One evening, before the sky had gone all the way to dark, Max felt a busy, bumpy feeling inside, like a jar with too many buzzing bees. Mom knelt down and said, "Come on. Let's walk to the quiet meadow and back before bed."
So they set off through the garden gate. The very first thing they passed was the old crooked fence post with a wobbly wooden gate that squeaked a friendly squeak. Max gave it a pat and hurried on, because the busy feeling wanted to hurry too.
The little path wound between tall grasses that brushed his elbows. A moth fluttered softly past. But Max still felt bumpy, so he walked faster and faster, until Mom said gently, "Let's slow our feet. Slow feet, slow breath."
They came at last to the quiet meadow, where the grass lay flat and soft and the whole sky spread out above like a spilled bowl of blue going to gray. Max lay down in the cool grass and looked up.
"Now," said Mom, "breathe in while I count. One... two... three. And let it go, slow." Max breathed in the smell of grass and evening. In for three, and out slow. Again. The buzzing bees inside began to settle, one by one.
Then the first star pricked out. Max pointed. "One," he whispered. Another came, and another. "Two. Three." He counted stars until his voice went soft and slow, and somewhere around eleven the bumpy feeling had become small and gone quiet.
"Better?" asked Mom. Max nodded. The meadow was so calm that he could hear his own slow breath, and the far-off hush of the grass, and nothing that needed hurrying at all.
When it was time, they walked home together, and Max's feet stayed slow all on their own. The path felt wider now, gentler in the dusk.
And there, again, was the old crooked fence post with the wobbly wooden gate. This time Max did not hurry through it. He pushed it slowly, listening to its friendly squeak, and let it swing shut behind him with a soft little click.
Inside, the lamp glowed warm and yellow as Max climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up. "In for three," he whispered to himself, "out, slow." And the last few stars he had counted seemed to hang right there above the bed, quiet and kind, as his eyes drifted closed.