Leo opened the carrier. Inside was the tiniest bunny, fur damp from the bath. Whiskers twitched like little antennas.
Leo's fingers curled into eager fists. He lunged forward—too fast. The bunny scrambled sideways and disappeared under the coffee table.
Leo tipped onto his stomach and peered under the table. Dust bunnies floated everywhere, but no real bunny. He slumped back and scuffed his sock.
He tried reaching in again, hands hovering close. The bunny bolted through the living room like a fuzzy white blur. It hid behind the potted plant by the back door.
His older sister walked in holding a picture book. She noticed his tense shoulders. 'Here,' she whispered, sliding one hand under the bunny.
She placed the bunny on Leo's open palms, one hand underneath, the other lightly over its back. 'Slow,' she whispered.
Leo stood perfectly still, arms cupped. The bunny's nose wiggled—then it leaned forward, pressing its warm body against his thumb. It let out a quiet sigh.
The bunny climbed up Leo's arm and settled into his lap, ears folded down, body limp. Leo sat on the floor, one hand resting lightly on its back. He smiled at nothing in particular.
