The Way There

The plan was simple: to go somewhere and sit there for a while.
Alone.
Quietly.

Yens had packed a pear, a soft orange blanket, a book he might not read, and a small yellow thermos with coffee, which seemed like enough for a proper outing. He checked the wind, hummed a little tune to himself, and rolled his bicycle gently down the path.

But halfway through the peaceful woods, he felt the slightest shifting in his bag.

A soft sigh.
A familiar squeak.
Spinny.

He had snuck in somewhere between the pear and the blanket and now blinked up, looking entirely unrepentant.

Yens sighed—not unhappily.

The forest path curled like ribbon, dappled with sunlight and tranquil sound of the woods. A squirrel scolded them from somewhere unseen, and a breeze smelled a little like mint. Yens hummed a song with no tune and no words, which was one of his favorites.

The road was not very fast, and neither were they. But it felt like exactly the right pace for a day like this.

Maybe they’d end up at the big flat rock by the river. Or maybe at the patch of moss that looked like a map of something important. Or maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t get there at all, and the way there would be the best part.

A Very Specific Kind of Afternoon

(This is how it all begins, more or less.)

Yens had finally gotten the hammock tied just right. Not too low (he hated when his feet dragged), and not too high (he wasn’t fond of climbing, despite being very good at it).

He tested it once. It held.
He tested it again. It sighed gently, which he took as permission.
Then he settled in with a long exhale and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a perfect afternoon of important work, which, in Yens’ case, involved watching light move across the leaves and possibly thinking about moss.

That’s when Spinny arrived.
He didn’t walk so much as skitter-drift, like a breeze had startled a pinecone into motion. His legs moved quickly, but only six of them—which somehow made it harder to track.

He landed on the edge of the hammock and squeaked.
It was a short, sharp squeak. The kind that usually meant: I have a plan.

Yens opened one eye.
“Oh no,” he said.

Spinny squeaked again and began tying a bit of string from the hammock to a stick, and from the stick to a pinecone, and from the pinecone to a spoon Yens hadn’t noticed until now.

Yens sighed. “I was working.”

Spinny ignored him, and pulled out a walnut half. He wedged it under the spoon, stepped back, and squeaked a note that meant: Stand very still.

Yens did not move, mostly out of curiosity.

Spinny leapt onto the spoon. It pulled the string, which nudged the pinecone, which wobbled forward, pulling the other string, which tilted the stick, which tugged the hammock rope.

Yens shot forward, then backward, then gently spun to the left.

“Was this... necessary?” he asked.

Spinny squeaked. He sounded proud.

The hammock swayed slowly now, like it had always meant to do that. The breeze had caught it perfectly.

Yens blinked at the sky.

“…Actually,” he said, “this is quite good.”

Spinny nestled beside him, all six legs folded neatly. Yens didn’t ask where the spoon had come from. Some things were better left unexplained.

They swung together in silence.
Doing important work.