was true that Arthur Stuart seemed to be in a mood to make trouble– he was strangling Alvin with his own scarf and laughing like a fool.

“Let's do some lessons, Arthur,” said Alvin. “Spell 'choking to death.'”

“C-H-O-K-I-N-G,” said Arthur Stuart. “T-W-O. D-E-A-T-H.”

Mad as she was, Goody Guester just had to break up laughing– not because he spelled “to” wrong, but because he'd spelled out the words in the most perfect imitation of Miss Larner's voice. “I swear, Arthur Stuart,” she said, “you best never let Miss Larner hear you go on like that or your schooling days are over.”

“Good! I hate school!” said Arthur.

“You don't hate school so much as you'd hate working with me in the kitchen every day.” said Goody Guester. “All day every day, summer and winter, even swimming days.”

“I might as well be a slave in Appalachee!” shouted Arthur Stuart.

Goody Guester stopped teasing and being mad, both, and turned solemn. “Don't even joke like that, Arthur. Somebody died once just to keep you from being such a thing.”

“I know,” said Arthur.

“No you don't, but you'd better just think before you–”

“It was my mama,” said Arthur.

Now Old Peg started looking scared. She took a glance at Alvin and then said, “Never mind about that, anyway.”

“My mama was a blackbird,” said Arthur. “She flew so high, but then the ground caught her and she got stuck and died.”

Alvin saw how Goody Guester looked at him, even more nervous-like. So maybe there was something to Arthur's story of flying after all. Maybe somehow that girl buried up beside Vigor, maybe somehow she got a blackbird to carry her baby– somehow. Or maybe it was just some vision. Anyway, Goody Guester had decided to act like it was nothing after all– too late to fool Alvin, of course, but she wouldn't know that. “Well, that's a pretty story, Arthur,” said Old Peg.

“It's true,” said Arthur. “I remember.”

Goody Guester started looking even more upset. But Alvin knew better than to argue with Arthur about this blackbird idea he had, and about him flying once. The only way to stop Arthur talking about it was to get his mind on something else. “Better come with me, Arthur Stuart,” said Alvin. “Maybe you got a blackbird mama sometime in your past, but I have a feeling your mama here in this kitchen is about to knead you like dough.”

“Don't forget what I need you to buy for me,” said Old Peg.

“Oh, don't worry. I got a list,” said Alvin.

“I didn't see you write a thing!”

“Arthur Stuart's my list. Show her, Arthur.”

Arthur leaned close to Alvin's ear and shouted so loud it like to split Alvin's eardrums right down to his ankles. “A keg of wheat flour and two cones of sugar and a pound of pepper and a dozen sheets of paper and a couple of yards of cloth that might do for a shirt for Arthur Stuart.”

Even though he was shouting, it was his mama's own voice.

She purely hated it when he mimicked her, and so here she came with the stirring fork in one hand and a big old cleaver in the other. “Hold still, Alvin, so I can stick the fork in his mouth and shave off a couple of ears!”

“Save me!” cried Arthur Stuart.

Alvin saved him by running away, at least till he got to the back door. Then Old Peg set down her instruments of boy-butchery and helped Alvin bundle Arthur Stuart up in coats and leggings and boots and scarves till he was about as big around as he was tall. Then Alvin pitched him out the door into the snow and rolled him with his foot till he was covered with snow.

Old Peg barked at him from the kitchen door. “That's right. Alvin Junior, freeze him to death right before his own mother's eyes, you irresponsible prentice boy you!”

Alvin and Arthur Stuart just laughed. Old Peg told them to be careful and get home before dark and then she slammed the door tight.

They hitched up the sleigh, then swept out the new snow that had blown in while they were hitching it and got in and pulled up the lap robe. They first went on down to the forge again to pick up the work Alvin had to deliver– mostly hinges and fittings– and tools for carpenters and leatherworkers in town, who were all in the midst of their busiest season of the year. Then they headed out for town.

They didn't get far before they caught up to a man trudging townward– and none too well dressed, either, for weather like this. When they were beside him and could see his face, Alvin wasn't surprised to see it was Mock Berry.

“Get on this sleigh, Mock Berry, so I won't have your death on my conscience,” said Alvin.

Mock looked at Alvin like his words was the first Mock even noticed somebody was there on the road, even though he'd just been passed by the horses, snorting and stamping through the snow. “Thank you, Alvin,” said the man. Alvin slid over on the seat to make room. Mock climbed up beside him– clumsy, cause his hands were cold. Only when he was sitting down did he seem to notice Arthur Stuart sitting on the bench. And then it was like somebody, slapped him– he started to get right back down off the sleigh.