Hollis Waits for Rain — Under the driest tuft in the hollow, Hollis pressed his nose to the dust and wished for one cool drink to carry home. Read the full story →
Under the driest tuft in the hollow, Hollis pressed his nose to the dust and wished for one cool drink to carry home. The burrow smelled of warm roots, and his little sister kept licking her cracked lip, so he stepped beyond the safe tunnel where the grass hissed, hush-hush, like it knew something.
He hopped past seed heads that scratched his ears and a burr that clung to his tail until he had to sit very still and nibble it free. Nothing waited in the obvious places: not under the clover leaves, not inside the empty snail shell, not in the crow’s old footprint. Then the wind stopped. Hollis heard it—a tiny glug beneath a flat stone everyone used as a sunning step.
“Keep my secret,” he whispered, and pushed until mud cooled his paws. Water winked up, dark and sweet. He filled a curled leaf, carried it home slowly, and came back at dusk to sit guard over the spring. If you study the grass by his paws, maybe you’ll spot the place where the hollow first whispered, hush-hush.