Tad watches a blur of brown fur streak across the meadow grass. His shell clicks against the warm dirt as he flexes his tiny legs. "I want to be that fast," he whispers, and begins to trot after the hare.
Tad lines up beside two hares at the old oak root. The snap of a dry twig signals the race. He pumps his legs, shell scraping the earth, but the hares are only green dust ahead. "Again!" he calls, and digs his claws into the soil for a fresh start.
Tad perches on a low branch, ready to race three squirrels darting through the brambles. They zip past like flickering shadows, leaving him tangled in leaves. He shakes his head, ears flat, and notices the pond's cool breath on his face.
Tad slips into the pond and immediately sinks — then kicks. Water rockets past him in a silver tunnel. He shoots forward like a living torpedo, bursting through a ring of lily pads with a loud SPLASH.
Tad drifts under the surface, watching the meadow blur above him. He curls his legs, smiles, and pushes off the mud — faster, faster, a perfect blue streak.
He pushes off the mud — faster, faster, a perfect blue streak cutting through the pond. The water parts around him like silk. Tad races through the silver tunnel of his own making.
Tad emerges from the water and settles on a smooth stone at the pond's edge. The meadow stretches warm and golden around him. He tucks his legs in and watches the dragonflies dance.
A dragonfly lands near his nose, wings catching the sunlight. Tad doesn't move. He has learned something today — some races are meant to be swum, not run.