Hello, My Name is Scrambled Eggs [antikvár]

THE WHOLE THIRD FLOOR Steam curled up from the brown-sugar mountains. I stirred my oatmeal, cut a slushy valley through the middle, and then whipped it around again fast. The whirlpool sucked at the galactic prisoners clinging to my spoon. They waved their tiny neon arms as they sank. "Harvey," Mom said, sliding a Twinkie into my lunch bag, "you don't have to kill the cereal. I boiled it till it stopped screaming. Just eat it." The wall phone rang and I grabbed it. "Harvey Trumble!" Dad picked up the one in the bedroom. "Trum-bles'! May I help you?" he asked, the way he does at the drugstore. The voice on the other end was soft as cotton balls. "A good morning to you, Clifton. And Harvey. A very good morning to you both. This is Jeff." "Morning," my father growled. He is not a very good-morning person. "I'm calling to ask a favor," the voice went on. It