Cuba was eleven years old and had very crooked notes. He lived on the seventh floor of a block of flats that smelled of waffles. On Monday morning his mum ran off to work without an umbrella. Cuba was left alone with a sandwich, notebooks and an impossible geography paper. He looked for a ruler and found a sock in the fridge. It was an ordinary Monday until he saw a box of crayons. At the bottom of the box was a pencil with the words: Pencil No. Zero. Underneath, someone had added: Draws what you really think. Cuba snorted with laughter and drew a toast with cheese. The toaster beeped and out popped the toast, but with jam strips. Then he drew a glass of juice. A glass stood on the table, but full of air, though it smelled of orange. The pencil tinkled quietly, as if sharpening itself. Cuba felt a tickle in his fingers and grew bolder. - This is what, the key to everything? - he whispered to himself. He wanted to think about the key, but the thought jumped around in his head. The pencil twitched and began to chalk the door itself with the number 13B. The door in the drawing was ajar and crumbs were falling from it. At the same moment, the bell in the real flat rang. Once, twice, three times, like in a comic book. - Hello? - said Kuba and looked once at the paper and then at the door. On the other side, someone grunted and the handle vibrated slightly. The smell of waffles wafted from the paper and something beeped thinly. Kuba raised his hand to the doorknob and the pencil tapped three times.