The Squirrel and the Chase
The sun had barely cleared the rooftops of Willow Creek when Autumn's eyes popped open, as if some invisible alarm clock had gone off inside her fuzzy golden head. She lay still for exactly two seconds—which, for a puppy of her temperament, counted as a remarkable feat of patience—before springing up from her cushion with a full-body shake that sent her ears flopping like loose ribbons.
Morning light spilled through the gap in the curtains, painting a warm stripe across the wooden floor of the little house on Maple Lane. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beam, and somewhere in the kitchen, a coffee maker gurgled to life. Autumn's nose twitched. Bacon. Or maybe toast. Either way, the day smelled promising.
She trotted out of her corner of the living room, claws clicking a cheerful rhythm against the floorboards, and made a beeline for the stairs. Up she went, two steps at a time, her stubby tail wagging so hard her whole back end swayed with it. At the top, she paused outside a door decorated with a hand-painted sign that read MIA'S ROOM in crooked, colorful letters, and gave a soft whine of impatience.
"Autumn?" came a sleepy voice from inside. "Is that you?"
The door creaked…
