Thistle pressed his nose against the burrow entrance. Crickets chirped. Leaves rustled, and an owl hooted softly above. A soft golden light blinked at the tunnel's edge.
A firefly hovered just outside, pulsing warm and steady. Thistle stuck one paw forward, then another, and crept onto the cool grass. He thought: maybe just a little.
The firefly zipped three inches ahead and waited. Thistle followed through clover, across smooth stones, and under a low branch that clicked against his quills.
Every time Thistle hesitated, the firefly blinked twice and darted forward. He took one more step.
A wide stretch of open meadow lay ahead, dark and shadowy. Thistle froze, toes curling into the soil.
The firefly zoomed in a bright circle above his head, then hovered right in front of his nose. Thistle took a deep breath.
Thistle stepped into the open. The meadow did not bite. It simply breathed with the wind.
He walked the full length of the meadow, the firefly bobbing along above him. When he reached the far side, he turned and looked back. The burrow looked cozy. The meadow looked kind now too.