Ripple plops down by the sunny puddle. His leg bounces. He grabs the green crayon and stretches toward the eleven pages.
His wiggly front foot knocks the crayon off course. It skids, skids, skids—SCREECH—across the table. 'Oops!'
He flips to page one. Colors the mushrooms. Fast. Faster. Too fast. The wax smears into one lumpy green blob.
His toes go sticky. He looks at the blob. Looks at his toes. 'Uh oh.'
Page seven. He colors slow now. One careful stroke on the tulip. Then another. The crayon drags, soft and steady.
A tiny gray snail pokes its head right between the flowers on the page. Ripple freezes. The snail wiggles its little horns.
He does not erase. He lifts the crayon, holds it beside the snail, and colors the next tulip, just around it.
Page eleven. His bouncing leg stops. He colors the heart-patterned rain boots, one red heart at a time.
The warm mug fizzes. Around him, everything goes still. He colors the last heart, slow and sure.
He lays the crayon down. Clink. He blows on the page and a tiny puff of red dust drifts up. 'There you go,' he whispers.