Mr. Figgletoes' Toy Emporium

“Stop!” cried Jasmine from the back seat of one of those passing cars. Her hands and face were pressed against the window of the car door.

Startled, Jasmine’s father slammed on the brakes. The car behind them screeched to a stop, swerving to the right to avoid hitting them.

“Jasmine, why did you scream?” said her father, a forced calmness in his voice. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and set his jaw as he glanced over his shoulder toward his eight-year-old daughter.

“I want to go into Mr. Figgletoes’ Toy Emporium,” Jasmine said, folding her arms across her chest with a humph. Her round, blue eyes opened wide as she set her mouth in a firm, well-practiced frown.

“We can’t right now. I am in a hurry to get to work,” her father said, checking his watch.

“I don’t care! I want to go right now, and I will scream until you take me.” The pretty, young girl had spent her entire life up to this point refusing to accept no for an answer. She wasn’t about to start now. Jasmine let out a screech that surely awakened the fish sleeping in the depths of Lake Coeur d’Alene.

“All right. All right! I’ll take you, but you must stop screaming.”