"*** Pete the Puggle and the Fort Greene Adventure ***"🐾
**Chapter One: The Great Adventure Begins** The morning sun spilled through our Brooklyn windows like warm honey, painting golden stripes across my short, velvety white fur. I stretched my little puggle body—half pug, half beagle, one hundred percent adventure—and let out a yawn that could've swallowed a baseball. Today was the day! Fort Greene Park, that magical green kingdom where squirrels held court and shadows danced between ancient trees, beckoned us like a siren's song. "Dad! Dad! Is it time?" I barked, circling Lenny's feet as he tied his sneakers with the careful precision of a man who knew that every knot held the promise of a day's worth of memories. His laugh rumbled like distant thunder on a summer day. "Hold your horses, Pete! Or should I say, hold your hounds?" He reached down, scratching behind my ears until my back leg thumped against the hardwood floor in pure bliss. Mariya glided through the kitchen, her hands full of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, each one a treasure chest of peanut butter and banana—my favorite scent in the entire universe. "Lenny, did you pack the water bottles? And Pete's special ball?" She paused, her eyes—the color of autumn leaves—finding mine. "Oh, sweet boy, you're practically vibrating!" "I can't help it, Mom!" I yipped, my tail becoming a blur. "The park! The smells! The—" My words dissolved into excited snuffles as Roman, my older brother and best friend, thundered down the stairs. At sixteen, he carried himself with the swagger of a lion cub who'd just discovered his roar, but his eyes held the same gentle warmth as Dad's. "Ready, little dude?" Roman scooped me up, pressing his nose to mine. His breath smelled like cinnamon toast and teenage dreams. "I heard there's a new dog at the park. A Jack Russell. Real tough guy, they say." He winked, and my heart did a flip. Tough guy? I was just a puggle with a heart bigger than my bark. But Roman's belief in me wrapped around my chest like armor. The walk to Fort Greene Park was a symphony of Brooklyn life. Car horns honked in jazz rhythms, bakeries exhaled clouds of fresh bread, and the sidewalks were a mosaic of sneakers, strollers, and dreams. I trotted between Roman's sneakers, my nose mapping every scent—pizza crust from last night, the perfume of a passing woman, the sharp tang of tire rubber. Each smell was a story, and I was the librarian. When we arrived, the park unfolded before us like a storybook illustration. Ancient oaks stood guard like wise old soldiers, their leaves whispering secrets in the breeze. The playground buzzed with children's laughter, a sound as bright as popping candy. And in the distance, the splash of the water feature called to me—both thrilling and terrifying. My ears flattened. Water. The one thing that turned my brave puggle heart into a trembling leaf. "Look at that, Pete!" Lenny pointed toward the hill where Revolutionary War soldiers once camped. "History lives here. Just like our stories will live in your heart." He knelt, his calloused hand gentle on my head. "Whatever happens today, remember: you're braver than you think." Mariya's fingers intertwined with Lenny's, their wedding rings catching the light like promises kept. "And we're right here with you. Always." Her voice was the softest blanket on a cold night. I looked up at Roman, who gave me a nod so small only I could see it. That nod said everything: *I got you, little dude. We got this.* And in that moment, with my family forming a circle of warmth around me, the water didn't seem quite so scary, the shadows not quite so dark. The adventure had begun, and my heart was ready to write its story. **Chapter Two: The Terrier Tornado** The moment we crested the hill toward the dog run, I heard him—a bark like machine gun fire, sharp and relentless. My hackles rose, not from aggression but from the sheer force of personality that preceded this newcomer. The other dogs scattered like leaves before a hurricane, and there he stood: Kirusha, a Jack Russell Terrier with fur the color of autumn wheat and eyes that burned with the intensity of a general surveying his battlefield. "Who's the fluffball?" Kirusha's voice cut through the air like a whip. He circled me, his body low, every muscle coiled like a spring. "You look like a stuffed toy that lost its stuffing." I squared my shoulders, though my heart hammered against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage. "I'm Pete. And I'm not a toy. I'm an adventurer." My voice came out braver than I felt, bolstered by the memory of Roman's nod. "Adventurer?" Kirusha barked a laugh that made the nearby pigeons take flight. "You couldn't adventure your way out of a paper bag, puggle-boy. Bet you're scared of your own shadow." The words stung like nettles. I opened my mouth to retort, but Roman's voice cut through the tension. "Pete! Come here, buddy!" His tone was light, but I heard the protective edge beneath it. He understood. He always understood. I trotted to Roman's side, feeling Kirusha's gaze burn between my shoulder blades like a spotlight. Lenny and Mariya watched from a nearby bench, their conversation paused, their parental instincts humming like a taut wire. Dad's hand rested on Mom's knee, a silent signal: *Let them work it out, but we're here.* "That dog's got issues," Roman murmured, scratching my favorite spot. "But you handled it. You didn't run." "I wanted to," I admitted, my voice small. "He scares me." "Being scared isn't the problem, little dude. Running from it is." Roman's words settled into my bones like sunshine. "Besides, I bet he's all bark. Most tough guys are." As if on cue, Kirusha's owner—a harried woman with purple hair and patience worn thin—called out. "Kirusha! Leave the poor puggle alone!" But Kirusha wasn't done. He darted forward, nipping at my heels, a challenge sparking in his eyes. "Race you to the big oak!" he yipped before tearing off like a rocket. My instincts screamed to let him go, to stay safe in Roman's shadow. But something deeper—something Lenny had planted with his talk of bravery—pushed me forward. My legs moved before my brain caught up, and suddenly I was running, my short legs pumping like pistons, my breath coming in joyous gasps. We wove through legs and around picnic blankets, a blur of determination. Kirusha was faster, yes, but I had heart. I had the memory of Mom's magic-eyed belief. I had Dad's wisdom wrapped around me like a cloak. And I had Roman's protection, even from a distance. At the oak tree, Kirusha waited, chest heaving, a new expression on his face—not contempt, but something like respect. "Not bad, fluffball. Not bad at all." He sniffed my ear, the dog equivalent of a handshake. "Maybe you're not completely useless." I caught my breath, pride swelling in my chest like a balloon. "Maybe you're not completely rude." He barked again, but this time it held a note of laughter. And in that moment, beneath the ancient oak where soldiers once stood guard, a friendship began—not with peace, but with the honest clash of two spirits who recognized something in each other: the desire to be brave, to be seen, to belong. **Chapter Three: Heroes and Splash Zones** The water feature glistened in the afternoon sun like a thousand diamonds scattered across concrete. Children shrieked as jets erupted from the ground, creating a liquid playground that danced and swayed. I watched from a safe distance, my paws firmly planted on dry grass, while Roman and his friends splashed with the abandon of youth. "Come on, Pete!" Roman called, his t-shirt soaked and clinging to him like a second skin. "The water's perfect!" My throat tightened. Water. It wasn't just wet; it was unpredictable, powerful, a force that could swallow a small puggle whole. My dreams were sometimes filled with dark waves that pulled me under, where I couldn't breathe, couldn't find my family. I took a step back, my body betraying my terror. Mariya knelt beside me, her hand cool on my fur. "Oh, my brave boy. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." She understood the language of fear; she'd taught me that fear was just love looking for safety. But then a flash of movement caught my eye—not from the water, but from the edge of a nearby trash can. Tom, a gray tabby cat with stripes like shadows and eyes the color of polished amber, sat with the casual elegance of a creature who owned the world. And beside him, improbably, stood Jerry—a mouse so small he could've hidden in a teacup, yet standing with the posture of a knight. "Well, well," Tom drawled, his voice smooth as cream. "Look at the puppy, scared of a little H2O." Jerry twitched his whiskers. "Don't tease, Tom. Everyone's scared of something." He looked up at the cat with an expression so complex it held years of history—chasing and being chased, rivalry and respect. Kirusha trotted up, his earlier aggression softened into something like camaraderie. "What's the holdup, fluffball? Afraid you'll melt?" "I'm not melting material," I shot back, though my voice trembled. "I'm just... conducting a safety inspection." Tom laughed, a rumbling purr that vibrated through the air. "That's one way to put it. Jerry here was scared of cats. Can you imagine?" "Was being the operative word," Jerry squeaked, puffing his tiny chest. "I learned that sometimes the thing you're scared of is just as scared of you. Tom jumps higher than I do when I surprise him." "Hey!" Tom swatted playfully, missing Jerry by design. "That's classified information." Their banter wove around me like a protective net. These two—mortal enemies turned friends—showed me that fear could be rewritten. Roman splashed over, water streaming from his hair onto my fur. I flinched, but he held me steady. "Little dude, remember what Dad said? Bravery isn't not being scared. It's being scared and doing it anyway." He scooped a handful of water, letting it trickle from his fingers. "It's just water. It can't hurt you. And I'll be right here." Lenny and Mariya approached, sandwiches in hand, their presence a fortress of safety. Dad knelt, his eyes level with mine. "Pete, courage is like a muscle. You gotta exercise it. But you don't have to lift the heavy weights today." Mom's voice was a melody. "How about we just dip a paw? One paw. That's all." The sun beat down, the water sparkled, and four pairs of eyes watched me—not with pressure, but with faith. Kirusha nudged my shoulder. "I'll go with you, fluffball. We'll be soggy together." Something shifted inside me, like a locked door creaking open. I stepped forward, then another step. The concrete was cool beneath my paws. Roman held my favorite ball just at the water's edge. "Come get it, Pete." I looked back at my family—Lenny's nod, Mariya's smile, Roman's outstretched hand. I looked at my new friends—Kirusha's challenging grin, Tom's lazy wink, Jerry's thumbs-up (how does a mouse give a thumbs-up? I didn't question it). And I jumped. The water embraced me, cool and shocking and wonderful. I paddled, my legs churning, my heart soaring. I wasn't drowning—I was flying in a liquid sky. Roman cheered, the family applauded, and even Kirusha let out a bark of approval. In that moment, water wasn't my enemy. It was just another part of the world, another fear turned into a friend. **Chapter Four: Lost in the Long Shadows** The afternoon stretched like taffy, sweet and endless. After our water victory, we picnicked beneath a grandfather oak whose branches created a cathedral ceiling of green. Lenny told stories of the park's history—soldiers, poets, dreamers who'd walked these same paths. Mariya pointed out shapes in the clouds, finding elephants and castles where I just saw fluff. Roman shared his headphones with me, letting me hear the beat of his music, the rhythm of his teenage heart. I drifted into a contented doze, the music mixing with the sounds of the park into a lullaby. When I woke, the sun had shifted, casting long shadows that stretched like dark fingers across the grass. The air had cooled, carrying the metallic scent of approaching twilight. I stretched, looking around. The family was gone. Not gone-gone, but not here. Their blanket remained, but the sandwiches were packed, the water bottles tucked into the bag. I sniffed. Their scent trail led toward the bathrooms, fresh and recent. Relief flooded through me—just a bathroom break. But as I waited, the shadows deepened, and the park transformed. The laughter became distant echoes. The trees loomed larger, their branches clawing at a darkening sky. My heart began to race, a drumbeat of panic. Being alone was one thing. Being alone in the gathering dark was another beast entirely. This was my second fear, the one that crept in during thunderstorms and power outages: the dark, where I couldn't see my family, where I was small and the world was vast and unknown. "Kirusha?" I called, my voice small. "Tom? Jerry?" No answer. Just the rustle of leaves that suddenly sounded like whispers. The wind carried scents I couldn't identify—metallic, sharp, foreign. My paws itched to run, but where? Every direction looked the same in the dimming light. The water feature, once a playground, now gurgled like a monster's stomach. Then I heard it—a bark. But not Kirusha's confident yip. This was a scared bark, high-pitched and desperate. I followed the sound, my fear of the dark battling with something deeper: the need to help a friend. I found Kirusha backed against a trash can, his bravado gone, his eyes wide. And before him, a raccoon—bold, unafraid, twice his size. "Kirusha!" I yelped, rushing forward without thought. The raccoon turned, its masked face menacing, but I planted myself between it and my friend. "Leave him alone!" My bark was braver than my trembling legs. The raccoon hesitated, sizing up two dogs versus one. With a dismissive chitter, it scuttled away. Kirusha collapsed against me, his small body shaking. "I was looking for you. Got turned around. The dark..." His voice trailed off, shame coloring his words. "The dark gets to everyone," I said softly. "Even brave Jack Russells." Tom and Jerry appeared then, materializing from the shadows like guardians. Tom's fur was puffed, his claws extended. "We heard the commotion. This park gets wild after sunset." "Wild with worry!" Jerry added, his tiny voice fierce. "We need to find your people, Pete. They must be frantic." We moved together, a strange pack: two dogs, a cat, and a mouse united by shared fear and growing friendship. The streetlights flickered on, creating pools of amber light that felt like islands in a dark sea. We navigated from light to light, calling out, our voices weaving together into a tapestry of hope. I thought of Lenny's stories, of soldiers finding their way by starlight. I thought of Mariya seeing magic in the ordinary, of Roman's music that always led me home. They were my stars, my magic, my melody. And I was lost without them. The dark pressed in, but I pressed back. I wasn't the same puggle who'd arrived this morning, terrified of water and shadows. I'd faced one fear already. I could face another. For Kirusha, shivering beside me. For Tom and Jerry, who'd left safety to help. For my family, who must be searching. We reached the top of the hill, the same hill where we'd begun our day. From here, I could see the whole park, a kingdom of shadows and light. And there, in the distance, near the water feature, a flashlight beam cut through the darkness like a lightsaber. "Roman," I whispered, recognizing the way he moved, the shape of his shoulders. "That's Roman." We ran then, all of us, our fears forgotten in the glow of that single light. The dark still existed, but it didn't own us anymore. We owned our courage. **Chapter Five: The Courage Within** The flashlight beam grew larger, more insistent, sweeping across the grass like a lighthouse beacon. I could hear him now—Roman's voice, usually so confident, now edged with something I'd never heard before: pure, unfiltered panic. "Pete! Kirusha! Where are you guys?" His sneakers pounded the earth, each step a heartbeat of worry. "Here!" I barked with everything I had, my voice cracking with emotion. "Roman, we're here!" The beam swung toward us, blinding for a moment, and then Roman was there, his face a mask of relief so profound it made my chest ache. He dropped to his knees, scooping me up with one arm and Kirusha with the other, crushing us to his chest. I could feel his heart hammering against my fur, his breath coming in shaky gasps. "Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God." He repeated it like a prayer, his tears wetting my fur. "I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, you were gone. Mom's searching by the playground. Dad's at the entrance. We've been calling and calling..." Kirusha wriggled free, his terrier pride returning now that safety was within reach. "We got lost. Then we got found. That's how adventures work, right?" Roman managed a laugh, watery but real. "Yeah, little dude. That's exactly how they work." He spotted Tom and Jerry hovering at the edge of the light. "And you guys... you helped them?" Tom shrugged with feline nonchalance. "Someone had to. Besides, Jerry gets bored without a little drama." "I do not!" Jerry protested, but his whiskers twitched with amusement. "Okay, maybe a little." Roman stood, cradling me against his shoulder, and pulled out his phone. "Mom? Dad? I found them. I'm at the hill. We're all okay." The relief in his voice traveled through the phone lines, and I could imagine Mariya's tears, Lenny's shaky exhale. As we walked back—Roman carrying us, Tom and Jerry trailing like honored guests—the park felt different. The dark wasn't malevolent; it was just the world wearing a different coat. The shadows that had seemed like monsters now looked like old friends. I'd walked through my fear and come out the other side, and the world hadn't changed—I had. Roman's arms were strong around me, his warmth a fortress. "You were brave, little dude. Really brave." "I was scared," I admitted, my voice muffled against his shirt. "Being brave and being scared are roommates, Pete. They live in the same heart." Roman's words were wise beyond his years, maybe borrowed from Lenny, maybe grown in his own soul. We reached the meeting point, and there they were—Lenny and Mariya, their faces tear-streaked but smiling. Mom scooped me from Roman's arms, her embrace so gentle yet so fierce I thought I might break from the love of it. Dad wrapped his arms around all of us, a group hug that included Kirusha, who'd leaped into the circle. "Don't you ever scare us like that again," Mariya whispered into my fur, but there was no anger, only relief. Lenny's voice was gruff with emotion. "You okay, pal?" I looked around at my family, at Kirusha who'd become a brother in fear and courage, at Tom and Jerry who'd proven that friendship crosses all lines. "I'm better than okay," I said, my tail wagging with the truth of it. "I'm brave." **Chapter Six: Roman's Rescue** The reunion was a hurricane of emotion—tears and laughter, scolding and hugging, the beautiful chaos that only family can create. Lenny and Mariya took turns holding me, their hands shaking slightly as they checked every inch of my fur for injuries. Finding none, they held me tighter, as if they could imprint their love directly onto my bones. Roman, ever the older brother, tried to play it cool, but I caught him wiping his eyes when he thought no one was looking. He'd been scared too—scared of losing me, scared of the dark in its own way. Sometimes the dark isn't absence of light; it's absence of the ones you love. "Tell us what happened," Lenny said, settling onto the grass with the whole family gathered close. The flashlight lay between us, casting our faces in dramatic shadows, making our little circle feel like a campfire storytelling session. So I told them. I told them about the raccoon and Kirusha's fear, about Tom and Jerry appearing like guardian angels, about how the dark had pressed in but we'd pressed back harder. I told them about the moment I'd stood up to the raccoon—not because I wasn't scared, but because my friend was more scared. Mariya listened with tears streaming down her face, not from sadness but from pride. "You see, Lenny? Our little philosopher. He understands that courage isn't the absence of fear." "It's the decision that something else is more important," Lenny finished, his eyes meeting mine. "That's my boy." Roman ruffled my ears. "You know what this means, right? You're officially not a puppy anymore. You're a dog. A dog who can handle himself." Kirusha, who'd been unusually quiet, spoke up. "He's a fluffball who can handle himself. There's a difference." But his tone was teasing now, the aggression replaced by affection. "Though I still say I could take you in a rematch." "Anytime, anywhere," I shot back, but we both knew the fight had left us. What remained was friendship, forged in the crucible of shared fear and mutual rescue. Tom and Jerry had disappeared into the night—Tom with a flick of his tail, Jerry with a tip of an imaginary hat—but their presence lingered. They'd shown us that the most unlikely alliances could be the strongest. A cat and mouse, a puggle and a terrier—we were all just creatures looking for light in the dark. Lenny pulled out his phone, checking the time. "It's late. We should head home. But first—" He reached into the bag and produced my favorite ball, the one with the squeak that sounded like joy itself. "One last game of fetch? For the bravest puggle in Brooklyn?" The park was different at night, but so was I. The water feature gurgled peacefully. The trees stood guard. And when Roman threw the ball, it arced through the dark sky like a comet, a trail of light against the shadows. I ran after it, my paws sure on the grass, my heart light in my chest. The dark was just another kind of daylight, and I could see perfectly fine. **Chapter Seven: Home Again, Home Again** The walk home was a different kind of symphony—crickets chirping their evening songs, streetlights humming their electric lullabies, and our family's footsteps falling in rhythm like a heartbeat. Lenny carried the blanket, Mariya held the sandwich bag, and Roman carried me—still, after all my bravery, letting me rest in his arms because sometimes being brave means knowing when to let yourself be held. Kirusha walked beside us, his owner having been called and reassured. He'd be spending the night with us—a sleepover to cement our new friendship. He kept glancing up at me, his eyes asking silent questions: *Are we really friends? Do you really forgive my bark?* And I answered with my own glances: *We're brothers now. Brothers in courage.* "Do you realize," Mariya said softly, her voice weaving into the night, "that today you conquered three fears? Water, darkness, and being alone." "Four," Lenny corrected. "He conquered the fear of not being enough. Of being 'just' a puggle." I thought about that, my head resting on Roman's shoulder. They were right. This morning, I'd been a puppy defined by his fears. Tonight, I was a dog defined by his choices. The water had become a playground. The dark had become a blanket. Being separated had taught me that family isn't just proximity—it's connection that stretches across any distance. Roman shifted me to his other arm, his grip gentle. "You know what I think? I think the park didn't change you. You were always this brave. You just needed the right reasons to show it." We turned onto our street, the brownstone stoops familiar as old friends. Our apartment window glowed with warm light, a beacon calling us home. Inside, our couch awaited, soft and forgiving. My bed in the corner, Roman's room where I sometimes snuck in during thunderstorms, the kitchen where Mariya created magic, the living room where Lenny told stories that made the world bigger. Kirusha's owner met us at the door, her purple hair now freed from its tie, her face a mixture of gratitude and sheepishness. "I can't thank you enough. Kirusha has... social issues. He doesn't make friends easily." "He made friends with the right dog," Lenny said, his hand on my head. "Sometimes it takes one brave soul to recognize another." As Kirusha and I settled onto our living room rug, the day's adventures replayed behind my eyelids. Fort Greene Park wasn't just a park anymore. It was where I'd learned that fear was a door, not a wall. That behind every aggressive bark might be a scared terrier looking for a friend. That a cat and mouse could teach a dog about courage. That my family was my strength, but I had my own strength to give them too. Mariya brought us water bowls, and we drank side by side—Kirusha and me, two very different dogs who'd found common ground in uncommon circumstances. Lenny sat in his chair, his reading glasses perched on his nose, but his eyes watched us with the satisfaction of a man whose family was complete. Roman stretched on the couch, his phone forgotten, content to simply be with his pack. "Tomorrow," Roman announced, "we're buying Pete a life jacket. For the water. Just in case." "And a flashlight," Mariya added. "A small one. For his collar." Lenny nodded. "And maybe we all learned something today. That being together is wonderful, but being brave enough to be apart—that's growth." I curled into a ball, Kirusha mirroring my position, our breathing syncing like we'd been littermates. The apartment settled into its evening sounds: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, the soft breathing of my family. Outside, the dark held no terror. It was just the world turning, making space for tomorrow. **Chapter Eight: The Story We Tell** Morning came with the gentle insistence of sun through curtains and the aroma of coffee that smelled like comfort itself. I woke to find Kirusha already awake, watching me with those intense terrier eyes. "You dreamt," he said simply. "You were running in your sleep." "I was running toward something," I replied, the dream still vivid. "Not away." Mariya called us to the kitchen, where she was making pancakes in the shape of hearts and dog bones. Lenny sat at the table, his newspaper open but his attention on us. Roman stumbled in, sleep-rumpled and teenage-grumpy until he saw Kirusha and me together. A slow smile spread across his face. "You two look like a team," he said, ruffling both our heads. "We are," Kirusha and I said in unison, then laughed—dog laughter, a series of snorts and tail wags. Over breakfast, we told the story again. Stories need to be told to become real, and this one was becoming the legend of our family. The time Pete got lost and found his way. The time Kirusha learned to trust. The time Tom and Jerry proved that friendship conquers all. The time Roman became a hero just by being himself. "You know," Lenny said, syrup dripping from his fork, "every good story has a moral. Ours has several. Courage isn't the absence of fear. Family is connection, not proximity. And sometimes, the friends you fight with become the friends you fight for." Mariya reached across the table, taking Lenny's hand and Roman's, completing a circle that included Kirusha and me. "And the most important one: love is the light that finds you in the dark." Roman looked at me, his eyes serious. "You were scared, but you didn't let it stop you. That's what I tell my friends when they're nervous about tests or asking someone out. It's okay to be scared. Just don't let it drive." I thought about that, my tail thumping against the chair leg. I'd started the day as a puggle with fears. I'd ended it as a dog with experience. The water still existed, but it didn't own me. The dark still came, but I carried my own light now. And being separated from my family—well, that had taught me that they lived in me, not just beside me. Kirusha's owner came to collect him, but not before we'd made plans. Dog park every Saturday. Adventures to come. Stories yet to be written. As he left, he turned back. "Hey, fluffball? Thanks. For the rescue. For the friendship." "Anytime, tough guy," I replied, and meant it. The apartment felt both emptier and fuller. Lenny and Mariya cleaned up, their movements synchronized from years of partnership. Roman retreated to his room, his music starting up—a beat I now recognized as the rhythm of our family. And I settled into my bed, the morning sun warm on my short, velvety fur. I closed my eyes and saw Fort Greene Park—not as a place of fears to be faced, but as a kingdom where I'd become myself. The water sparkled with invitation. The shadows held only secrets, not monsters. And somewhere in those trees, Tom and Jerry were probably planning their next adventure, their friendship a testament to the impossible made possible. The story was over, but the telling would continue. Every time I was scared of something new—and there would be new fears, because life is full of them—my family would remind me. "Remember Fort Greene," they'd say. And I would. I'd remember that I was Pete the Puggle, brave adventurer, loyal friend, beloved family member. I'd remember that courage lives in the heart that chooses to love despite the risk. I'd remember that being lost is just the first step to being found. And I'd remember that the best stories aren't the ones where heroes never fall. They're the ones where heroes fall, and rise, and find their way home again. *** The End ***
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