Chapter Four

I offered to carry Angelo out to the garage, because the sidewalk was icy, but he insisted on walking to the car.

“Is the whole museum full of sad art?” he asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

I buckled his seatbelt. “Well, not the entire museum.” Angelo gave me a wary look, so I added, “But a lot of the art is sad.”

During the short ride, Angelo hummed along with the car engine.
“The motor is singing in D minor,” he said. “A nice gloomy chord.”

Angelo sang along,

Life shakes us up
It spills us on the floor
Life crunches us to dust
And leaves us feeling sore.

“Like it?” he asked, then shook his head. “No, it’s terrible. No inspiration.”

“There’s your inspiration.” I pointed out the window to the white-brick building coming into view. The Minneapolis Institute of Arts is so large, you can't miss it. Not even if you are a very small frog sitting low in a car seat.