Flick scribbled: “Big score. Possibly delusional.”
“All right, listen up,” Vernon growled, snapping his claws. A dozen mismatched forest creatures shuffled closer: raccoons with masks pulled down, a weasel with a nervous twitch, three chipmunks who couldn’t stop giggling. Flick stayed in the branches above, taking notes. He was the only one who brought a pencil. be prepared hoodwinked song
Vernon’s eye twitched. “That’s why we have a plan.” He snapped his claws again, and the weasel unrolled a blueprint of Granny’s cottage. “Phase one: The weasel creates a diversion—fake squirrel attack, very dramatic. Phase two: Raccoons cut the power line to the security jam-cam. Phase three: I go in through the window disguised as a health inspector. Phase four: We walk out with the strudel before Red even laces up her boots.” Flick scribbled: “Big score
In the shadow of the old wooden bridge that led into the heart of the forest, a wiry squirrel named Flick sat hunched over a stolen acorn cap. He wasn’t eating. He was listening. Flick stayed in the branches above, taking notes
From the mossy bank of the creek, the wolf in a cheap newsboy cap—the one the cops called “The Big Bad”—was pacing. His name was Vernon, and he was tired. Tired of being the fall guy. Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge. Tired of the way the forest whispered his name like a curse.
“They have no idea what’s coming. But neither does Red. This is going to be fun to watch.”
The raccoons started clapping. The weasel sniffled with pride. Even the chipmunks stopped giggling and started chanting, “Be pre-pared! Be pre-pared!”
