Down past the garden, where the grass grew tall and ticklish, a little stream chuckled over smooth stones. Every evening, Sam liked to sit on the mossy bank and watch it go by, burble-burble-burble.
One evening, Sam spotted a family of rabbits on the other side, twitching their noses toward a patch of sweet clover just out of reach. The littlest rabbit hopped to the edge of the water, then hopped right back, ears drooping.
"You want to get across," Sam said softly. An idea popped up like a bubble. "I could build you a bridge!"
Sam gathered three long sticks and laid them over the water. Splash — one slid off. He tried again with flatter stones instead, stacking them in a wobbly line. Wobble, wobble, PLOP — the top stone tumbled into the stream with a giggle-like glug.
Sam sat back and felt a small, hot huff of frustration bubble in his chest. "This is hard," he said out loud, to nobody and everybody.
The littlest rabbit peeked out from a fern, watching with round dark eyes. Sam looked at the stream again, really looked — at how it curved, at where it was narrow, at where the water moved slow and where it rushed fast.
"Maybe not sticks. Maybe not stones alone," he murmured. Sam found a wide, flat rock near the bank that looked like a stepping-stone giant's plate. He rolled it — heave, heave, HEAVE — to the narrowest part of the stream. It landed with a satisfying thunk, right in the middle, poking up above the water.
Then Sam laid a long stick from the bank to the flat rock, and another stick from the rock to the far side. He pressed each one down, testing with a careful foot before trusting it with more weight. The first stick held. The second stick held too.
"It's a bridge," Sam whispered, hardly believing it. "A real bridge!"
The littlest rabbit crept forward, sniffed the stick, and took one hop onto it. Then another. Thump-thump-thump went four small paws, across the stick, onto the rock, across the next stick, and — hop! — safely onto the clover side. The whole rabbit family followed, one by one, noses twitching happily as they reached the sweet green patch.
Sam sat very still, watching them nibble clover in the last gold light of evening, and felt something warm settle in his chest, quiet and glowing, like a lantern turned down low. It didn't matter that the sticks had slipped or the stones had tumbled. The bridge stood now, and the rabbits were eating their supper on the other side.
When the sky turned the color of a ripe plum, Sam walked home slowly, humming the sound of the stream — burble, burble — all the way to the door. His bed was soft and waiting, the blankets cool and smooth, and before the last star even blinked awake, Sam was fast, fast asleep.