Quacko's tiny orange feet stop on the cold, damp stone. He shuffles backward, his whole round body sinking behind Mama's long tail. He thought: 'I don't want to go in there.'
The big wooden gate groans open. 'Chirp! Chirp! Make way!' tumbles across the yard. Quacko presses flat and still against Mama's leg.
Row after row of wobbly river-stone desks stretches toward the gentle pond. The wooden floor gleams. Everything, everything looks enormous.
Quacko lifts its beak just an inch, peering through the gap where Mama's tail drapes across the gate. Sunlight glints off the wet stone desks. Then it pulls back.
One wobbly step forward. Its orange foot prints a smudge on the damp stone. The chattering gets louder, and it slides back behind Mama's tail.
Then— three small ducklings huddle by the far row of desks, beaks tucked into wings, still as stones. One drops a smooth pebble from her lap. Clink.
The pebble bounces twice on the stone, then rolls still. Its beak twitches. She looks up. He looks up. Both go very, very still.
Quacko unclips its beak from behind Mama's tail and steps out onto the sun-warmed path. One soft quack. Barely a whisper.
He waddles, waddles, waddles toward the three ducklings, orange feet puffing little clouds of dust. One of them tilts her head and gives a tiny, startled 'quack' right back.
Quacko plops down beside them. Four ducklings in a row, wings almost touching, beaks pointing at the wobbly desks ahead. One bumps her small wing against his. He tips his head. The yard still looks big, but not so big.
