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I finally find a place among my own species. No offense, boy.”
    He stuck his arm through a mesh-guarded port in the side of the tank, and left it there for thirty seconds. When he removed it, the smile on his face dropped away; his arm was covered in tiny red welts. “On second thought, maybe I should just go back to that dark, sinister tower idea.”
    FP made a whining sound, bumping Fisher’s leg with his snout. Fisher sat down and set FP on his lap. “What do you think, little guy? Would I make a good villain?” A quick series of snuffles sounded like laughter. “What, not intimidating enough?” FP looked up at Fisher and dragged one hoof across Fisher’s stomach, as if petting him. “Oh, I’m too nice, is that it?” FP made a satisfied sounding snort and nuzzled back into Fisher’s lap. “Well, you just wait. Middle school is bound to turn me into an angry force of destruction. I’ll be an evil mastermind by the time I get to eighth grade. You’ll see.”

    The soft sound of FP’s chuckling soothed him as he got back to work, determined to find a solution to the disaster his life had become.

CHAPTER 3
    It is surely a sin for one man to covet another man’s wife. But it is a sin of far greater proportions (and fatal possibilities) to covet another man’s wife’s untested, artificial human growth hormone. Especially if we’re talking about my mom.
    â€”Fisher Bas, Sientific Principles and Observations of the Natural World (unpublished)
    â€œDown, boy,” Fisher said as he walked into the kitchen a few hours later. FP was doing his best to leap onto the counter, but kept landing with a thump back on the tiled floor.
    The three freckles on Fisher’s nose scrunched closer together as he tensed his face in pain, and scratched his new insect bites. It felt like he’d dipped his arm in a tankful of needles and salt water.
    His father didn’t even notice the boy—or the leaping pig—as he stood beside the oven and adjusted the controls on a screen with a full thermal map of the chicken roasting inside. His mother, meanwhile, was involved in an argument with the refrigerator over whether the white wine was chilled enough.
    â€œMadam Bas,” said the refrigerator in a high, droning voice, “need I remind you that I can detect temperature variation to a precision of one two-hundredth of a degree kelvin?” If the refrigerator had had arms, it would have been crossing them in front of its chest. Or, rather, its ice drawer.
    â€œI’m well aware of your thermometric abilities,” Fisher’s mom said to the fridge, beginning to get annoyed, “since I invented them. Now, can you tell me how the wine tastes ? Or would you prefer to leave that to someone who has taste buds ?”
    The refrigerator stuttered slightly, relented, and opened its door with a puff of air that sounded a bit like a reluctant sigh.
    â€œDinner’s almost ready, Fisher,” said his dad, turning off the oven. “Could you set the table, please?”
    â€œSure thing,” said Fisher. He went to the touch screen on the table’s side and slid the plates to their proper spots, following up with forks, knives, napkins, and glasses. When he had finished configuring the layout on the screen, he pressed a button and a little hatch popped open on the kitchen countertop. The requested items began surfacing, one by one.
    What appeared to be extra legs on the dining room table were, in fact, arms. So with multiple joints bending and sliding smoothly, it reached toward the counter, took hold of each plate, glass, and piece of silverware and placed it softly on its appointed spot as everyone sat down to eat.
    Except that without anyone noticing, FP had finally made it onto the counter. So when the table’s arm stretched out to grab the third plate, it grabbed the flustered pig instead and placed him down in front of