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The door to the phone booth squeaked as I closed it carefully, shutting out
sounds of traffic from the street beyond. Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans I unfolded a yellow slip of paper and
stared at the name scribbled there: James Kjelgaard. Author of Big Red, Haunt Fox,
Stormy, and Fire-Hunter, the finest books a 9-year-old could imagine.
I stood, dime gripped tightly in my hand, remembering the sudden surge of excitement when yesterday, having finished his latest masterpiece,
I'd read on the inside back cover, "James Kjelgaard and his wife make their home in Phoenix, Arizona." Phoenix, Arizona! That's where I live. James Kjelgaard lives in my town!
And so, trembling inside, I now stood in the phone booth, afraid to attempt so vital a call from home, the dime hot in my palm, almost slipping as I dropped it in the slot. I held my breath as I dialed. It rang -- once, twice.
"Hello?"
"Is this James Kjelgaard?"
"Yes, it is."
"Is this the James Kjelgaard who writes books?"
"Yes, it is."
"Thank you," I said, and hung up. END
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