Sammy said his line and waited for Charles to say the next one. And waited. Charles was thinking. “Why do they say eight tiny reindeer?” he asked. “If they’re so tiny, how can they pull Santa’s sled? Maybe it’s because his sleigh is miniature — that means little, right? But how little can it be? It’s loaded with presents for every kid in the world!” “Charles,” Sammy said. “It’s just a poem.” He gave Maggie a hug. “Tell him to just say his line, Maggie.” The boys were at Charles’s house, practicing their poem. Maggie was still moping, and Buddy was trying to cheer her up by rolling onto his back and batting at her chin with his paws, the way Max always did. But Buddy was not Max, and Maggie knew it. Max was gone, and nobody could take his place. Maggie let out one of her big sighs and plodded over to lie down by the Christmas tree. Charles couldn’t say his line, because he couldn’t quite remember it. And, even worse, he knew the hardest lines of all were still coming up, the ones where Santa calls to his reindeer by name.
