“Dorothy.” They said it unison.

“Definitely Dorothy.” Joan laughed. “Maybe the Wicked Witch of the East is under there. Under that house that should not be there on the ledge.”

“Nah.” Joey scoffed. “It’s been there too long. Her body would have been absorbed by the earth. Or whatever happened to her.”

“Oh. Oh.” Joan was excited. “Maybe her ruby slippers are still there.”

Joey smiled. “Maybe. Maybe we should see.”

Joan slumped to the ground. “No. I think that the slippers are gone. If they were ever there. I mean Dorothy would have gotten them already, right?”

“Follow the yellow brick road.”

Joan looked at the house sitting in an impossible place. She knew that there had not been any tornado like Baum had described. No wizard. No Oz. Not even a dream. But there it was. A house hanging over a precipice. A precipice made of concrete. A precipice made of concrete at the beach.

“Wait! I’ve got it!” Joey shouted. He picked up the model house. “The house was on the beach somewhere across the Gulf. Then, a hurricane swept it away. And a tital wave lifted it up to the concrete piling of a pier. The rest of the pier washed away. But the people survived. But they need to get out now. Before the house falls or gets washed away again.”

Joey smiled. Then, he shrugged. “What do you think?”

Joan struggled to keep her laugh from coming out. But she could not do it. She giggled out loud. “An L. Frank Baum, you are not.”

They both laughed, then said in unison, “Follow the yellow brick road.” They laughed some more.