Telling my parents about Franz was a bad idea. They sent me to a counselor to help “get my head on straight.” Dr. Slacks gave me a bottle of pills that rattled when you shook it. They smelled funny.

Franz told me not to take them. I trust Franz, so I didn’t. My parents noticed that the bottle wasn’t rattling any less, so they smashed one up and put it in my food. That was the day that Franz almost died. After eating, I felt kinda weird. Like one of those police guys was taping off part of my mind.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed Franz wasn’t looking so good. His usually colorful body was drooping, and the color was dripping down his legs. He didn’t move much, but just lay there, fading away. I wasn’t about to let him disappear, so I grabbed my big old box of markers; all 24 of them. With all of the imagination I could muster, I drew Franz’s color back on.

The pills wore off about six hours later. I’m not too good at art, so Franz didn’t look as good as he used to, but he was alive.