Boop shuffles to the wildflower patch and raises a spiny paw. 'May I—'
The hare zips past. The fox ducks under. Boop stands very still while the circle spins on, and on, and on, kicking dry pebbles into the air.
Rain patters on the wide leaves outside his burrow window. Then—thump, thump, thump—soft and steady, rolling up from under the great old oak.
Boop lifts his little lantern and pushes the lowest branches aside.
Under the dangle of wet leaves, a ring of tiny amber cups glows in the dark.
The fox taps the rim of hers with a twig—tap, tap, tap—and every little creature in the meadow sits cross-legged around one empty spot.
Rain drips from Boop's spines onto the soft moss. 'You're late, Boop!' they say, all at once, in a little puff of steam.
A chipmunk pats the empty moss beside her, and Boop slides into the gap. The thumping stops. A warm cup presses against his paws.
Boop curls his spines around the cup while stories hum low and rain drum-taps on the oak leaves above.
He yawns so wide his tiny teeth peek out. The empty spot beside him stays warm.