Tavi’s Hundred-Sprout Sprint — Beside the tool-shed border, Tavi snapped on her striped garden gloves every afternoon and tapped each new sprout with a soft “tick!” Her private challenge was to reach one hundred before the sun ducked behind the fence. Read the full story →
Beside the tool-shed border, Tavi snapped on her striped garden gloves every afternoon and tapped each new sprout with a soft “tick!” Her private challenge was to reach one hundred before the sun ducked behind the fence. The air smelled like damp soil and crushed mint, and her tally stick clicked fast—seventy-six, seventy-seven—until a bee zipped past making a dotted, looping path no bee had ever flown.
Because of that, Tavi chased the buzz past pots, seed packets, and a watering can that chimed when her knee bumped it. Because of that, her glove brushed a packet labeled SEEDS, and tiny black specks spilled into the dirt in the exact curl of the bee’s trail. “Wait—are you drawing directions?” she puffed. The bee spun three wild circles over an empty pot.
At last, Tavi stopped counting sprouts and counted spaces instead: one hollow pot, two dry furrows, three waiting labels. She planted the runaway seeds where the buzzing line pointed, watered them until the drops smelled like rain on stone, and marked one hundred on her stick anyway—for one hundred places curiosity had tugged her. If you follow the bee’s dashed path with your eyes, can you find where Tavi’s next tick begins?
