Otis had found the best spot in all of Pumpkinbridge Meadow: a warm patch of grass by the fence, right where the afternoon sun made his gray fur feel sleepy and soft. He was stretched out like a loaf of bread, one white paw tucked under his chin, pretending he was only resting while he watched the day drift by.
Usually, the moonflowers only opened after dark. Moonflowers were the pale white vines that curled along the fence and bloomed at night with little round blossoms that shone like tiny moons. Otis had seen them many times. They were quiet, sensible plants.
But today, every single moonflower had opened early.
Their pale petals were turned the same way, all stretching toward the far corner of the meadow near the brook, where the grass stood extra still. The flowers did not sway with the breeze. They leaned and reached, as if something hidden there was calling them by name.
Otis narrowed his sleepy amber eyes. He could keep pretending not to notice. He could also stay in his nice sunny place and let the oddness sort itself out. That would be easiest.
Still, the moonflowers kept pointing, and the quiet corner seemed to grow quieter.
At last Otis lifted his head. He stopped lounging, planted his paws under him, and stared सीधे toward the corner instead of the fence.
It was the sort of quiet that asked to be ignored, and the sort of quiet that did not let itself be ignored for long.
What happens next?
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