Night At The Museum: 3 Cj __exclusive__

“He’s the only one who remembers us when the sun comes up,” CJ said. “He’s the one who tells the new guards to be careful with the diorama. He’s the one who brought us here, across an ocean, just to save us. You give him one last night. One real, full, magical night. And let the rest of us go peaceful.”

They raced past a hall of suits of armor, where the gauntlets clanked in alarm. They zipped under the legs of a towering Moai statue, whose stony face seemed to frown at them. CJ fired his little pistol—pop! pop!—the sound like someone snapping a twig. It bounced off Lancelot’s metal backside. The knight didn’t even notice.

He caught the Tablet. It was heavier than he remembered, and hot. The rust bit into his tiny hands. He landed hard on the wet marble, skidding to a halt just inches from the water. The Tablet’s glow flickered once, twice—and went out. night at the museum 3 cj

“WHO DARES DISTURB MY SON’S SLEEP?” Merenkahre boomed, his voice a dry wind.

Behind him, Jedediah gasped. “CJ?”

He walked to Merenkahre’s sarcophagus and, with a single touch, healed the crack. The ghost smiled, nodded at CJ, and faded into the stone.

And with that, the last grain of magic left CJ’s body. He turned from painted resin to simple, lifeless plastic. A toy. But as Larry held him, the first light of dawn crept through a high window of the British Museum. The other exhibits fell still—Jedediah frozen mid-salute, Rexy a skeleton of bone, the Neanderthals collapsed in a heap. “He’s the only one who remembers us when

“Ain’t about leaving, pardner,” CJ said, smiling as a flake of paint fell from his lip. “It’s about the ride.”