"# *** Story Title: Pete the Puggle and the Legend of Darby Creek Trail ***"🐾
## Chapter One: The Morning of Great Beginnings The sun had barely begun to peek over the rooftops of our cozy little house on Maplewood Lane, but I, Pete the Puggle, had been awake for what felt like an eternity. My short, velvety white fur was freshly brushed—thanks to Mariya, who had spent ten minutes cooing over how handsome I looked—and my eyes, accented with their playful streaks of makeup that Mariya had carefully applied (she said it brought out my "inner star"), were wide with anticipation. Today was the day. Today, we were going to Darby Creek Trail. I bounced on my paws at the foot of the bed, my tail wagging so furiously it threatened to knock over the lamp on the nightstand. Lenny, my dad—warm, wise, and perpetually ready with a silly joke—was lacing up his hiking boots at the edge of the bed. He caught my eye and grinned. "What do you call a dog who loves hiking? A trail-blazer!" He laughed at his own joke, deep and rumbly like distant thunder, and I barked twice because, honestly, it was funny even if Roman would have groaned. Roman, my older brother—playful yet protective, my best friend and sometimes my rival—came barreling into the room with a backpack nearly as big as he was. "Pete! You ready, buddy? We're talking streams, woods, maybe even a deer!" His eyes sparkled with the same adventurous fire that burned in my own chest. Roman always made everything feel like an epic quest, and today, I could tell, was going to be no different. Mariya appeared in the doorway, her nurturing presence filling the room like warm honey. She held up a small bag of treats and a folded map. "I've packed everything we need—snacks for Pete, a trail map, sunscreen, and…" she paused, her eyes twinkling with that curious magic she always found in the ordinary, "…a sense of wonder." She knelt down and scratched behind my ears in just the right spot, and I leaned into her hand, feeling the love radiate from her like sunlight through a window. "Darby Creek Trail is supposed to be breathtaking, Pete. Old trees, winding paths, and a creek that sings. You're going to love it." I did love the idea of it—the woods, the path, the adventure. But somewhere deep in my belly, beneath all the excitement, there was a small, cold knot of something I didn't want to admit. A whisper of fear. You see, in all my months of being a bright-eyed, storytelling puggle, I had never actually been near a real creek. Water—real, moving, deep water—frightened me in a way I couldn't quite explain. It was vast and unpredictable, and I was small. But I tucked that fear away, buried it beneath my wagging tail and barking joy, and followed my family out the door into the golden morning light. The car ride was a symphony of laughter and anticipation. Lenny drove, humming a tune I didn't recognize, while Mariya read aloud from a brochure about the trail's history. Roman leaned over the seat and whispered to me, "Pete, when we get there, you and me—we're going to explore every inch. Deal?" I licked his hand, and he smiled. "Deal." The trees outside the window blurred past like green brushstrokes on a canvas, and I pressed my nose to the glass, watching the world unfold before me. Whatever lay ahead, whatever fears hid in the shadows of my heart, I had my family. And that, I told myself, was enough to be brave. --- ## Chapter Two: Charles Bronson and the Trailhead We arrived at the Darby Creek Trailhead just as the morning mist was lifting from the earth like a veil being drawn back from a sleeping face. The parking lot was nearly empty—just a few cars glistening with dew—and the entrance to the trail was framed by two enormous oak trees whose branches intertwined overhead like the arms of old friends embracing. The air smelled of pine, damp soil, and something sweet I couldn't name—wildflowers, perhaps, or the memory of rain. I stepped out of the car, placed my paws on the soft earth, and felt a shiver of pure wonder travel from my toes to the tips of my ears. But before we could take our first steps onto the trail, a familiar, gravelly voice called out from behind a weathered wooden bench. "Well, well, well—if it isn't the whole crew." I spun around, and there he was: Charles Bronson. Not just any Charles Bronson—*the* Charles Bronson, the legendary action movie star, the family's very old and very dear friend. He stood there in a worn leather jacket, sunglasses pushed up on his forehead, a walking stick in one hand and a canteen in the other. His face was lined with years of adventure, each wrinkle a story, each scar a chapter. He looked like he'd stepped straight off a movie set and into the woods, and his presence—steady, unshakable, quietly powerful—made the whole world feel a little safer. "Charlie!" Lenny exclaimed, striding forward to clasp the old star's hand. "You made it! I thought you were filming in New Mexico." Charles cracked a rare, warm smile. "Wrapped early. Couldn't miss a hike with my favorite family. Besides," he said, leaning down to scratch my ears with a hand that had once held pistols on screen but now held only kindness, "someone's got to keep an eye on this little adventurer." I wagged my tail so hard my whole body wiggled. Charles had known our family since before I was born. He'd been there for Lenny and Mariya's wedding, for Roman's birth, and, according to Mariya, he'd been the one to suggest they get a dog. Me. The thought made my chest swell with something warm and fierce. Mariya hugged Charles gently, reverently, the way one hugs a living legend who also happens to be a dear friend. "Charles, it's been too long. You look wonderful." He waved a hand dismissively. "I look old, Mariya. But old and alive beats the alternative." Roman bounded over, practically vibrating. "Mr. Bronson! Are you really going to teach me that jump-roll you did in *Hard Times*?" Charles raised an eyebrow, then—impossibly, for a man of his years—executed a flawless little spin kick right there in the parking lot, landing in a crouch. "The body remembers," he said, his eyes glinting. "The body always remembers." We gathered at the trailhead, and Charles knelt beside me. His voice dropped low, just for me. "Pete, I've faced a lot of things in my life—villains on screen, real dangers off it. You know what I learned?" I tilted my head, ears perked. "Courage isn't not being afraid. It's being scared and doing it anyway. You remember that." His words settled into my fur like warmth, and I barked once—softly, meaningfully—because somehow, Charles always knew exactly what to say. Together, the five of us—Lenny, Mariya, Roman, Charles, and me—stepped onto the trail, the canopy of trees swallowing us in green, golden light, the sounds of the world fading into birdsong and the rustle of leaves. The adventure had begun. --- ## Chapter Three: The Creek That Roared The trail wound deeper into the forest like a secret being whispered from tree to tree. Ferns carpeted the ground in soft, emerald waves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in shafts of gold, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny fairies in the air. I trotted alongside Roman, my nose working overtime—every rock, every root, every blade of grass told a story, and I was reading them all. Mariya paused every few minutes to examine a mushroom or photograph a wildflower, her curiosity a gentle, glowing lantern. Lenny pointed out bird calls and told Roman the names of trees, his wisdom unfolding like a map. And Charles—Charles moved with the quiet grace of a man who had spent a lifetime navigating difficult terrain, his eyes scanning the forest with a calm vigilance that made me feel protected. Then we heard it. At first, it was faint—a murmur, a whisper, like the forest itself was clearing its throat. But as we rounded a bend in the trail, the sound grew into a full, rushing voice: the creek. Darby Creek. It burst into view like a living thing—wide, fast-moving, and glittering with a cold, silver light that made my heart stutter. The water tumbled over smooth rocks, sending up spray that caught the sunlight and shattered into a thousand tiny rainbows. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. I stopped dead in my tracks, my paws rooted to the earth as if they'd grown roots of their own. My breath quickened. The creek wasn't just water—it was *power*. It moved with a force that seemed almost alive, hungry, pulling at the banks as if trying to swallow the land itself. I could feel the vibration of it through my paws, a constant, trembling pulse that matched the racing of my heart. My mind, usually full of stories and wonder, went blank with panic. *What if I fell in? What if the current took me? What if I was pulled under, away from everyone I loved, into that cold, dark, endless rush?* My legs trembled. My tail, which had been wagging all morning, tucked itself firmly between my legs. I whimpered—a small, pitiful sound that I was almost ashamed of. Roman noticed immediately. He knelt beside me, his hand warm and steady on my back. "Hey, buddy. Hey. It's okay. It's just water." His voice was gentle, but I could see the concern in his eyes—eyes so like Lenny's, deep and kind. "You don't have to go near it, Pete. We can walk along the bank, stay on the trail. No pressure." Lenny came over and sat on a rock nearby. "You know, Pete, when Roman was little, he was scared of the ocean. We took him to the beach, and he wouldn't go within twenty feet of the waves." Roman blushed. "Dad!" Lenny laughed. "It's true! But you know what? Little by little, he got closer. Not because he stopped being afraid, but because he decided the ocean was more amazing than it was scary." Mariya sat on my other side, her hand resting lightly on my head. "Pete, fear is just a feeling. It's not a fact. The creek isn't trying to hurt you. It's just being what it is—water, moving, living. You don't have to love it today. You just have to know that it's not your enemy." Charles stood a few paces ahead, arms crossed, watching the water with the calm assessment of a man who had faced far worse. He looked back at me and said, simply, "The water's not going anywhere, kid. Neither are we. Take your time." And so, with my family around me like a fortress of love, I took one trembling step forward. Then another. The spray touched my nose—cold, sharp, alive—and I flinched but didn't retreat. I wasn't ready to touch the water. Not yet. But I was looking at it. And that, I realized, was the first kind of brave. --- ## Chapter Four: The Separation Further along the trail, the creek narrowed and the path climbed gently uphill, winding through a dense grove of birch trees whose white trunks stood like sentinels. The light here was softer, diffused, almost dreamlike. I had begun to relax—or at least, to carry my fear more gently, the way one carries a stone in a pocket rather than clutched in both hands. Roman and I had taken the lead, racing each other between trees, our laughter echoing through the grove. "I bet you can't catch me!" Roman shouted, zigzagging between trunks. I barked and surged forward, my paws kicking up leaves. Behind us, Lenny and Mariya walked arm in arm, and Charles brought up the rear, his walking stick tapping a steady rhythm on the path. Then, without warning, the trail split. A weathered wooden sign pointed left toward "Creek Overlook" and right toward "Pine Hollow." Roman skidded to a stop. "Pete—left or right?" I barked at the right path, something about the dark, inviting shade of the pines calling to me. Roman grinned. "Pine Hollow it is." We veered right without waiting for the others, assuming they'd follow. But the pine path was narrow and winding, twisting through trees so thick and tall they blocked the sky. The sound of the creek faded. The sound of Lenny and Mariya's voices faded. Even Charles's walking stick went silent. I stopped. My ears swiveled. Nothing. No footsteps. No laughter. No familiar voices calling my name. Panic hit me like a wave—worse than the creek, worse than anything. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat. I spun in circles, nose to the ground, searching for the scent of my family—the particular blend of Lenny's cedar soap, Mariya's lavender lotion, Roman's boyish sweat, Charles's leather jacket—but the pine needles had swallowed it all. The forest, which had felt like a wonderland moments ago, now felt enormous and indifferent, a green labyrinth with no exit. *They're gone. I'm alone. I'm lost. What if they don't find me? What if I'm out here forever, alone in the dark, with no one—* The thought was a cold hand squeezing my chest. I whimpered, then howled—a long, mournful note that rose through the trees like a cry for help from the deepest part of me. Charles appeared first. He emerged from the shadows between two pines, his face calm but alert. "Pete. Roman. You two took a wrong turn." His voice was steady, an anchor in the storm of my fear. Roman came running back, breathless. "Pete! I'm sorry—I should've waited. I'm sorry!" He scooped me up, and I pressed my face into his chest, shaking. But even in Roman's arms, the fear didn't fully release its grip. The forest was getting darker. The sun, which had been high and bright, was now sinking behind the trees, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Shadows lengthened. The temperature dropped. And with the darkness came a new fear—one that coiled in my belly like a snake, cold and silent. *The dark. I was afraid of the dark.* Charles knelt and looked me in the eye. "Pete. Listen to me. I've been in darker places than this—real ones, not movie sets. And you know what got me through? Not weapons. Not agility. The knowledge that darkness is just the absence of light. And light—light you carry inside you. Your family, your courage, your heart—that's your light." His words were a match struck in a dark room, small but fierce. Roman held me tighter. "We're going back, Pete. Together. And we're going to find Mom and Dad. I promise." I looked up at Roman's face—determined, loving, unafraid—and felt something shift inside me. The fear was still there. But so was something else. Something stronger. Something that whispered, *You are not alone. You have never been alone. Keep going.* --- ## Chapter Five: Into the Darkness The walk back toward the trail junction was slower, more deliberate. Charles led the way, his walking stick probing the path ahead like a scout checking for danger. Roman carried me at first, but I squirmed until he set me down. I needed to walk. I needed to face the forest with my own four paws, to feel the earth beneath me and know that I could move through the darkness rather than be swallowed by it. The trees pressed close, their branches interlocking overhead like the fingers of giants, and the last light of day filtered through in thin, failing threads. Every shadow seemed to reach for me. Every rustle in the underbrush made my ears shoot up and my heart race. "What was that?" I whimpered as something crashed through the brush to our left. Charles didn't flinch. "Raccoon. Probably. Or a deer. The woods are full of life, Pete. Most of it wants nothing to do with you." He said it with such matter-of-fact calmness that I almost believed him. Roman stayed close, his hand occasionally dropping to ruffle my fur. "You're doing great, Pete. Really." His voice was proud, and that pride—warm and genuine—was a lantern in the growing dark. We walked on, the trail narrowing further, the pine needles muffling our footsteps until the world felt muffled, wrapped in velvet shadow. Then the path opened suddenly onto a small clearing, and in the center of it stood something that stopped us all in our tracks: an enormous old oak tree, its trunk twisted and gnarled by centuries of wind and weather, its branches spreading wide like the arms of a guardian. At its base, a hollow—dark, deep, and forbidding—gaped like a mouth. The trail continued on the other side. There was no way around it. We had to pass the hollow tree. I froze. The darkness inside that hollow was absolute—a darkness so complete it seemed to breathe, to watch, to wait. My legs locked. My breath came in short, ragged gasps. *I can't. I can't go past that. Something's in there. Something terrible. Something that will reach out and—* "Pete." Charles's voice cut through the spiral. He was standing beside the tree, one hand resting on its ancient bark. "Come here." I didn't want to. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to hide, to cower. But I looked at Charles—at this man who had faced down villains and real-world dangers, who had scars on his body and stories in his eyes—and I trusted him. I walked forward, one step, then another, until I was standing beside him at the mouth of the hollow. "Look inside," he said. I strained my eyes into the darkness. At first, nothing—just black. Then, slowly, shapes emerged: a pair of tiny eyes, glinting in the dim light. An owl. A small, brown owl, roosting in the hollow, watching me with calm, golden eyes. Not a monster. Not a threat. Just a creature, like me, seeking shelter in the dark. "She's not so scary, is she?" Charles murmured. The owl blinked, slow and unbothered, and turned its head away. Something in my chest unlocked—a knot I hadn't even known was there, tied tight since the first shadow had fallen across the trail. The darkness wasn't empty. It wasn't evil. It was full of life, of quiet things resting, of the world simply being. I took a deep breath, and the air tasted like pine and earth and the faintest hint of rain. Roman knelt beside me. "See, buddy? Nothing to be afraid of." I wagged my tail—tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. We passed the tree, the owl watching us with quiet approval, and continued down the trail. The darkness was still there, pooling between the trees, creeping along the ground. But I was no longer paralyzed by it. I walked beside Roman and Charles, my head up, my ears forward, and the fear that had been a wall in front of me became instead a companion—uncomfortable, but walkable. --- ## Chapter Six: The Creek Crossing The trail descended, winding downhill through a cascade of switchbacks, and with each step the sound grew louder—that voice, that rushing, living voice of Darby Creek. My stomach clenched. The water. The fear I had tamped down at the beginning of our journey now surged back, renewed and sharper, because this time there was no walking along the bank. The trail ended at the creek itself. We had to cross. A series of flat, wet stepping stones stretched across the creek, slick with spray, glistening in the last pale light of dusk. On the other side, the trail continued upward toward the parking lot—toward Lenny and Mariya, toward safety, toward home. But between us and them lay twenty feet of rushing, cold, dark water. I stood at the edge and looked down. The creek swirled around the first stone, foam curling like fingers. The water was deeper here than at the overlook—knee-deep on a human, chest-deep on me—and it moved with a speed that made my head swim. My reflection stared up at me, distorted, fractured by the current, and I barely recognized the wide-eyed, trembling puppy in the water. *You'll be swept away. You'll go under. You won't come back.* The thoughts were a chorus of terror, loud and insistent, and my legs shook so badly I could barely stand. Roman stepped onto the first stone. His foot slipped slightly, and he caught his balance, but I yelped. "Roman!" He looked back at me, steady, calm. "Pete, I've got you. I'm right here. We go one stone at a time." Charles moved to the creek's edge, assessing the current with practiced eyes. "The stones are stable. The water's fast but shallow between them. If you slip, I'm right here." He pulled a length of rope from his pack—because of course Charles Bronson carried rope—and fashioned a quick loop around my midsection, gentle but secure. "Safety line," he said. "Just in case. But you won't need it." I looked at the creek. I looked at Roman, standing on the first stone, his hand outstretched. I looked at Charles, steady and sure on the bank. And I looked inside myself—past the fear, past the trembling, past the voice that said *you can't*—and found something I hadn't known was there. A spark. Small, stubborn, fierce. The same spark that had made me step toward the creek that morning. The same spark that had made me walk past the hollow tree. It was my courage—not the absence of fear, but the decision to move forward in spite of it. I placed one paw on the first stone. It was cold and wet and hard beneath my pad. I placed another paw. The water rushed around the stone, tugging at the edges, but the stone held. I held. "That's it, Pete! One at a time!" Roman called, his voice bright with encouragement. I moved to the second stone, then the third. The spray soaked my fur, cold and sharp, and the creek roared in my ears like a crowd at a stadium. My heart was a drum, my breath was a bellows, and every step was a battle. But I kept going. Fourth stone. Fifth. The water surged between the stones, and at one point my back paw slipped, and for one horrifying second I felt myself tipping toward the rushing current—but Charles's rope held firm, and Roman's hand caught my collar, and I steadied. "You've got this!" Roman shouted. Sixth stone. Seventh. And then—solid ground. The far bank. I scrambled up, paws sinking into soft mud, and stood on the other side of the creek, trembling, soaked, but *across*. I had crossed the creek. I had faced the water—the thing I had feared most in the world—and I had not been swallowed by it. I had not been swept away. I was still here. I was still me. And on the other side, waiting, were Lenny and Mariya, their faces breaking into relieved, radiant smiles as they saw us emerge from the trees. --- ## Chapter Seven: The Reunion "PETE!" Mariya's voice cracked with emotion as she rushed forward, dropping to her knees and pulling me into her arms. She was warm, and she smelled like lavender and home, and I buried my face in her shoulder and whimpered—not from fear this time, but from the overwhelming relief of being found. "Oh, my brave boy. My brave, brave boy." She held me tight, her tears dampening my fur, and I felt her heartbeat against mine—steady, strong, a rhythm I had known since the first day I came home. Lenny was right behind her, his big hand stroking my back, his voice thick with feeling. "We were so worried. We looked everywhere. When we realized you'd gone the wrong way at the split…" He couldn't finish the sentence. He just knelt beside Mariya and wrapped his arms around both of us, and for a long, beautiful moment, we were a tangle of love and relief and gratitude. Roman stood a few steps back, watching, and I could see the guilt on his face—the shadow of a boy who blamed himself for taking the wrong path. I broke free from Mariya and Lenny and trotted over to him, pressing my head against his knee. He knelt and pulled me close. "I'm sorry, Pete. I should've waited. I should've stayed with the group." I licked his face—his nose, his cheek, the corner of his eye where a tear was forming—and he laughed through the tears. "You're the one who got lost, and you're the one comforting *me*." Lenny put a hand on Roman's shoulder. "Roman, what happened today wasn't your fault. Trails split. Mistakes happen. What matters is what you did after—you stayed calm, you took care of Pete, and you found your way back. That's not a mistake. That's a lesson." Roman looked up at his dad, and something passed between them—a wordless understanding, a transfer of wisdom from father to son—and Roman nodded. Charles stood at the edge of the group, leaning on his walking stick, watching the reunion with quiet satisfaction. Mariya stood and walked to him, taking his hands in hers. "Thank you, Charles. For keeping them safe. For bringing them back to us." Charles shook his head gently. "They brought themselves back, Mariya. I just walked beside them. Pete's the one who crossed that creek. Pete's the one who walked through the dark. That little dog has more courage than he knows." He looked at me, and I looked back, and between us passed a silent understanding—the kind that exists between two souls who have faced the dark together and come out the other side. I barked once—softly, gratefully—and Charles smiled his rare, crinkled smile. We sat together on the bank of the creek as the last light of day turned the sky into a watercolor of purple, gold, and deep, velvet blue. The water that had terrified me all day now sang a gentle song, its rush softened by the evening calm. Fireflies began to appear—tiny, floating lanterns drifting through the air like earthbound stars. Mariya leaned against Lenny, Roman lay on his back watching the sky, Charles sat on a rock with his canteen, and I curled up in the middle of them all, my body pressed against Roman's side, my ears relaxed, my tail still. "So," Lenny said, breaking the comfortable silence, "what did we learn today?" Roman propped himself up on his elbows. "That Pine Hollow is a bad turn?" Everyone laughed. "No," Roman continued, more seriously. "That even when you get lost, even when you're scared, you can find your way back if you have people who care about you." --- ## Chapter Eight: The Light We Carry The walk back to the car was slow and sweet, the trail transformed by nightfall into a different kind of beautiful. The moon had risen—full and luminous—and it painted the path in silver, turning every leaf and stone into something precious and glowing. I walked between Roman and Charles, my paws steady, my heart full. The forest that had frightened me hours ago now felt like a friend, its sounds no longer threatening but musical—the chirp of crickets, the distant call of an owl (perhaps my owl, the one in the hollow, watching over us still), the gentle rustle of creatures going about their nightly lives. I breathed it all in, and the air was cool and clean and carried the scent of adventure, the kind that lingers in your memory long after the journey ends. At the car, Lenny opened the trunk, and I jumped in, settling into my blanket with a sigh that came from the very bottom of my soul. Mariya tucked a warm towel around me—she'd heated it in the car, because Mariya always thought of everything—and pressed a kiss to my head. "You were so brave today, Pete. Braver than you know." Lenny slid into the driver's seat and looked back at me in the rearview mirror. "You know what, Pete? Courage is like a muscle. Today, you exercised it. And tomorrow, it'll be a little stronger. And the day after that, stronger still. That's how it works—not just for dogs, but for people too." His eyes, warm and wise in the mirror, held mine for a moment, and I felt the truth of his words settle into my bones like warmth. Roman climbed in beside me, and Charles took the passenger seat. For a few miles, no one spoke. The car hummed along the dark road, headlights cutting through the night, and the silence was not empty but full—full of shared experience, of unspoken gratitude, of the deep, quiet bond that forms when people (and a puggle) face something difficult together and come through it changed. Then Charles spoke, his gravelly voice soft and reflective. "You know, I've spent my whole life playing tough guys. Characters who never flinched, never feared, never doubted. But the truth is, the real tough ones aren't on screen. They're right here." He gestured vaguely at the car—at all of us. "A family that loves each other enough to be scared together and brave together. That's the real deal. That's the stuff you can't fake." Roman reached over and scratched my ears. "Pete, you faced three fears today. The water, the dark, and being separated from us. And you beat all of them." I looked at him with my bright, makeup-accented eyes and wagged my tail. Had I beaten them? Or had I simply learned to carry them differently? I thought about the creek—still roaring, still powerful, still a force to be reckoned with—but no longer a monster in my mind. It was water, moving, living, beautiful. I thought about the dark—still vast, still mysterious—but no longer a void to be feared. It was a world full of quiet life, of owls and fireflies and the gentle breathing of the forest. And I thought about being separated from my family—the worst fear, the deepest one—and realized that even in the moments I had been lost, I had never truly been alone. Charles had been there. Roman had been there. And the love that connects us—Lenny's wisdom, Mariya's tenderness, Roman's loyalty, Charles's strength—that love doesn't have a range. It doesn't get lost. It doesn't fade. It is always there, like a compass pointing home. As we pulled into our driveway on Maplewood Lane, the porch light glowing like a beacon, I thought about what Lenny had said about courage being a muscle. And I thought about what Charles had said about light. And I realized, with the quiet, profound clarity that sometimes comes at the end of a long, full day, that they were both right. Courage isn't the absence of fear—it's the choice to keep walking when fear is walking beside you. And light isn't something you find in the darkness—it's something you carry, always, in the people who love you and the love you give back. I jumped out of the car, trotted up the porch steps, and turned to look back at my family—Lenny and Mariya arm in arm, Roman grinning, Charles tipping an imaginary hat—and I barked. Not a fearful bark. Not a lost bark. A bark that said, *I'm home. I'm brave. I'm loved. And tomorrow, we'll adventure again.* And in the quiet of that night, as the stars blinked to life above our little house on Maplewood Lane, I curled up in my bed beside Roman's, closed my bright, weary eyes, and dreamed
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