Amy presses her ear against her bedroom door and listens to her mother's footsteps cross the kitchen downstairs. The phone beeps once. Twice. Then her mother's voice starts, low and serious, the kind of voice that means someone is in trouble. Amy knows that voice. She steps back from the door and looks at the seventeen drawings spread across her floor. But seventeen isn't enough anymore. The phone call is already happening. Amy drops to her knees and grabs a fresh piece of paper. Her hand moves fast, pressing the black crayon hard into the white. She draws the babysitter with wild hair and a huge grin, holding a phone in one hand like a weapon. The teeth are too big. The eyes are mean. Amy adds dark scribbles around the edges to show how evil spreads out from the babysitter like smoke. This is drawing number eighteen, the one that shows what's happening right now, the one that proves the babysitter is calling her mother to lie about everything. Amy carries the new drawing to the top of the stairs and lays it down with the others. The whole hallway is covered now. Four of her best drawings line the wall where her mother will see them when she comes up. Each one shows a different crime: the babysitter's finger pressed to her lips, the babysitter's laughing face, the babysitter turning away while Amy tries to talk, the babysitter on the phone telling lies. Behind the drawings sit Mister Flopsy and the other five witnesses, arranged in a row like a jury. Their button eyes stare down the stairs toward the room where her mother's voice rises and falls. Downstairs, the phone call ends with a click. Amy hears her mother set the phone on the counter. Footsteps move toward the stairs. Amy sits down cross-legged at the top, her hands folded in her lap, waiting. She has built her case. The drawings are ready. The witnesses are in position. When her mother reaches the top step and sees what Amy has done, there will be no more laughing, no more dismissing, no more being told to be quiet. The verdict is coming.