Grandpa reached into a tall glass jar and pulled out a square wooden mold. "Let's try it together this summer," he said, setting it down on the flour-dusted kitchen table. Pip kicked his stool legs—clack, clack, clack—and didn't blink.
Every morning, Pip carried the watering can to the garden. Grandpa knelt beside the rows, fingers pressing into the soil, humming low under his breath. The green shoots stretched toward the sky, one by one.
One afternoon, the sky turned gray and the wind came howling. Rain hammered the garden flat. When the storm passed, the vine lay broken on the mud. Pip stood over it, fists tight, staring at the ruined stems.
Grandpa drove the stakes into the soft earth and tied the vine back upright with twine. He tapped Pip's shoulder and pointed at the stems. Pip exhaled slow, watching the green try again.
Weeks slid by. The garden grew wild and bright. Cucumbers curled on their trellises. Beans climbed the fence. And there, in the corner where Grandpa had planted the seeds, a single vine thickened and green.
Pip crept to the corner every day, peering through the leaves. Something was hidden underneath—something big and growing slow. He wanted to look but waited, counting days between visits.
One morning, he couldn't wait anymore. Pip peeled back the broad leaves and gasped. A watermelon sat inside the wooden mold—perfectly square, striped green, and bigger than anything he had imagined.
Pip turned and ran. He burst through the back door, breathless, and pointed at the garden. Grandpa stepped onto the porch, squinting, and followed Pip back to the vine.
They carried the square watermelon into the kitchen together, setting it on the table with a soft thud. The wooden mold came off easily, leaving the boxy fruit gleaming in the afternoon light.
Grandpa took the knife and sliced through the thick rind. The flesh inside was bright red and sweet-smelling. But something moved in the red flesh, something small and green and alive.
The frog hopped—once, twice—right onto Pip's open palm. It sat there, blinking slow, as big as a coin and perfectly square-shaped in its little green body. Pip held very still, afraid to blink.
Grandpa laughed from the doorway. Pip looked up and smiled, holding his hand out toward the old man. The frog watched him, sitting patiently on his palm, as if it belonged there all along.