Otis had started his morning the same way he always did: with a slow stretch beside the red barn and a careful look over the yard, as if he were the quiet keeper of every rope, gate, and boot print in Pumpkinbridge Meadow. The grass was still damp from dawn, and the air smelled of hay and warm earth. Everything looked tidy enough—until Otis padded to the barn door and stopped.
Something round and orange filled the opening from side to side.
The farm’s prize pumpkin, the biggest one anyone had ever grown, had kept stretching through the night. Now its sides pressed against the wooden frame, smooth and firm and far too wide to pass through. Otis blinked once, then again, and gave the pumpkin a thoughtful tap with one paw. It did not budge.
Behind him, the barn was still quiet, but outside the sky was thickening with clouds, and everyone knew the next rain would come before long. The pumpkin needed a safe place before the weather turned muddy. Otis looked at the door, then at the pumpkin, then at the yard beyond, where there were only a few calm minutes left to make a sensible plan. He had not meant to start the day with a puzzle, but now the puzzle was real. The pumpkin could not go out the ordinary way. That meant he would have to choose what to try first.
What happens next?
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