Dawn had only just unrolled over Pumpkinbridge Meadow, and Milo was already busy with the pumpkin pies.
He stood on the cobblestones by the brook, his cream-and-brown tail curled with purpose as he peered at the cooling tables beside the red barn. The whole meadow smelled like hay, warm milk, and sweet spice. The pies were supposed to be lined up there for the festival guests, each one set to cool before the first bells and boots arrived.
But the tables were empty.
Milo blinked once, then again. A trail of tiny crumbs dotted the ground and led away toward the hay bales stacked near the fence. He crouched low, his bright black eyes following the crumbs one by one. “Well,” he said, trying to sound cheery, “that is not where pies usually go.”
The crumbs vanished behind the first hay bale, where the shadow was cool and gold. Milo took a few quick steps after them, then stopped. If he rushed straight in, he might only find an empty hiding place. If he looked carefully, he might find the pies—or learn who had carried them off.
The festival guests were still away from the yard, but not for long. Milo stood at the edge of the hay bales with the crumb trail at his feet and a question in front of him.
Should he poke behind the hay bales, call for help from the yard, or follow the crumbs around the side first?
What happens next?
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