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Terrifyingly, Bob invents the cow-whistle. It leaps off the page and starts itself up right away; it was small and quick to finish.

They can’t hear it, of course, but they both know what’s coming. “Oh shit, Bob,” moans Yvette, looking at it with a drained horror.

“Hurry!” he cries. “The next one–I can’t tell what it is, but it’s big–”

His arms keep flailing, beyond his control, drafting perfectly with a pencil in each hand. Yvette leaps back in with the kneadable eraser, trying to sabotage whatever his subconscious is doing now.

But that’s when the cows arrive.

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