"How many chickens do you think it would take to capture an Ellie-funt, Quinny?" I asked. My head felt funny. Everything was starting to go dizzy.

"What kind of question is that, Asa?" Quinn sighed, shaking her head. Her shoes were pretty. They were the princess kind. The kind that the little ladies shoved their trotters into so they could win a prince. Did that make Quinn a princess?

"A great question. One that — " Was it supposta hurts? Would I die if I kept doing it? " — think that I need clawy-hands on my feeties, Quinn, cuz then I could hold on from the ceiling, and then...