The first day of school. Sunlight pours through the windows. Chairs squeak and tiles ring. The whole classroom hums.
Skrrrrt. A chair scrapes the tile. Bramble curls tighter, nose to tail, eyes shut. Smaller. And smaller.
Knee-thump. Knee-thump. A shadow drops over him, and she is the same height. Two fingers hold out a bright yellow crayon. "For you," she says.
One spike pokes forward. Then another. He peels open, slow and prickly. Front paws grip the table. Toes curl flat under.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. The crayon drags across the paper, and a sun wobbles out — lopsided, one ray much longer than the rest.
He lifts the paper high. "Look!" comes out bigger than he planned. The wobbly sun catches the window light.
A small kid leans over and points. "Your sun's crooked!" Two wide teeth grin out. She is not mad. She is just showing off.
Bramble grins back, spikes sticking out every which way. He sinks all the way down into his chair. The sun stays crooked. Perfect.