But now the studio was shuttering. “Hand-drawn is dead,” the memo read. “Go digital or go home.”

Milo looked back. “Nothing ever is. That’s the point of cartoons. We keep going. We flatten, we pop back. We get hit, we get up.”

Milo’s eyes went wide. “Oh no. No, no, no. Last time you drew me, I got hit by a train.”

Felix blinked. He turned it over. Nothing. Then he heard it: a tiny, high-pitched squeak of frustration. Followed by the thwack of a miniature pie hitting a lampshade.

Milo stepped through.

Milo stopped running. “What’s that?”