real familiar about these bears, he thought.

“Whatcha want, Muffin? We have bologna or bologna,” Baloo said, holding a sandwich in each hand.

“Hmm...” Molly mused. Her eyes shifted from one identical sandwich to the other as she pretended to make up her mind. “Bologna, I guess, Daddy,” she giggled.

“I’ll take bologna, too, Papa Bear,” Kit said, returning from the car with four cold Strawberry Fizzies, a small bottle of milk, and the bottle opener.

“Bologna sandwiches all around.” Baloo dealt the sandwiches out as if he was dealing cards.

“Thank you, Baloo.” Rebecca draped a bib around Cassie’s neck, then started to pinch pieces of her sandwich off for the baby.

“Dealer takes two.” Baloo piled two sandwiches on a napkin in front of himself.

“Trésexcellent and tastes good, too,” Molly said between bites.

“Ya know, Papa Bear, George Townsen’s hangar is just a few miles away,” Kit mentioned nonchalantly. He reached in the picnic basket for a bunch of grapes, picked a few off, then offered the bunch to his father.

“It is?” Baloo said with a spray of bread crumbs. He winked at Kit conspiratorially, took a grape, and popped it in his mouth. “Well..since we’re in the neighborhood, we’d better stop an’ say howdy to ol’ Georgie.”

“George Townsen?” Rebecca cried. “Not that man we spent an hour talking to in Picante City last year?”

“That’s the one.” Baloo slurped down a handful of grapes. “I heard through the grapevine that he’s test flyin’ some experimental aircraft. Real cuttin’ edge stuff.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, Papa Bear - Derrick Vertaplanes!” Kit exclaimed, his eyes aglow with excitement. “I saw some awesome pictures in last week’s edition of Flyboy Magazine, but it would be way better to see one up close.”

Baloo clapped Kit on the shoulder. “Flyin’ one would be better’n seein’ it.”

“Do you really think he’d let us?”

“No harm askin’.”

“Flying, flying, flying,” Rebecca muttered in exasperation. “Is that allyou flyboys ever think about?”

“Yes,” Baloo and Kit said simultaneously.

Rebecca helped Cassie to get a sip from the milk bottle. “But if we stop there, it’ll throw our whole schedule off. I planned on reaching Flaggstone by...”

Baloo waved her aside. “Aw, schedule, schmedule. This is a vacation, honey. Ya gotta lighten up. Relax. Go with the flow.”

“See some airplanes,” Rebecca said dryly.

Baloo nodded vehemently and chomped into his second sandwich.

“If I wanted to see airplanes, I could have stayed at home,” Rebecca retorted, wiping milk from Cassie’s chin.

“I bet you a billion buckaroos that you’ve never seen nuthin’ like this, Becky,” Baloo averred, gulping down half his soda.

“It’s a cross between Buzz’s helicopter and a regular airplane, Mom,” Kit explained. “Capable of vertical takeoffs.”

“What’s ‘vertical takeoff’ mean?” Molly asked. She stood on the bench to reach into the picnic basket for a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

“It can go straight up in the air when it takes off,” Kit told her. “It doesn’t need a runway.”

“Neat-o!” Molly chose a cookie, then passed the paper sack to her brother.

“That would come in handy in tight spots, like the inside of volcanoes. In a sing-song voice, Baloo said, “Hey, Becky, I know what I want for a souvenir.”

“Ha! Keep dreaming,” Rebecca snorted. “One plane’s upkeep is enough for Higher for Hire.”

Baloo clasped his hands together melodramatically. “Can we go, Beckers? Pretty please with a cherry an’ whipped cream an’ sprinkles an’ chocolate chips an’ sparklers on top?”

Rebecca couldn’t help giggling at Baloo’s plethora of ice cream toppings. He was cute when he tried to get around her, which was about every other minute.

But the thing that really swayed her was Kit’s hopeful, “Please, Mom?”

“Fine. We’ll stop by for a quick visit.”

“Fan-dang-tastic, Becky!” Father and son shared high fives. “Ya know, kid, I heard that them Vertaplanes don’t even got rudders or ailerons or...”

Taking a thoughtful drink of her soda, Molly said, “Pilots always have their heads in the clouds, don’t they, Mom?”

Frowning at her husband, who had absolutely no regard for time, Rebecca said testily, “Pilots definitely need to be grounded every once in a while, especially your father.” She mentally reviewed the schedule. This unexpected stop was going to throw the entire trip’s timing all off, and she had it planned almost to the very second.

“Whoa-ho! Dairy deluge!” Baloo cried, standing up quickly. Cold milk streamed down his legs onto the ground.

Cassie, who had accidentally knocked the bottle over, was blissfully unaware that she had done anything wrong. She giggled at the little jig that her father did.

“Aw, man, my sandwich is soggy,” Baloo groaned. He waved the last few bites of his limp sandwich in front of Cassie, who promptly grabbed onto it. “I hope you’re happy, young lady.”

“There’s no use crying over spilt milk, Baloo,” Rebecca pointed out, prying the sodden sandwich from Cassie’s hands. Eyes twinkling, she threw his own words back at him. “This is a vacation. You’ve got to lighten up, relax, go with the flow - the milk flow, that is.” She burst out laughing.

“You’re gonna milk this one for all it’s worth, ain’t ya, Rebecca?” He wrung out his shirttail, grimacing.

Rebecca could only nod. She was laughing too hard.

Behind the cactus, something pricked Weazel’s memory, and it wasn’t the cactus spines. Planes! That was it! This was the same fat pilot that he had hired two years ago to do some skywriting for Heimlich Menudo’s master plan. It turned out that the pilot wasn’t as stupid as he looked.

And here the fat pilot was again, foiling another one of Heimlich Menudo’s plans. It was too much of a cruel irony. He had to get that map from them. He ran through a few possible scenarios in his mind.

I could just walk up to them and say, “I think you have something of mine - a map.” No, no, no. That won’t work. They’d turn me in to the cops, get the reward, maybe even the treasure. Heimlich wouldn’t like that. How about, “This is a hiccup, er...stickup. Hand over the map and nobody gets hurt.” But...I don’t have a gun or a mask, and that approach works better with a gun and a mask. What would Heimlich Menudo tell me to do? I know! Look in the pink bag, Weasel. Find the pink bag, and you’ll find the map. But I don’t see the pink bag. It must be in their car!

He turned towards the parking lot where there were approximately thirty cars. Which one’s theirs?

Deciding to go about it systematically, he snuck up to the first car and peered in at the backseat. Car by car, he worked his way around the parking lot. Finally, at the last car in the second row, he spied a large pink bag in the backseat. He stealthily glanced around the parking lot. Since no one seemed to be paying attention, he quickly opened the back door and reached for the bag. Just as he zipped it open, he heard a low growl.

Startled, Weazel looked up. A little brown and white dog with a pink bow around its neck was staring at him from over the front seat.

“Good doggy,” Weazel said, smiling with relief. “Nice doggy.” He patted the cute little dog’s fuzzy head.

The next second, he wished that he hadn’t touched the dog.

Yipping, snarling, and snapping, the dog latched onto Weazel’s arm and went to town.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow! Bad dog! Bad dog!” Weazel shook his arm wildly - up and down, around and around, and side to side - but the territorial terrier wouldn’t let go. “Get off me, you mangy mutt!”

Then, to make matters worse, the dog’s owner - an elderly racoon wearing a bright pink dress adorned with blazing orange polka dots - started beating Weazel over the head with her large purple handbag.

“Ow! Hey, cut it out, lady!” Weazel choked out as he was pounded into the ground.

With a happy yip, the dog let go of its victim and leapt into the woman’s arms.

“Oh, poor widdle Sadie,” the old lady crooned. “Was this mean, nasty man bothering you?” She glared at the bleeding, woozy heap that was Weazel.

Poor Sadie? Weazel thought, his head reeling. He was in too much pain to verbalize his thoughts. What about poor me? That little sadistic Sadie almost KO’d me. And you’ve got a mean backhand, lady.

“That’ll teach you not to attack a defenseless little puppy,” the woman scolded, giving Weazel a parting whack over the head.

“Yip,” barked Sadie, as though in agreement.

She and Sadie got in the car and drove off, leaving Weazel lying face down on the pavement, writhing in pain.

Two cars down, Weazel saw the von Bruinwalds piling into their automobile.

“Oh, no,” Weazel moaned weakly when the family of bears left. He wiped the dirt from his face with his torn sleeve. Despite the searing pain, he started to crawl towards his car. He had to follow that map.

George Townsen’s Hangar
Four Hours Later

Down a dirt road, out in the middle of the desert, were a cluster of hangars. The hot afternoon sunlight glinted off of the domed, metal roofs. Aircraft of all shapes and sizes were taking off and landing on the nearby runways.

Inside the largest hangar, Rebecca sat on a crate in the corner with an impatient Cassie squirming on her lap. The baby had been wiggly ever since she had awakened from her nap a half hour before, and she was mad because her mother wouldn’t let her run around the hangar.

“Cassie, don’t hit Mommy.” Rebecca caught the cub’s paw before she could slap her on the arm again. “No. Hitting is not nice.”

Molly looked up at

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