The sun poured over the garden. Crayons spilled on the grass. The big book waited, open and blank.
Red crayon—twirl. Blue crayon—twirl. She set them down, picked one up, set it down again. Not yet.
SPLAT. Her paw hit the yellow pot and a wobbly sun stamped the page wide, dripping at the edges.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. The green chalk rasped across the next page, leaving three long, waxy lines.
SNAP. The blue crayon broke clean in her paw. She pressed both ends together and dragged—zigzag, zigzag—a lightning bolt split the paper.
Squish. Squish. Red paint. Yellow paint. She dragged her thumb across page nine and a big orange sunburst bloomed.
She licked the paint off her thumb. Tastes like nothing. She licked it again anyway.
Page twelve. The table. The flowers. The old oak tree. She painted the whole garden in every colour she had.
She lifted her paw. The page shimmered. The whole book glowed, light spilling between the covers like tiny fireflies.
Rainbow light dabbed the flowers from the glowing book on the bench. She wiped green paint from her nose. Twelve, she thought, and tore a fresh page.
