On the tallest shelf sat a green tin, and inside the green tin was one warm cookie, and the one warm cookie was for after supper. Grandma had said so.
But Ava was hungry now. So she slid a chair to the shelf, and then reached up on tiptoe, and then opened the tin, and then took just one little nibble from the edge of the cookie.
One little nibble turned into two. And two turned into a whole soft bite. Now the cookie had a curved gap where the bite had been, like a moon that was not quite round.
Her tummy felt warm, but her chest felt wobbly. She put the cookie back and closed the tin and pushed the chair away and sat very quietly on the rug.
At supper there were carrots, and then noodles, and then a cup of milk, and then Grandma smiled and said, "Now for our cookie." She opened the green tin.
Ava looked at the floor. A small fib was right there, easy as breathing: a mouse did it, the wind did it. But the wobbly feeling wanted out.
"I took a bite," she whispered. "Two bites. I couldn't wait."
Grandma set down the tin. She did not frown. She scooped Ava into her lap and gave a warm, wrapping-up hug. "Thank you for telling the truth," she said. "That took a big, brave heart."
So they shared the cookie with the missing bite, and then they shared the crumbs, and then they shared the last drop of milk, and then Grandma carried Ava up the stairs.
Into pajamas, and then under the blanket, and then the lamp went low. The wobbly feeling was gone now, light as a floating feather.
Outside the window a real moon hung, round and soft, a little like the edge of a cookie. Ava watched it grow blurry and slow. And then her eyes closed, and then her breathing went slow, and then the whole warm house drifted off to sleep.