The voice came from the rabbit hutch, but no grown-up heard it.
"Not the red ribbon!" squeaked someone small. Xander stopped with one hand on the latch.
Xander was seven, with scuffed school shoes and a jumper pocket full of crumbs. That morning, he had tripped over his weather poem, and two children had giggled.
His cheeks had gone hot. Since then, his words felt stuck together.
A grey squirrel sat on the hutch roof, holding a crumb like treasure. He had a striped tail and bright, worried eyes.
"You can hear me?" the squirrel asked.
Xander blinked. "I think so. Are you meant to be talking?"
"Are you meant to leave latches half-shut?" said the squirrel. "I am Pip, by the way."
Xander looked at the little metal hook. It was not clicked in place.
Inside the hutch, Clover the school rabbit nibbled the red pet-day ribbon. Her nose twitched like a tiny drum.
"I was only getting her basket," Xander whispered.
Just then, a football bumped the fence with a soft thud.
Clover leapt from the hutch, the ribbon in her teeth. She landed in the grass and ran towards the school garden.
Xander’s hands shook. "Oh no. Mrs Vale trusted me."
Pip flicked his tail. "Then we had better be trustworthy quickly."
⁂
Mrs Vale was helping younger children wash paint brushes by the door. "Garden only, Xander," she called. "Stay where I can see you."
"I will," Xander said, though his voice came out small.
The garden looked ordinary at first: bean poles, wet grass, and a wooden stage for summer plays. Then Xander spotted red ribbon sliding through the daisies like a tiny flag.
"Clover!" he called. "Come back, please."
"Too loud," Pip said. "Rabbits hear worry before words."
Xander took a deep breath through his nose. The air smelled of rain and soil.
"Clover," he said more softly, "I am not cross."
A little voice answered from somewhere ahead. "Everyone saw."
Xander frowned. "Saw what?"
"The carrot bowl," said Clover. "I kicked it over. It made a terrible clatter."
Xander remembered the bowl on the hutch floor. He had thought nothing of it.
"She is hiding from embarrassment," Pip whispered. "That is a prickly kind of hiding."
Xander knew exactly what prickly hiding felt like.
⁂
The red ribbon led past the bean poles and under the little stage. The space beneath was dark, but not deep.
Clover crouched at the back, round and still, with the ribbon beside her. Only her nose moved.
Xander knelt on the damp grass. Pip perched on a stage plank above him, his paws folded like a tiny teacher.
"I messed up today too," Xander said. "I forgot my poem words. People laughed."
Clover’s ears lifted a little.
"Then I left your latch loose," Xander added. "That was my mistake, not yours."
The garden became quiet. Even Pip stopped chewing his crumb.
Xander remembered one line from his poem. It had sounded silly in class, but gentle now.
Clouds may stumble, clouds may roam, but every little cloud comes home.
Clover shuffled forward one small paw.
"If I come out," she said, "will the ribbon still be mine?"
"Yes," said Xander. "But we can tie it to your basket, where it cannot trip you."
Pip nodded. "A wise place for a ribbon. Ribbons are not sensible legs."
Clover hopped out. Xander did not grab her. He held the basket low and waited.
After three sniffs, Clover hopped inside by herself.
Xander let out the breath he had been holding. His knees felt wobbly, but his chest felt lighter.
⁂
Back by the hutch, Xander clicked the latch shut. He checked it once, then twice.
Mrs Vale came over, drying her hands on a towel. "There you are. Everything all right?"
Xander looked at Clover, then at Pip on the fence. Pip gave a serious squirrel nod.
"I left the latch loose," Xander said. "Clover ran away, but I found her. I am sorry."
Mrs Vale’s face stayed kind. "Thank you for telling the truth. That was brave."
Xander’s fingers stopped twisting his jumper hem.
Later, he stood beside Clover’s basket for pet day. The red ribbon was tied in a neat bow on the handle.
Pip watched through the open window, only his tail showing. Clover sat snug in her straw, washing one ear.
Xander read his weather poem again. His voice shook on the first line, then steadied on the second.
No one giggled. Mrs Vale smiled. Clover thumped once, softly, like applause.
That night, tucked under his blue quilt, Xander thought about latches, ribbons, and brave words.
Outside, leaves rustled in the sleepy dark.
A tiny voice called, "Goodnight, Xander."
Xander smiled into his pillow. Goodnight, Pip. Goodnight, Clover.
His room felt safe and warm, and all the day’s prickles faded away.
