The girl slipped her blue bag onto her back. She marched down the sidewalk without looking back. Biscuit trotted after her, tail held high.
She disappeared around the corner. Biscuit stopped dead. A cold wind tugged at his ears.
The next morning, Biscuit waited by the curb. A boy with a yellow bag came walking down the street.
Biscuit leaped into the boy's path. The boy giggled and patted his head. 'Go on, then,' he said.
Biscuit followed at a brisk trot, nose to the pavement. The boy turned into a building with a giant painted sun.
The kindergarten building stood quiet and bright against the blue sky, its windows reflecting the morning sun.
Biscuit pressed his nose against the cool glass. Inside, rows of little backpacks hung on hooks. Children sat on tiny chairs while a teacher rang a bell — ting-ting!
Biscuit's tail wagged once, then stills.
At noon, the children streamed out of the building, each clutching a bag.
Instead of heading home, they looped around the block, bags bouncing. Biscuit ran alongside them.
Then they turned toward the park. Biscuit stopped and sat, ears drooping then perking up.
Biscuit curled up near a blue bag and closed his eyes. The sun warmed his fur.