Milo trotted along the edge of the pumpkin patch, his little paws pattering over soft dirt. The morning was busy at Pumpkinbridge Meadow, and Milo liked busy mornings best, because busy mornings could turn funny if you were quick enough.
But this morning was not turning funny.
“Baby lamb!” Bram called from somewhere near the barn. “Little one, where are you?”
“Did it go by the bridge?” Mara squeaked from the grass beside the brook. “I saw a wiggle! I think I did!”
Milo peered between the pumpkins. Big round orange pumpkins crowded the rows like little hills, with green leaves and twisting vines tucked in everywhere. The lamb had wandered into the patch, and now every gap looked like every other gap. A tiny track here. A crushed leaf there. A patch of dirt that might have been a hoofprint, or might have been nothing at all.
“Mmm,” Milo said, trying to sound brave and clever at the same time. “I can help find the found-turned-lost lamb.”
He hurried past one row, then another. But the pumpkins kept hiding the edges of the path, and the calling voices were coming from different sides now. Bram sounded near the barn. Mara sounded near the bridge. Neither place showed the little lamb.
Milo stopped with one paw lifted. If the lamb wasn’t near the barn or the bridge, then it had slipped deeper into the pumpkin rows. It could be anywhere among the orange rounders now. Milo could follow the faint clue he had just spotted in the dirt, call for Bram and Mara, or dash ahead on his own before the lamb wandered farther away.
What happens next?
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