From the mossy bank of the creek, the wolf in a cheap newsboy cap—the one the cops called “The Big Bad”—was pacing. His name was Vernon, and he was tired. Tired of being the fall guy. Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge. Tired of the way the forest whispered his name like a curse.
The raccoons started clapping. The weasel sniffled with pride. Even the chipmunks stopped giggling and started chanting, “Be pre-pared! Be pre-pared!” be prepared hoodwinked song
In the shadow of the old wooden bridge that led into the heart of the forest, a wiry squirrel named Flick sat hunched over a stolen acorn cap. He wasn’t eating. He was listening. From the mossy bank of the creek, the
Flick raised a tiny paw. “Um. Question. Have you met Red? She’s like… a ninja in a hoodie. She outran a pack of wolves last spring. On roller skates.” Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge